Fat Girl Walking: Sex, Food, Love, and Being Comfortable in Your Skin…Every Inch of It by Brittany Gibbons
Authors: Brittany Gibbons
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sex operators because it sounded daring and exciting—also I was broke and my fridge was empty.
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DO YOU HAVE A GREAT VOICE? DO YOU WANT TO WORK FROM HOME AND MAKE YOUR OWN HOURS?
IF YOU ARE AN OPEN MINDED INDIVIDUAL WITH GREAT PEOPLE SKILLS AND A LANDLINE TELEPHONE, YOU SHOULD JOIN OUR TEAM OF SENSUAL EROTIC PROFESSIONALS.
*MEN, WOMEN AND PSYCHICS WANTED
----
During the phone interview with a southern woman named Pam, she asked me to pretend she was a man and describe myself in my most erotic voice.
“I’m very pale with chin-length kinky blond hair and brown eyes,” I awkwardly purred into the phone. I took her silence as a cue to continue. “I’m wearing black underwear—I mean panties—and I’m not wearing a bra because my boobies are so big.”
“Is that your sexiest voice, hun?” she asked.
“Well, I sound more mysterious when I have a respiratory infection.”
“Okay,” she sighed into the receiver. “Can ya think of another word for boobies?”
“Bosoms?”
“What about the male genitalia?”
“Like nuts?”
“Nuts?”
“Or wieners?”
Spoiler alert: I did not get the job, and saying those words out loud was a lot harder than pointing at them in person and then putting them inside you, which is how I handle both the majority of my foreplay and ordering things in foreign-speaking restaurants. But what I lacked in actual sex vocabulary, I made up for in absolute obsession, because let’s face it, sex is one of the most interesting topics in the world. It’s the basis for human life, entire channels are dedicated to it, and wars are started because of it. The problem was that the foundation of my sex obsession was built on very little factual information. I blame the Catholics.
CATHOLICS HATE VAGINAS
At the start of fourth grade I hit puberty, which is an elementary school game changer. I was what my family doctor called an “early bloomer.” Nothing says, Hey let’s be friends like having to ask your mother for a tampon in the middle of the puppet show at your birthday party. Judy Blume had made puberty sound awesome, but Judy Blume, at least in my view, was a liar. Having boobs and hormones didn’t make me mysterious and worldly; it made me lumpy and awkward in an era when the last thing I needed was more lumpy and awkward.
The classrooms of my Catholic elementary school were constructed of cement block walls and long rectangular windows,with no air-conditioning; you know, just like Jesus times. This made for summers so hot that by noon in the middle of September reaching for my hand during the Lord’s Prayer in church was often met with a “Gross, why are you always so sweaty all the time?” I don’t know, maybe it’s because the nuns kept it hot as Nazareth in there, or that my body was racing with freaked-out hormones that made all my parts sweat and my boobs pop out awkward and pointy. I had no idea what was happening to my body, only that I was suddenly very aware of it, both because it was getting larger and because it felt different when I touched it. Puberty and sex weren’t exactly topics thoroughly explained by the Catholic faith, and I certainly wasn’t getting any information from my parents. In fact, the only time my father had ever spoken to me about anything related to womanhood was when I foolishly knocked on his office door to ask him what periods were after an episode of Head of the Class . He handed me the book Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret and a container of Mace, and told me my mother kept pads on the top shelf of the bathroom closet. He said menstruation was completely natural, but if I could hold off until college, that’d be great. I’m thirty now and still barely understand how periods work.
As an aside, I actually had a super-traumatic menstruation false alarm later that year after waking up in the middle of the night violently vomiting due to some questionable room-temperature ranch dressing at dinner, only to find myself also
----
DO YOU HAVE A GREAT VOICE? DO YOU WANT TO WORK FROM HOME AND MAKE YOUR OWN HOURS?
IF YOU ARE AN OPEN MINDED INDIVIDUAL WITH GREAT PEOPLE SKILLS AND A LANDLINE TELEPHONE, YOU SHOULD JOIN OUR TEAM OF SENSUAL EROTIC PROFESSIONALS.
*MEN, WOMEN AND PSYCHICS WANTED
----
During the phone interview with a southern woman named Pam, she asked me to pretend she was a man and describe myself in my most erotic voice.
“I’m very pale with chin-length kinky blond hair and brown eyes,” I awkwardly purred into the phone. I took her silence as a cue to continue. “I’m wearing black underwear—I mean panties—and I’m not wearing a bra because my boobies are so big.”
“Is that your sexiest voice, hun?” she asked.
“Well, I sound more mysterious when I have a respiratory infection.”
“Okay,” she sighed into the receiver. “Can ya think of another word for boobies?”
“Bosoms?”
“What about the male genitalia?”
“Like nuts?”
“Nuts?”
“Or wieners?”
Spoiler alert: I did not get the job, and saying those words out loud was a lot harder than pointing at them in person and then putting them inside you, which is how I handle both the majority of my foreplay and ordering things in foreign-speaking restaurants. But what I lacked in actual sex vocabulary, I made up for in absolute obsession, because let’s face it, sex is one of the most interesting topics in the world. It’s the basis for human life, entire channels are dedicated to it, and wars are started because of it. The problem was that the foundation of my sex obsession was built on very little factual information. I blame the Catholics.
CATHOLICS HATE VAGINAS
At the start of fourth grade I hit puberty, which is an elementary school game changer. I was what my family doctor called an “early bloomer.” Nothing says, Hey let’s be friends like having to ask your mother for a tampon in the middle of the puppet show at your birthday party. Judy Blume had made puberty sound awesome, but Judy Blume, at least in my view, was a liar. Having boobs and hormones didn’t make me mysterious and worldly; it made me lumpy and awkward in an era when the last thing I needed was more lumpy and awkward.
The classrooms of my Catholic elementary school were constructed of cement block walls and long rectangular windows,with no air-conditioning; you know, just like Jesus times. This made for summers so hot that by noon in the middle of September reaching for my hand during the Lord’s Prayer in church was often met with a “Gross, why are you always so sweaty all the time?” I don’t know, maybe it’s because the nuns kept it hot as Nazareth in there, or that my body was racing with freaked-out hormones that made all my parts sweat and my boobs pop out awkward and pointy. I had no idea what was happening to my body, only that I was suddenly very aware of it, both because it was getting larger and because it felt different when I touched it. Puberty and sex weren’t exactly topics thoroughly explained by the Catholic faith, and I certainly wasn’t getting any information from my parents. In fact, the only time my father had ever spoken to me about anything related to womanhood was when I foolishly knocked on his office door to ask him what periods were after an episode of Head of the Class . He handed me the book Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret and a container of Mace, and told me my mother kept pads on the top shelf of the bathroom closet. He said menstruation was completely natural, but if I could hold off until college, that’d be great. I’m thirty now and still barely understand how periods work.
As an aside, I actually had a super-traumatic menstruation false alarm later that year after waking up in the middle of the night violently vomiting due to some questionable room-temperature ranch dressing at dinner, only to find myself also
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