by Lexy Timms
Chapter 2
Kayla
I was waiting for my friend Bethany to arrive for lunch outside of Cibo Buono, a nice Italian restaurant that recently opened in lower Manhattan. She asked me to get us a table, but I was already feeling slightly out of place. Cibo Buono was not the kind of restaurant where I usually dined. It was rather expensive for me and far from where I lived in Newark, New Jersey.
Bethany was doing well with her job at her marketing firm though, and had been enjoying the occasional splurge. So, lunch was on her. She was calling it a “lunch meeting,” even though I wasn’t really sure what the meeting was about. I assumed it would either be about work or men, Bethany’s two favorite topics.
At a certain point, I began to feel even more out of place. I usually got a certain amount of attention, typically unwarranted or unwanted. I didn’t even view it as attention when I truly analyzed it. It never seemed like people would simply look at me or peer at me like they would a normal person. Instead, they gawked. It almost never came with words, but I always knew what they were thinking.
For many years, the judgment of strangers bothered me and would keep me up at night. There was a time when the gawks from Cibo Buono’s employees would have caused me to retreat into myself. I would have turned around to ensure I didn’t have to face society or its immediate, ruthless ridicule.
But, times had changed and I no longer cared what others thought about me or my appearance. So, I stood up from my seat and made my way to the host and hostess by the door who had been staring at me on and off for the past several minutes.
“Hi,” I said to them in an overly polite tone. “I was hoping I could get a table or booth for two? I’ve a friend coming, but she’s not here yet.”
“Of course,” the host said, handing the hostess two menus. “So, a table would be fine for you today?”
“Sure, whatever’s available,” I said.
The hostess guided me into the restaurant, wearing a fake smile and avoiding my gaze now that I was walking beside her.
The restaurant was busy, but not completely packed. It was Friday, so I expected to be told to wait, especially since my ‘entire party’ had yet to arrive. I was slightly worried I was going to be circled by our waiter, since I suspected Bethany was going to be navigating through a lot of New York traffic.
I was seated in a nice, dimly lit part of the restaurant. There were oil lamps mounted on the walls that kept subtle embers lit. The lamps hung near elegant paintings and framed photographs of people I didn’t know, shaking hands with the owners and staff of Cibo Buono. Most of the people at the nearby tables and booths were couples, staying quiet and enjoying their meals. Some were talking and holding hands, clearly soaking in the atmosphere.
While I waited for Bethany, I looked at my phone and went straight onto my dating profile. I never used any of those dating sites or apps for casual hookups or for sex. For a while, I was on them because I truly felt like I could find “the one.” I thought about how many people there were in the world and how dating apps might help connect two souls who would otherwise go their entire existences without ever getting the chance to meet. To me, it seemed romantic in a modern sort of way.
Now, I mostly kept my online dating persona alive to stave off boredom. I was always amused by the lines I got thrown.
I looked at my photos on my profile and for a few seconds, I had a momentary lapse of self-doubt. I was a heavy woman and I didn’t shy away from it. While some women took crafty photos that could hide or deemphasize certain perceived imperfections, I took the alternative approach. I was plus-sized and not ashamed of it.
My profile said I was 27, which I was. By body type, I had “Bigger / BBW.” My pictures showed me in all kinds of clothing and makeup, each presenting me in a slightly different way. Two pictures were particularly sexy, showing my exposed cleavage in a short dress that kept almost no part of my legs a secret. I was wearing a similar dress to this very lunch meeting, although it went down far enough so that I couldn’t get kicked out of the restaurant. And, my cleavage was mostly concealed.
I quickly and briefly checked my reflection with my phone’s camera. I played with my long, curly blonde hair, trying to make it behave. I hated how tired I looked, but I was truly exhausted from work. I went back onto the dating app.
I scrolled down to my long ‘About Me’ section. Some girls wrote very little, attempting to create mystery or intrigue… And some wrote a lot, bravely shining lights on many things, including insecurities and/or thoughts that might scare a man away.
I was one of the ones that wrote a lot:
“Hello, all! I’m Kayla. I’m 27, single, always working, currently obsessed with the show Hitchspace, and am plus-sized (BBW) and proud.
I live in New Jersey. I work my ass off in New York. The commute is a bitch, but I love the grind. I work for Donnie T. Agency. No, I’m not a model. My title is confusing, so I’ll try to simplify: I help the models dress before a shoot or event, sometimes I even get to try on the clothes before the models for camera tests or during initial clothing design. I’ve gotten to assist in actually designing some of the new lines for Donnie T. Also, during individual photoshoots, I’ll assist the directors and photographers and ensure the jobs are completed smoothly and in a timely fashion. So, I basically run that shit.
I’ve worked in modeling for seven years. I got into the industry because of fashion. I’ve a love and passion for fashion. I want to design my own line or two of clothing one day. I’ve ambitions and dreams that I’ll never stop trying to achieve. I do like modeling for fun though, even when the audience is just me and my bedroom mirror.
