Her tail flings up out of the water, as if waving. I raise my hand in response, but she’s not looking at us. Then it comes down, and I mean hard, on the water’s surface, sending a humongous splash up in the air. Diving under the water, swimming like she was born with that tail, she comes up and then dips back down again. Back and forth. After about fifteen minutes of watching her, it hits me. That’s an ass-less tail she’s sporting, and she’s singing? Yelling? I can’t quite make it out.
Sasha goes somewhere, but I’m mesmerized, glued to the spot.
She slaps the water with her tail, and when she dives next, I know she’s mimicking an orca. She breaks the surface, and with moves like a professional soccer player, she boots the shit out of an oversized, pink, sparkly ball with that friggin’ tail!
If I wasn’t sure before, yep, that’s a whale sound she’s making. I laugh, but it’s a holy shit, what the fuck laugh. No humor in it, more ragged around the edges. I can’t stop watching her churn the water with her tail, more whale sounds, and her ass flashing me every so often. My gut feels like I’m watching a car crash, but I can’t stop gawking. She swims to the shallow end, so close I feel I could reach out and touch her if not for the glass. I can just make out a circle tattoo on her ass cheek, a stamp. It reads ‘100% dolphin-free’ and that’s it. I’m rolling, tears streaming down my face, it’s just too much.
My laugh is soundless, just open-mouthed, tears-streaming hilarity. I turn away from the wall of glass and the Orca girl, but run smack into Sasha’s bullet tits. I look up and see she’s got the same smeary face on that I do right now. She drags me behind a bar, pushing me down, and we laugh together till my gut hurts. “I don’t know how you held out so long,” she says between laughs. “At the Orca love call, I was done!” This makes me laugh harder, holding my sides, bent over, feeling like I might throw up and loving every second of it.
A red light blinks over our head, and then from a hidden speaker, “Hey bitch, help me get this fucking tail off!” This sends us over the edge again as we stumble and laugh our way to the pool. “Sara no H, meet Gretchen the fish.” And we fall out again, my stomach cramping from laughing so hard.
We’re back in the garage where we started, with Gretchen, tail less and in a robe.
“I’ve been in that pool for four fucking hours. Laugh it up!” She jeers, but she’s grinning at us, especially me, like she sees a festive piñata full of candy.
“So, Sara, did you like the show?” That’s Sasha, sassy as ever, hitting my funny bone again. Gretchen winks, and as cheeky as I wanna be, I give them both a wink. “Okay, ladies, spill it.” And they do.
Chapter 7
Gretchen does most of the talking, with Sasha filling in blanks here and there.
“Where’d you kidnap her from? Jenny Craig?”
“Close. Weight Watchers.”
“If you’re not careful, those women clubbers are going to stab you with their knitting needles.”
“I had to create a donut diversion just to get her the eff out of there.” This makes us all laugh.
Sasha nods to Gretchen, who takes a deep breath, lets it out, looks me right in the eye and spills. “There’s no easy way to say this, Sara with no H, so I’m just going to lay it out there, and hopefully you’ll pick it up.” I nod. That’s what I want. “I have one question. Are you sick to death of hating yourself and want to start loving everything about you?” I’m nodding my head because it’s true. I’m in, drinking their Kool-Aid.
“That’s what we’re all about here. Loving ourselves as we are and rewarding those who love us. Our clients. We just embrace the skin we’re in…even if Buffalo Bill wants us to rub the lotion on our skin and wear us for a suit.” I get the Silence of the Lambs reference; it’s a joke, but hey, I never did see what was in their basement.
Over the next few hours, both ladies—large and in charge, literally; it’s their business—lay out the deets for me. Sasha, my recruiter, and now definitely my friend, starts.
“I grew up in a household where thin was in. I’ve got an identical twin sister floating around in the atmosphere who weighs about a hundred pounds less than me. Twins with that much of a difference aren’t really twins anymore, just sisters, if you could even call us that.” I notice Gretchen give Sasha’s shoulder a light squeeze. “Growing up, I was always “big boned,” as my mother put it. I’d watch Tasha prance around in all the pretty, frilly dresses and short-shorts, while my mother dressed me from the Husky section at Sears. I can still hear the swishing sound the corduroy pants made, my thighs rubbing together whenever I walked. We were supposed to be identical, but you’d never know it. And we weren’t loved identically, if you get my meaning.”
