and butt jiggle. Her breasts jiggle each time and she loves it; she loves the jiggling.
This is the thing about being fat that no one mentions. Everything feels good, every square inch has incredible sensations, as if skin when stretched becomes hypersensitive, as if by stretching the skin to cover the fat the nerves become exposed or sharpened: it is not just her flesh rubbing against itself but the very sensation of its existence, hanging from her body, apart from her body, swaying, jiggling, touching things.
“Chunky, are you in there? If you don’t answer I’m leaving.”
She imagines him not on top of her but apart from her except in that one place, and every time he goes in she slides up on the sweaty vinyl so that when they finish her head is hanging off the end and he can barely reach her.
She imagines him and as she imagines him she slips her hand into her shorts. She imagines him and she pulls her shorts down to her knees. She digs her heels into the bottom of the chair and pushes up, raising her butt up off the chair. Her flesh pulls up and off the chair like adhesive tape being removed and it hurts a little but she likes the sting and repeats the thrusting until her skin is raw and sweat coats the chair like butter and she doesn’t stick anymore. She pulls her shirt up to her neck so her nipples can get the air.
When she finishes and realizes she is half naked, her pants caught at her knees, her shirt at her throat, the sensation of being outside, in the middle of the day where someone might see her—and suddenly she feels like someone, at least one person, is seeing her with her clothes all pushed up and pulled down—is too much and she has to do it again, this time more slowly, this time for an audience. This time, she pulls all her clothing off. She does it lying on her back, imagining someone seeing her doing it. All she’s thinking about is people watching and she’s not fat or thin, she’s sex, pure sex, and as they’re watching her she thinks they’re probably doing it too and she likes that.
She remembers when she was a little girl, maybe five, her mother walked into her room and Cheryl was on her bed with her pants pulled down and her butt poked up in the air. Even then she liked to get the air inside her, on her.
“What are you doing?” her mother asked.
Even then Cheryl didn’t answer.
She remembers feeling something more than embarrassed, but she can’t think of the word. Cheryl is getting too old for this. She is so old that it is embarrassing.
Cheryl is naked on her lounge chair. Her mother comes home. Cheryl hears the car in the driveway on the other side of the house. She hears the fan running, the AC still on, and then she hears the car turn off and the fan is still going. The car door opens and does not close, and suddenly everything is all wrong.
Her mother slides the screen door open and calls “Chunky” without looking at her daughter. “Chunky, Chunky, I’m calling you,” her mother says, without noticing Cheryl white and naked, lying like a beached whale. “Chunky.”
Cheryl is trapped in her head. She is aware of herself naked in the yard, naked in the day. She is aware of her name being called.
She imagines her mother will go back in the house and dial 911. She will dial 911 and report that her sixteen-year-old fat daughter is lying naked in the family backyard on a chair from Kmart and fails to respond when her name is called.
“Sweetie,” her mother says, and Cheryl wonders how many calories are in the word
sweetie
and then she realizes that it’s just a word and it’s fat-free.
“I went to the grocery store, do you want to help me unpack?”
Her mother says,
do you want to help me
, and she means it. She is perfectly willing to do it alone, but she wants Cheryl to know that if she wants too, if she’d like to do something other than sit naked in the yard, she can come in and help, but she is under no obligation. It is simply an option.
Cheryl
This is the thing about being fat that no one mentions. Everything feels good, every square inch has incredible sensations, as if skin when stretched becomes hypersensitive, as if by stretching the skin to cover the fat the nerves become exposed or sharpened: it is not just her flesh rubbing against itself but the very sensation of its existence, hanging from her body, apart from her body, swaying, jiggling, touching things.
“Chunky, are you in there? If you don’t answer I’m leaving.”
She imagines him not on top of her but apart from her except in that one place, and every time he goes in she slides up on the sweaty vinyl so that when they finish her head is hanging off the end and he can barely reach her.
She imagines him and as she imagines him she slips her hand into her shorts. She imagines him and she pulls her shorts down to her knees. She digs her heels into the bottom of the chair and pushes up, raising her butt up off the chair. Her flesh pulls up and off the chair like adhesive tape being removed and it hurts a little but she likes the sting and repeats the thrusting until her skin is raw and sweat coats the chair like butter and she doesn’t stick anymore. She pulls her shirt up to her neck so her nipples can get the air.
When she finishes and realizes she is half naked, her pants caught at her knees, her shirt at her throat, the sensation of being outside, in the middle of the day where someone might see her—and suddenly she feels like someone, at least one person, is seeing her with her clothes all pushed up and pulled down—is too much and she has to do it again, this time more slowly, this time for an audience. This time, she pulls all her clothing off. She does it lying on her back, imagining someone seeing her doing it. All she’s thinking about is people watching and she’s not fat or thin, she’s sex, pure sex, and as they’re watching her she thinks they’re probably doing it too and she likes that.
She remembers when she was a little girl, maybe five, her mother walked into her room and Cheryl was on her bed with her pants pulled down and her butt poked up in the air. Even then she liked to get the air inside her, on her.
“What are you doing?” her mother asked.
Even then Cheryl didn’t answer.
She remembers feeling something more than embarrassed, but she can’t think of the word. Cheryl is getting too old for this. She is so old that it is embarrassing.
Cheryl is naked on her lounge chair. Her mother comes home. Cheryl hears the car in the driveway on the other side of the house. She hears the fan running, the AC still on, and then she hears the car turn off and the fan is still going. The car door opens and does not close, and suddenly everything is all wrong.
Her mother slides the screen door open and calls “Chunky” without looking at her daughter. “Chunky, Chunky, I’m calling you,” her mother says, without noticing Cheryl white and naked, lying like a beached whale. “Chunky.”
Cheryl is trapped in her head. She is aware of herself naked in the yard, naked in the day. She is aware of her name being called.
She imagines her mother will go back in the house and dial 911. She will dial 911 and report that her sixteen-year-old fat daughter is lying naked in the family backyard on a chair from Kmart and fails to respond when her name is called.
“Sweetie,” her mother says, and Cheryl wonders how many calories are in the word
sweetie
and then she realizes that it’s just a word and it’s fat-free.
“I went to the grocery store, do you want to help me unpack?”
Her mother says,
do you want to help me
, and she means it. She is perfectly willing to do it alone, but she wants Cheryl to know that if she wants too, if she’d like to do something other than sit naked in the yard, she can come in and help, but she is under no obligation. It is simply an option.
Cheryl
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