As mentioned above, I’m a big girl. I was teased and bullied a lot in school over it by the popular kids, and it used to get to me. But later, that teasing eventually became so derivative and so expectedly unoriginal and uninspired, that it just stopped affecting me. Trust me, I’ve heard it all. If your only goal in writing to me is to tell me that I’m a ‘fat disgusting whore’ or whatever else, don’t waste your time. I’ve heard it all and it all sounds like white noise from the minds of shallow assholes. Believe it or not, I am actually quite comfortable in my body and only hope you’re as confident in yours.
With that massive amount being said, please feel free to say hello back! I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for on here, so why don’t we just start talking and see what happens.”
Before I could make any of the many rewrites I was thinking of, I caught sight of my best friend coming toward me. I closed the phone and stood up for a quick hug.
Bethany was only two years younger than me. She had curly hair too, but hers was a dark brown. She, like me, was overweight and had ‘BBW’ listed on her dating profiles. Unfortunately, she was a bit embarrassed about her weight and she tended to wear clothes that covered up her arms and were loose, even though those were not the clothes that she really wanted to wear. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw Bethany wear short-sleeves when going out. I wished she would open herself up more, be free in her own skin.
“What is up!?” Bethany called out to me. “You look amazing!”
“Me? Look at you!” I replied. We gave each other a tight hug and dropped into our seats. She took my hands.
“How’ve you been?” she asked. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in, like, months.”
“I think it has been months,” I said.
“Na-uh,” she grunted.
“Would you ladies like a moment to look over the menu today?” said the waiter who appeared out of nowhere.
“Yes, please,” I answered. I let go of Bethany’s hands and opened the menu. She did the same and began to scan their wine menu.
“Ooh, do you want to get the entire bottle of Rosé?” she asked. “I wouldn’t be able to drink it all by myself.”
“You want to drink?” I asked in disbelief. “I’ve to drive back to Newark!”
“We’re not going to get hammered if we both only drink half a b
ottle,” she said rolling her eyes. “Come on, we’re a team, remember?”
“I can’t afford that, Bethany,” I said softly.
“Right, I’ll order it,” she said. “Come on Reid, I’m making bank now. Gotta enjoy the finer things in life, you know what I mean?”
“Things must be going well at the marketing firm,” I surmised.
“Oh, definitely,” she confirmed. “I’m earning more than I’ve ever made in my life and I’m hardly trying!”
Bethany helped market fashion. It wasn’t a coincidence that we worked in the same industry: we became good friends through our mutual tastes and goals. We saw each other at the same places often enough that we eventually turned our chance meetings into a close friendship.
“Well, it’s about where we’ll end up one day, you know?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said weakly. “Truthfully, I’m not crazy about it these days. I love the money, but… I should probably love more about it than just the money, right?”
“Ideally,” I said.
“I’m more… confident… than I’ve ever been before in my whole life,” she said. “But, I still hear those comments… ‘What're you doing working in the industry?’ Someone at the office actually said to me, ‘Honey, aren’t you afraid of dying young?’ I mean, can you believe that shit?”
“Sadly, I can,” I nodded. I’d hear similar things myself.
“When I got the promotion last year, I didn’t hear anything any of those people looking down on me said,” she said attempting to remain calm. “But, their voices have started to sound less quiet to me and they’re sticking with me again, like they used to. I need my go-to chick.”
The waiter returned with two glasses of water and small bowl of bread.
“I’m ready to order,” said Bethany.
I glanced down at the menu, ignoring the prices and trying to decide.
“Me too,” I said meekly.
“I’ll get the four-cheese ravioli,” she said to the waiter. “Could I have steamed broccoli on the side? And, we’ll have the bottle of the Rosé. Thank you.”
“I’ll get the chicken-Caesar,” I followed. “Could we get an appetizer of flatbread, as well, please? Thanks.”
We handed the waiter our menus and waited for our bottle of wine.
“A salad?” Bethany asked me pointedly. “Those models making you feel bad about your size?”
“No,” I answered truthfully. “I just think that sounds good right now. It’s got chicken in it, I’m getting real food.”
“How’s work going?” she asked me.
“Oh fine,” I said. “I was running a shoot this morning that went kind of awry. The model and one of our photographers keep getting into spats and it started escalating into a pretty bad argument. It really fucked up the workday.”
“Oh shit,” she said.
“Yeah, I think they were sleeping together or something,” I added. “I’m not sure, I don’t want to gossip. But, something definitely happened between them behind the scenes that we don’t know about. This is the third time that model and a photographer have gotten into it during a shoot.”
“Fuck,” she went. “Models. I don’t understand how you put up with all those pinhead, skinny bitches.”
“Hey, they’re not all pinheads,” I said. We chuckled.
“Still, I can only imagine how you must get treated on a daily basis,” she said.
“Honestly, it’s not as bad as you might think, people are pretty accepting,” I said. “Skinny people are super self-conscious too, just like us bigger gals. Size doesn’t matter at my job. ‘Everybody’s sensitive.’ So, most people are polite.”
Bethany grinned and nodded, thinking about something she was not sharing with me. I felt like I could read her mind in that moment:
“You should be proud of what you have,” I said to her. “Big, curvy women like us are beautiful too.”