Sensing the pain of old wounds, I interrupt her, “Sasha, you don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”
She meets my eyes, and as if I haven’t spoken, she continues. “Sundays were a girls’ day out in my house. Mall trips, with me carrying the bags and Tasha modeling the clothes. Lunch at the mall would consist of dry lettuce for me while I watched those two eat dessert. I was a big girl, but they made me feel less than, you know?” She looks at both of us. I can see the pain in her green eyes, and I nod. Yes, I know about feeling less than.
“Kids at school always wanted Tasha on their team, the girl who ran the fastest, jumped the highest. Me? I was the base. I couldn’t run for shit, the corduroys chaffed something fierce. No one paid much attention to me, except to ridicule me. Even my twin joined in.” She smiles with no humor and continues.
“Until one day on the way home, a black van, you know, the killer kind with the little circle window in the back? Starts following me, all creepy-like. I’m gonna end up on a milk carton, I think, but the guy pulls over and looks, well, normal. I’m about twelve-years old at the time, I always looked older though. I’d been wearing a training bra since I was nine. He eyes me up and down, like a stalker, and offers me twenty bucks to pull my shirt up.” Sasha points her ample boobs my way for emphasis.
“I look around, no one’s out and about, and I think of all the times Tasha’s been asked to perform, for Daddy’s friends, a piece from whatever bullshit ballet she’s working on. No one was asking me to arabesque, if you get my meaning. So I think, fuck it, and say, ‘Show me the money.’” She sips her coffee, this time there’s no eye contact. She’s looking into her mug as she continues in a low voice.
“He does. A crisp twenty dollar bill. And I pull my too-tight Garanimal sweater up, showing him my titlets. But the weird thing is, he doesn’t bother looking at my boobies. No, he’s totally focused on my tummy rolls. He gets a good long look, licking his lips, rubbing his front. I can see something poking his pants out. It scares me. I back away from him and the pokey thing, was that a knife? I forget my shirt is up under my chin, but he doesn’t, staring and rubbing faster and faster. ‘Rub your tummy in between the folds,’ he says, and I do, scared as shit, but he just stays in the car, touching himself. When I hear big boys talking around the corner, I pull my shirt down, my cheeks red, and snatch the twenty he holds out the window. “Thanks, pretty girl,” he says as he drives off.
“‘Pretty girl,’ he called me. Not ‘fatty’ or ‘lard-ass,’ but ‘pretty girl.’ It took a pedophile in a killer van to give me my first compliment.” She stops there, shaking her head as if disbelieving her own memory.
“I never forgot that and never told my parents. They’d have made my whole trauma about Tasha, ‘he was probably after Tasha, but got you instead,’ and I just wanted to glow in it awhile without them ‘Tasha-ing’ it all up.”
“Throughout high school, boys were dicks. I never had a date, not even a joke date like you see on all the sitcoms. My mother fawned over Tasha, shopping for the perfect dress for prom. Gushing about her popular daughter to all her bridge club friends, as if she didn’t have another homelier version at home.”
“But once college came—I was a business major, by the way—the professors and even some of the guy
s my age looked my way. I even went out on a few dates, but never as the real me. I was always trying to emulate my perfect skinny sister, until I met Leo…”
Gretchen rolls her eyes at the name, but Sasha continues. It’s obvious this story’s been told before. To me, Gretchen stage-whispers, “He was the freak that got away.”
“I’ll leave the Leo-bashing for another time.” Sasha says, pretending not to hear the whisper.
“Thank Christ for that!” Gretchen says, but reaches over and squeezes one of Sasha’s kitty paws.
I look between the two of them and see that Sasha’s real sister is here with her. There is a camaraderie here that I’ve never felt before. I’ve never had anything close to this with anyone. No one-upping, no cattiness, just pure acceptance. I’d heard of it, just never really knew it existed.
