by Babe Walker
“Babe, I—”
“I don’t care what you say. You are going to have sex with me. Look. I’m naked and you aren’t turning away or anything. You’re staring at my boobs.”
This was true. I’d wiggled out of my underwear while Roman was going on about my weight. Nothing makes me want to get naked more than someone telling me how thin I look. I was starting to feel really free with my body. Isn’t sex amazing?
“Take your pants off. We’re fucking,” I demanded.
“Babe, I’m not into you like that. What are you doing?”
“This is going to be fun! Trust me. You’ll like it.”
“No I won’t. Vagina scares me. I don’t even know what to do with it.”
“Well, let’s make a safe word that we can say if things get too intense. If either of us says it, we’ll stop. But honestly, Roman, just man up and don’t say the safe word.”
He agreed. And we decided that the safe word would be “Tom Ford.” Roman took his pants off and lay next to me. His dick was huge. Honestly, I felt kind of scared, but we’d gotten this far, and there was no way I was going to back out now.
“Okay, get on top of me,” I said.
“I hate you, Babe.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I know.”
“Now, when we start doing it, I want you to really go for it. It’s probably going to hurt me a little bit, and I might scream, but you need to just keep going.”
“Okay. But Babe—”
“What?!”
“I’m not sure—”
“Just fuck me, Roman!!”
He thrust his hips forward, and all of a sudden it felt like a fire had been lit inside my vagina.
“TOM FORD!” I screamed, slapping him across the face.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” He looked terrified.
“It’s okay. Sorry for slapping you. Just kidding with the safe word, keep going.”
He started thrusting again. At first it felt sharp, then the pain eventually went away, then it felt rhythmic and good-ish. By this point I think I was in such shock that I was actually having sex, that I kind of allowed myself to bliss out and go with it. It became apparent that Roman had gotten really into it too, when all of a sudden he flipped me on my stomach and started fucking me from behind, moaning, “Danny! Danny!” I was moaning too, and kind of laughing. And kind of screaming “Sandy!!!” I figured that I had gotten mine and it was only fair that he got his, for what it was worth.
All in all, having sex for the first time with a gay guy was, like, totally weird and totally hot. It didn’t feel anything like I had expected, but I guess sex is one of those things that you need to try firsthand to understand. Like a facial. After it was over, we both hung out naked and watched Clueless until we fell asleep. The next morning, I woke up to a note from Roman on my bedside table. It said:
Dear Danny,
I will never do that with you again, but just so you know, I fucking loved it. Pedicures at 3?
Love, Roman
We don’t talk about that night very often, but sometimes, when we’re drinking whiskey at my place, Roman and I watch the tape. Despite the Led Zeppelin tattoo situation that was going on on my ankle at that point (removed last year), and Mabinty laughing so hard that the camera is shaking uncontrollably, you can clearly tell that we both looked amazing, young, free, and in some sort of love. Even if it wasn’t traditional. Or natural.
Who am I, and when did I gain a pound?
In addition to filming my sex tape and all of my birthdays, my maid, Mabinty, has also been my closest confidante. She basically raised me. Growing up, my dad was always at work, and my grandmother, while an amazing role model, had a tendency to pop in and out of my life at her leisure. Mabinty has been with me since before my little baby brain could form memories.
Mabinty moved to LA from Jamaica and was hired as my night nurse when I was two days old. She went from being my night nurse, to being my nanny/maid, to being my assistant/mother. Whenever I heard a new curse word at school, she was the person I went running to looking for the definition. Mabinty ushered me into womanhood. She taught me about sex by sitting me down in front of the TV and playing every episode of HBO’s Real Sex, while giving me a play-by-play commentary. Once, to teach me about the dangers of woman-on-woman violence, Mabinty directed my friend Genevieve and me in a staged version of Single White Female in our backyard.
For as long as I can remember, Mabinty has encouraged me to express myself through clothes. She allowed me to leave the house in whatever outfit I wanted, without judgment. Therefore, I credit her for my unique sense of personal style. I’ve never known my real mom, so she’s the closest thing I’ve got, for better or worse.