“You know, when you say it, it sounds like you really believe it,” said Bethany.
“Because I do believe it,” I pushed. “You are beautiful, Beth. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
Her new smile seemed more sincere. It began to morph into an inquisitive smirk.
“So, could I ask you for a favor, then?” she asked. “It’s sort of why I called you here for a lunch meeting.”
“Sure, what’s up?” I asked.
She took out her phone and pulled up a series of pictures she had taken of herself in a variety of different outfits, some way less conservative than what I’d grown accustomed to seeing her wear.
“Could you maybe look through these and give me your honest opinion about what I look good in?” she asked. “I’m always going to get knocked for my weight, but… you know, I might as well try and be happy in what I’m wearing while I take the public ridicule, right?”
“You’re not supposed to take it,” I said to her. “You should be giving it back. Don’t let anyone tell you what to do with your body. Fuck what they think.”
“I’m just unsure of a lot of stuff lately and would love your honest, brutal opinion, both as a professional and as my sister-from-another-mister.”
“Bethany, you didn’t have to call it a ‘lunch-meeting,’ you’re my best friend,” I said, smacking her arm playfully. “Of course, I’ll help you with that, whatever you want.”
She slid me her phone and I began to browse through the many colorful pics.
“Well,” she began as she slowly stood up. “While you do that and so I don’t kill myself from the anxiety, I’m going to run to the ladies’ room.”
“Maybe we’ll have our meals by the time you get back,” I said.
“Right.” She started to awkwardly adjust herself as she found her footing. I stifled a laugh, only because her occasional awkwardness was always a staple of our outings.
“You okay?” I asked her.
“No,” she grunted. “I am in dire need of some underwear that isn’t going to strangle my vagina and breasts. These clothes are killing me, Reid.”
“I feel you,” I said. Even in my most comfortable dresses, pants and shirts, I still felt constricted at times. “It would be nice… especially if it was attractive.”
“You should get right on that, fashion designer,” she said with a wink.
As I picked my favorites of Bethany’s pictures and as she was returning from her trip to the bathroom, our food indeed arrived at the table.
Chapter 3
Justin
I arrived at the Donnie T. studio early on Saturday morning. I wanted to impress them any way I could, even with something as simple as punctuality. This was a tremendous opportunity that would add spice to my résumé.
I reminded myself that even though it was the biggest modeling agency I’d ever gotten to work with, it was still exactly that: modeling. I knew what would look good and Donnie T. had even liked some of my suggestions for the shoot. I refused to over think what was happening around me or doubt the value of my work. Whenever I thought I might become overwhelmed, I would simply take a deep breath, hold it for five seconds, and release. I needed a break from wedding shoots.
I leaned against a ladder, watching the lighting crew rapidly get the job done. I told them to light it with contrast, darkness blending with light. My goal was to have the light illuminate the models perfectly, but to leave the empty space dark. I had my own artsy reasons for wanting to shoot it this way, but it helped that my early photo tests with that lighting had proved how good it could look.
Other members of the studio crew began bringing out an assortment of props. My appetite was whetted and the ideas were coming to me quicker than I anticipated.
“You want the tables side by side?” a crewmember asked me.
“Yeah, solid one stage left, transparent one stage right,” I ordered.
“Tables and chairs?”
“Solid with the solid, clear with clear.”
They set the oak table next to the glass table as I asked. I didn’t
have all my poses and ideas sorted into an order, because I liked to rely on spontaneity during some of my shoots. The crew then pushed in an abnormally sized prop spiral staircase that they kept tucked away in the back.
I looked over to a nearby mirror and checked my reflection. My skin looked tan and tight, but I contributed some of it to the lighting. My shaggy brown hair was staying kempt, with a short strand of hair hanging just above my left eye. My eyes looked hazel today, which was usually a hit with some of the models. I had a five o’clock shadow at eight-fifteen in the morning, but it suited me. I considered myself handsome, but I wanted to ensure that I looked my best for the oncoming slew of women.
Within minutes of the props being brought out, the models began to arrive. Women of multiple colors and shapes were staring down at their cell phones, taking pictures of the stage and taking selfies together. None of them seemed to notice me, but I was oddly okay with that. I didn’t want my mind to stray from the task at hand. There would be time for flirting after the job was done.
“You sure you don’t want the Tungsten?” a crewmember asked me, gesturing to the Tungsten light beside him.
“No, I’m not sure, just keep it on standby for now,” I said.
I took some pictures of the setting and some random pictures of the models, just to see how everything fit together. Two of the models began to make eyes at me, giving me wide and hungry smiles.
“You’re working,” I said to myself quietly as I took pictures. “They’re hot, but you will not be that ‘one photographer who wanted to bang all the models.’ Flirt casually, don’t leave too many windows for them to open.”
I took a deep breath and counted to five. I turned the other way and shot the other side of the room. I heard one of the models whispering about the “camera guy.”
“When you’re working, you’re working,” I continued to myself. “They probably hit on a lot of the camera guys, anyway. Don’t take it seriously and don’t slack.”