The miniature seashells twined in Gretchen’s hair sway with her movements and catch my eye. She’s covered head to toe in gold glitter, which only deepens the tan of her skin. That same skin makes her blue eyes appear electrified. Or maybe it’s the metallic blue liner she’s rimmed her eyes with. Whatever it is, it definitely works for her.
Where Sasha is all reds and bite, Gretchen is dewy pink, soft kisses.
“Did a fairy shoot all over you? Fuck, Gretch.” Sasha’s referring to the glitter I’ve been admiring.
“It was for Tony, he sent it with the tail…” They both shrug as if to say, Of course it’s from Tony.
And just like that, back to business.
“Sara, we own this business, something we’ve worked long and hard to nurture into what it is today. A moneymaker. Do you like money, Sara?” Gretchen pauses, actually waiting for me to answer.
It’s very tempting to say, “No, hate it, never use it.” But who are we kidding? I like money just as much as the next girl, and since I’m running extremely low on it lately, I stow the smart comeback and just nod to let her know we’re on the same page.
She continues, “Well, we use this house, our home, to run our business out of and to make that elusive dollar we all love.” She takes a slow deep breath in, lets it out, eyeing Sasha to see if she wants to jump in here. She doesn’t. Gretchen nods as if that’s what she was expecting and goes into more depth.
“We offer exclusive and unfettered webcam access to our ‘lives’—this part is in air quotes—with certain restrictions. This whole house is wired up like Big Brother, you know, the TV show?” Yeah, I’ve heard of it. “Only we do it Big Sista style.” They high five at that. “That’s why we are entertaining a guest here, in the garage. Privacy. As in private areas, where we use the restroom, change tampons in, fart in, et cetera. All private areas.”
Sasha cuts in, “And have real sex in!”
Which just earns a level glare from Gretchen, who goes on. “Then there are the showrooms. It’s better if we give you a tour so you can understand what I’m referring to. Let’s just say we cater to men and women with exotic tastes. Some clients go for the Tasha types, but our guys, they want the big and beautiful. In fact, the bigger the better.”
She sips her cooled coffee and continues.
“I won’t call it a fetish, because I’m not one of those, neither is Sasha, nor any of the girls, for that matter. We won’t be labeled. But I will tell you there are a lot of people in this world who want a bigger girl, and we fill that need. There were six of us here living together full time, but we lost our pin-up girl. Josie went and married one of her clients—just your luck, a slot opened up.” There she goes, looking at me again like I’m full of candy.
“A pin-up girl? Are you joking?” I roll my eyes while I gesture towards my huge ass and stomach, wondering what they see because all I see are rolls and folds.
“Okay, that right there, that needs to stop.” Gretchen’s eyes flash. She might as well have slapped me.
Sasha holds a hand up to quiet her. “She’s where we were five years ago.” Where’s that? In reality?
Gretchen nods. “I know, I know,” She says, softening towards me “Sara with no H, you are a pretty girl. Get that through your head. No eye rolling, no self-bashing in front of me. You got it? I won’t have it, not from you or anyone else. I’ve had enough bashing to last me a lifetime, and I won’t have it in my house.”
Feeling like I got my knuckles rapped by a nun, my nose burns with unshed tears, waiting for the ever-present “but” to follow. I keep waiting, wondering what’ll come first, the “but” or my tears. She’s silent, though. Her thought completed. There’s no “but” at the end, as in, “you’re a lovely girl, but you need to lose weight. You have a pretty face, but it’s hidden behind your weight.”
“Aww, no twenty dollar pedophile for me?” It lightens the mood of the room. I don’t know if either of them understand this, but it’s the first time I’ve had a compliment without a backdoor shaming.
Chapter 8
I ask where the restroom is, mainly to collect my thoughts. This is a lot of information to take in at once. Sasha walks me down a long hall, giving me a squeeze. “I know it’s a lot to take in. But this is a safe place, believe me.” She turns me loose in front of a pink powder room. “No one’s watching, I promise.” She winks and heads towards the kitchen, joining Gretchen, who’s making fresh coffee.