One morning, during my junior year of high school, I woke up feeling bloated. I got out of bed and looked in the mirror to see a monster zit forming on my chin. Fuck, I thought. I must be PMS-ing. Whenever I’m about to get my period, I turn into a nightmare, and all it takes is one off-color comment to send me spinning into a rage. During high school, I would always have Mabinty call in for me and tell them I was too sick to come to class. During moments of uterine compromise, my presence on campus would put faculty and students at risk. Think Columbine, but in a Burberry trench.
I decided to spend the day de-puffing in a sea-salt bath, watching episodes of MTV’s Making the Video. I was in the middle of a deep-breathing exercise when Mabinty came rushing into the bathroom to tell me that my dad was on the phone. He’d been out of town on a business trip, so she and I had the house to ourselves for the week.
“I don’t want to talk to Dad today,” I said, waving the phone away. “I don’t feel good. I told you that.”
“It’s been tree days, deary. Yuh gotta check in wid him. Tell him ’bout yuh new dress. Yuh know, di slutty one.”
“Fine,” I relented.
Then, as she handed me the portable phone, she looked me straight in the eye and said:
“Mi not sure if yuh a do sumting diffrent wid yuhself, but yuh a look real healthy, gyal.”
Then she turned and walked out of the bathroom, as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t just ruined my life. I was in shock. I dropped the phone to the floor.
I’d have rather had someone tell me that I looked sick, sad, miserable, starving, or dead, than have someone tell me I looked healthy. Healthy? Are you fucking kidding me? Why would Mabinty call me fat? She knew I was PMS-ing, so the only logical explanation was that I’d actually gained weight.
After sitting in silence for a few minutes, I mustered up enough energy to stand up and stare at myself in the mirror for fifteen minutes, searching every square centimeter of my body for the fat that Mabinty must have been referring to. When I got to my midsection I noticed a tiny bulge in my belly. Was this bloat? Was it fat? Was I, like, a fat pig and I had no idea? I’d always read about women being pregnant and not even knowing about it until they give birth. Was I like these women—in such denial about my apparent weight gain that I had no concept of how grotesque I had become?
“Mabinty,” I whispered to myself, “you are fucking fired.”
Of course she couldn’t hear me because she was all the way downstairs, but I said it again anyway. This time slightly louder, but still relatively hushed.
“Mabinty, gwann pack yuh bags ’cause mi dun wid yuh!”
Sometimes when I’m mad at Mabinty, I speak to her in Jamaican Patois (Patwa). It’s a hybrid of English and West African dialects, and over the years I’ve picked up the basics.
“Mi a go fiyah yuh, Mabinty! Yuh gwann leave t’day! Yuh cyan neva come back!”
I grabbed my towel, threw it around my body, and started to search for Mabinty. We have a pretty big house, so I did the only sensible thing I could think of: start yelling.
“Where ina dis house ah yuh, Mabinty? Yuh cyan’t go too far fi mi ta catch yuh! We need a talk! Yuh bettah start look fi a new job, Mabinty. Mi on di edge. Mi dun! Mi finish playin’ wit yuh!�
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I stormed down the front staircase and poked my head into ten rooms of the house before finding her in the laundry room. I was a complete and utter tornado of spite. I looked her straight in the eyes.
“Mabinty, Mi—”
“Babe, what mi do fi mek yuh fiyah mi? Huh? Dis ’cause mi told yuh daddy mi tink it’s a bad idea fi yuh to go down a spring break to Cabo when yuh cyan’t even drive yuh own cyar? He agree wid mi on dat, so yuh should nah be bahderin’ mi wid dis right now,” she said, folding a shirt without even looking at me.
“You have NO say anymore about Cabo, because you no longer work here! You’re fired as my mother figure. Good-bye!” I began stomping out of the laundry room, then turned to Mabinty again. “And you know something else? Just stop folding those clothes. Throw them away. Burn them. They’re not gonna fit me anyway. I’m fat now, nothing fits. Nothing fits anymore. I ate way too much. I’M FAT!!!!!”
