Summer of 2007, Seattle, Washington

By Cynthia Gockley

Saturday, I went to a Big Beautiful Woman dance at a local community center. It was a “beach party,” so women were encouraged to wear their swimsuits.

Mine happens to be a long-legged unitard - basically a purple latex sausage casing, strictly utilitarian and about as alluring as the ones they used to issue in eighth grade gym class.

Therefore, in deference to the theme, I wore a pair of cutoff overalls, a tank top, and flip-flops. I packed up the “tropical” plastic martini set that Max gave me recently, a pint of vodka, and a jar of olives. I dressed for comfort and mobility, for this was to be a night of dancing (exercise), not trolling.

The building, a wooden structure built in the ’40s that served for decades as a Veterans of Foreign Wars hall, was stiflingly hot, and the temperature continued to soar as the fat ladies gathered. The gender ratio, typical of such events, was about 25 females per male. The atmosphere, also typical, was one of yearning pickled with despair.

I paid my $20 and headed for the “buffet,” where we had been promised a sumptuous array of tropical snacks. It was the usual dismal spread of sweaty cheese, stale chips, and moldy crudites (minus the usual tubs of canned pudding, thank God).

Our host/DJ, a gassy windbag who makes a handsome second income exploiting the BBW scene, launched into his customary opener, “Baby Got Back,” and the few women fortunate enough to have brought their own partners stepped out under the strobe lights. As they shook their booties, I shook my martinis and scanned the horizon for ice and an eligible bachelor.

I quickly spied an extremely tall man with long, lank hair, and after consuming approximately 4 ounces of alcohol, I sauntered over to “buy” him a drink.

He took the bait so brazenly dangled, though he made a face when he sipped my potent libation. “That’s awfully strong. I think I’ll stick with my Corona.”

He slipped away, briefly, but later joined me outside on the patio, where I quickly learned that he was living on a “trust.” Heir to a fortune? Not exactly.

A few years prior, he’d been in an accident involving flimsy scaffolding and heavy industrial equipment. The result had been a long litany of injuries, which I now recall included a broken wrist, a punctured lung, a dislocated shoulder, a smashed nose (giving him a fetchingly pugilistic aspect a la Liam Neeson), and … last but not least … some serious permanent brain damage.

Monica arrived fashionably late, swathed in black lace, her dark glossy hair piled on top of her glamorous but tastefully made-up visage. She looked stunning. She also looked very overdressed, very hot, and very cross. She was escorted by her friend Don, a heavy man (though hardly a behemoth, in this crowd).

I knew Don’s story already: he had undergone gastric bypass several years before but had regained half the weight he’d lost and was fairly miserable about it. Despite Don’s cherubic face, I found him aloof and a bit stuck on himself. (He immediately positioned himself in front of an electric fan in the back of the room, where he spent the next couple of hours looking superior.)

“You’re tiny,” Monica gasped, with equal measure of envy and awe. Never has Monica said anything so manifestly untrue, but it was nice to hear. “Yeah, but my guts are falling out,” I reminded her (I’d e-mailed her about my hernia the day before.) Lest envy make her crosser, I suppose.

“Don’t say that,” Monica shuddered. “It makes me sick to think about.”

Energized by the throbbing disco beat, six tepid martinis, and about a cup of Cheez Whiz, I proceeded to dance. Remember Ashlee Simpson’s impromptu hoe-down on Saturday Night Live a couple of years back? Yeah, like that. For about two hours, off and on.

I danced like I haven’t danced since I was a verifiable, certifiable dancing machine in college. Imagine The Red Shoes heroine in the final reels, only imagine her a size 22 and 20 years older. And sweltering. Yeah, there you go!

While I danced, my tall, lanky brain-damaged admirer — let’s call him Ted — kept his eye on me, which spurred me on, truth be told.

When my knees got rubbery, I went outside to wring out my hair. He brought over a couple of folding chairs, which he positioned some distance away from the smokers, and where we sat all tres intime. The ensuing conversation was too tedious to report, but at some point, he mentioned that he was “handy.” Now that got my attention.

“Could you re-seat a leaking toilet?” I asked him.

“I’ll come over and re-seat it right now,” he vowed. My kind of man: tall, willing, and too dumb to fall in love with!

The offer was tempting, and it merited a deep, sloppy kiss of encouragement. But I was starting to sober up, at least enough to recognize that I was too drunk. I tore a deposit slip off my checkbook and told him to call me the next day. He disappeared into the dark, humid night.

Somehow, I managed to get home, though Monica and Don were concerned.

“I can smell you at 20 paces,” Monica grimaced. “Pop an Altoid, at least.”

Although I was bathed in alcoholic flop sweat, I had switched to Diet Coke hours before. Still, I was extra careful and alert, as cops were out in full force. I made it home and called Monica, as promised, on her cell.

“Never ever wear that outfit again,” she said meanly. “It is not flattering.”

This afternoon, Ted called me. I dashed out for a new wax ring and a tube of caulking. He re-seated the toilet, though it was a hard job fitting his 6′6″ frame into my tiny bathroom, and he made me watch the entire procedure in the (highly unlikely) event that I would have to do it myself someday.

Afterward, we took a shower together and then retreated to my boudoir, where he failed to fuck me. Twice. He apologized, explaining that he had been thinking of me when he’d jacked off that morning. They say it’s the thought that counts.

I cooked him a nice piece of salmon, anyway. He offered to move in and, in exchange for rent, landscape my yard. He had a lot of ideas. I promised to give the proposal careful consideration.

Cynthia Gockley teaches at a community college. She lives near Seattle with three dogs and a parrot.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, November 26th, 2007 | Email This Post

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