After locking the door and rechecking to make sure it’s really locked, I sit down to pee, and I think about my life before Sasha. The only time I ever opened up about my personal life was to random therapists, not the best conversationalists. Always with the questions. I could go literally days without any human contact—cats don’t count. Shit, most of the time I attended those meetings to be around other people. If I keep on this path I’m headed down, I’ll be the crazy cat lady in Apartment B, the one kids are afraid to trick or treat at. The old me was more than happy to change to fit my mother’s plans. Why can’t the new me make a few changes to fit my new life plan? Maybe it’s time some of her chameleon attributes rub off on me. I catch my reflection while washing my hands. There’s a twinkle in my eyes that I’ve never noticed before.
Both ladies turn when I step out into the garage, Sasha with a wide smile, Gretchen making to hand me a fresh cup of coffee. I hold a hand up, stopping them both.
“I’ve listened, now I need answers.” They both nod and take their patio chairs like they expected this.
“First, do you have sex with your, uh, clients?”
Sasha perks up. “Only if we want to. It’s more of a ‘look but don’t touch’ shop.”
I nod. That’s the answer I was hoping for.
“Do the clients ever come here?” Gretchen’s shaking her head before I’m even finished.
“No, Sara, no one even knows where this place is. That’s how we can ensure everyone’s safety.”
One more and I’m ready for the tour. “What if I say no? Will you still be my friends?”
Sasha comes around the table, giving me a great big hug. I hug back. “You can always say no, Sara with no H, but you’re not getting rid of us that easy.”
Well, that’s one way to answer that question.
They take me on a tour of the house. We start with the no access rooms, i.e. no cameras, no sound. These areas are “dark,” Gretchen explains to me, meaning no one else can see us here. The garage is one of the dark areas, has to be that way. “Don’t want any of our clients catching a glimpse of the outside, recognizing a palm tree out front and finding us.” Sasha nods, catching my eye as if to say. See? Totally safe.
Good. That means there really is some anonymity.
Through the garage door, we step into a beautiful kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, and hardwood floors. “See this?” Gretchen spreads her arms out to the side and twirls. “This is a showroom, meant to be on camera, but back through here…” She points to a floor-to-ceiling spice rack, which I hadn’t noticed before, but now that she’s pointed it out I can’t stop staring at. As I watch, she pushes on the top corner, and a little space appears. Ma
gic! I step through it into a smaller, homier version of a kitchen. One I’m more used to.
“This is a butler’s kitchen. It’s for everyday use—basically when we want privacy. The front one, although it cost a fortune, is just for show. We keep it stocked, of course, but this is where the real magic happens.” Gretchen gives me a chance to take it all in.
“The front kitchen is the ‘feeders’ favorite,” Sasha pipes in.
My brows go up at this new term.
Gretchen senses my puzzlement and explains. “They get off on watching you eat, from how you prepare food to the actual consumption. They love to see you measure, slice, dice, cook, the works! For them, it’s foreplay.”
Sasha agrees with enthusiasm. “And if that’s foreplay, then the nitty gritty is giving you a list of things to eat and watching you eat them. That’s what truly gets them off. That’s a feeder in a nutshell. Oh, wait!” She holds up a finger. She’s got an even better comparison I guess. “You do know the story of Hansel and Gretel, right?”
I nod, “Who doesn’t?”
“Just think of the witch in Hansel and Gretel. Full-blown feeder, dude.”
Both ladies are quiet long enough for me to get a feel for the kitchen. It’s small, roughly half the size of the other, but it feels homey, lived in. Somewhere I can see myself making my coffee, reading the paper, maybe doing a crossword puzzle. Who am I kidding? I don’t even do that in my own kitchen, but it’s nice to dream.
There are labeled Tupperware containers in the fridge. All very organized. Nothing growing in the back, I see. Somebody does a great job of cleaning around here. Next to the fridge, a prep space, and then an OMG huge stove! A Viking brand, six burners with a grill in the middle. I could so cook on this thing. Again, scrubbed to shining. Very usable.
Becoming Blue (Chubby Chasers, Inc. #1) Page 3