With a screech, I ran out of the laundry room and straight to the kitchen, pulled anything edible out of the refrigerator, freezer, and pantry, and piled it high on the counter. With every calorie in the house laid out in front of me, I let out a deafening scream and started stuffing everything on the counter down the garbage disposal, trying to destroy it all as quickly as possible. After everything was gone, I grabbed the kitchen phone and collapsed into a pile of my own despair on the floor.
Then I did what I always do when I’m spinning out: call my therapist. She didn’t pick up, but Susan never picks up when I call her. I left her the following message:
“Susan, I need need NEED to come in to see you ASAP! Mabinty said the most horrible thing about how I’m fat, and now I’m afraid I’m going to die from obesity or type II diabetes. I’m freaking out. I’m desperate. Please end the session that you’re in right now and let the patient know that you have a medical emergency that you need to get to. If you could come to Bel Air, like to my house, that would be best. Also do you know where I can get a really good colonic?”
I was sobbing by the time I hung up the phone. I also realized that in all of the frenzy, I had lost my towel so I was naked. I lay there, crying, waiting for Susan to call me back. After a few minutes I decided that if I was going to conquer my disease (obesity), I would have to take matters into my own hands. If Susan wasn’t going to come to me, then I would have to go to Susan.
I stood up, headed for my bedroom closet, put on a pair of shorts, sneakers, and a sports bra, then ran out the front door of my house. I felt like it made the most sense for me to run to Santa Monica, where Susan’s office was. I’m not really a jogger by nature, but I didn’t have my license (due to the fact that I’d failed my permit test three times), so I had no other way of getting there, and I don’t do public transportation in LA.
When I finally got down to the bottom of the hill in Bel Air, I turned right and headed west on Sunset toward the 405. Taking the freeway was the only way I knew how to get to Susan’s office. It was a long way, but I was on a mission, and my body was in such a state of panic that I was running on adrenaline. It became clear that I should have thought this plan through when I ran up the on-ramp to the freeway and was accosted by the fumes of all the cars flying past me. I could feel my pores clogging from all the smog and dust. It was hot, and I was a sweaty, disgusting mess, but I powered through.
It had always seemed like such a quick trip from my house to Susan’s office when Mabinty would drive, but it felt like I had been running for hours and I wasn’t even close to the exit for the 10 freeway. Cars began to honk, and I was sure the drivers were yelling fat slurs at me, but I was in too much of a haze to hear anything clearly.
I was about to collapse, when I turned to see a car slowly trailing behind me on the shoulder of the road. I thought for sure it was going to be a cop or a chubby-chasing rapist, but thankfully it turned out to be Mabinty. She’d seen me leave on the security monitor at our house and had been trailing me the whole time. Even though I was still mad at her, I was glad to be able to get into the car and off of my feet. She took the closest exit and parked on a side street.
“Yuh aright, gyal? Yuh look like shit and yuh smell like a gas station. What ina di world got yuh panties in a ruffle like dis?” she asked.
“My panties?! My panties?! What state would your panties be in if I burst into your bathroom and called you fat?”
“Excuse mi, little gyal. Yuh tink mi called yuh fatty? When did dis happen? Mi told yuh mi tink yuh look nice. Mi sey yuh look healthy.”
“Well healthy in America means fucking fat.”
“Yuh know yuh as skinny as di crack whores on di corner of Pico and Western.”
“Thanks. I feel a lot better. Sorry I fired you. Just be more careful with your words next time. I’m as sensitive as a little Kapupal flower when I’m PMS-ing.”
“Cyan yuh tell from mi face dat I’m not surprised to hear dat revelation?” she remarked, sarcastically. “Yuh actin a fool and yuh puttin yuh self ina harms way fi no reason atall. Yuh haffi be tough ina dis here crazy place dat yuh livin in.Yuh got plenty to be proud of when it come to yuh figure.”
“Well today I’m looking puffy as shit, so what the fuck?”
“Yuh will be bloated in the tummy area from time to time. It someting all us females haffi deal wit. Yuh nah fat, Babe Walker.” She comforted me.
“You know what I’m craving? A cheeseburger. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Fine wid me. Let’s go get yuh one.”
She started the car and drove us to the closest In-N-Out, where we ordered double cheeseburgers with grilled onions. We sat in the car and ate, not saying anything to each other. It was nice to have a quiet moment after a morning from hell. Plus the cheeseburger was delicious. On the ride home I farted and blamed it on Mabinty. Twice.
You’re my best friend, and I love you to death, but fuck you. Just kidding, I love you. Just kidding, I hate you. Call me.
A quick history lesson: When Babe Walker met Genevieve Larson on the first day of sixth grade at The Archer School for Girls, they had an automatic hatred toward each other. It was simply decided that these two girls were too pretty to be friends. However, over the years they bonded over a similar sense of humor and their understanding of the difference between cute and costumey. They eventually became each other’s biggest fan.
In high school I had a very specific wake-up routine, so I was none too pleased when I was rudely awoken at the crack of dawn one morning when my best girlfriend, Genevieve, called me, hyperventilating. The ringtone she’d chosen for herself, “Gin and Juice,” was blaring from somewhere deep in my down comforter, and I usually wouldn’t have answered at 10 A.M. on a fucking Sunday, but she kept calling and calling, and I hate that song, so I had to answer.
After ripping the sheets off my bed and soliciting the help of the closest cleaning person, I finally found my phone, set it on my nightstand, and put it on speaker in hopes that I might fall back asleep at some point during our conversation. I’ve found that falling asleep is the best way to politely excuse yourself from an unwanted interaction.
“Ugh, Genevieve. Why are you calling me at this ungodly hour?” My eyes closed, eye mask reapplied.
“Go fek yourself, Babe. I was at this after-after-after party with Roman last night, and I blacked out. Someone told me I was last seen doing a krump striptease. I’m in my bra, I don’t know where my top is, and I’ve lost everything except for my wallet and cell phone! I don’t know who these people are, but one of them has dreads—actually I stand corrected, it’s just one big dread. You need to come get me. I think I’m in a warehouse somewhere downtown. I don’t know how I got here, but I’m so hungover that I can barely move. Come pick me up and take me shopping. Bring coconut water.”
The thing about Genevieve is she parties like a banshee, but she actually has her shit together. She’s a total power bitch and has been selling real estate since she was fourteen, all the while maintaining a 4.0 GPA. She was the valedictorian of our graduating class, an
d Seventeen named her one of the “Cutest Brainiacs Under 18” (barf, but kudos to her). She’s totally bossy, and totally hot, and sometimes I hate her but mostly I love her. She works hard and plays even harder. This is just one of the many times Genevieve’s enlisted me to rescue her from this type of scenario. But what can I say? She’s my best friend.
That being said, I fucking HATE shopping with other people. I insist on doing it alone because it’s the only activity that truly centers me. It’s meditative and personal. When I’m there, amongst the threads and colors that provide joy and confidence for thin women throughout the first world, I am the best version of myself. I am a woman of infinite possibility: Babe At Peace. I could leave the store as a statuesque neo-deco vixen in all black-and-white Lanvin, or as a bohemian vision of future chicness clad in Marni, Proenza Schouler, and Balenciaga. Do you know what I mean? So even if she had been roofied the night before, there was no way I was going to let Genevieve, who was clearly a mess this morning, into my serenity cave.
“Gen, you sound coked out. Do you want to just call a cab and go home and sleep it off?”
“I mean— What?! Babe, brush your hair, get in your car, go pick up some coconut water, and fucking come and get me. Bring me a blouse—or anything baggy by YSL.”
I normally hang up on people who bark orders at me, but I needed to fuck with her just a little bit. “Can’t you at least say please?”
“BABE! I’m not fucking kidding. I woke up facedown on a corduroy couch with Massive Attack blasting. I’ve lost my purse, my makeup, one of the diamond earrings that my mom gave me for graduation, my top is missing, my face is splotchy, I feel like Chlöe Sevigny in Kids, and it’s freaking me out! GET THE FUCK OVER HERE.”
“Where are you?”
“I told you. I don’t know. I’m in a building surrounded by other buildings.”
“What kind of buildings?”
“Fucking huge-ass fucking buildings, Babe!”
“Okay, shut up. Go outside, look at the street signs, and text me where you are. I’m out the door. Be there in ten minutes.”
