Content notice:
The following story contains depictions of negative body image, weight stigma, and diet talk.
I've done my best to portray these issues with empathy and sensitivity. Beauty comes in every size, and a joyous, fulfilling sex life is the privilege of anyone who wants one.
That said, if you're someone who prefers to avoid such things altogether, you might try one of my other stories instead.
The characters depicted in the following story are all 18 or above. One of the themes involves sexual liaisons between young adult women and much older adults in a position of relative power over them.
The inclusion of this theme is for storytelling purposes only. It is not a comment on the advisability of such relationships in real life.
The Author
~
M.U.F.F., Part III
I approach the door and pull the key card out of my bag. I hold it in my hand near the card reader, but I can't bring myself to swipe it.
The motel is an old walkup on the fringes of the commercial end of town. The air is dry and hot and smells like gravel. There isn't much out here.
Not many people around.
I look down at myself. I'm in the same jeans and loose-fitting dark blouse that I wore to school today. Underneath, a drab sports bra and old cotton panties that won't stay out of the depths of my asscrack.
I wish I'd worn something different, something sexier. I wish my entire style were sexier. I look so frumpy.
But then, I look frumpy in everything, and I don't think they make sexy clothes for people like me.
I notice that the door isn't latched. Not quite ajar, but definitely expecting company.
I strain to hear anything inside. I can just make out the quiet jabber of TV news.
I picture myself inside that room with Mr. Robinson. For some reason, in the image in my mind, he's standing there, naked and erect, and I'm still in my frumptastic Beth clothes. It's almost funny.
I think about swiping the card again, then realize that I could just push the door open. Either way feels somehow invasive, like I don't have permission.
I decide to knock instead.
Just as I raise my hand, I hear Mr. Robinson's voice from inside.
"It's open. Come in."
I nearly jump out of my skin.
I waste a second wondering how he knew I was here, then I realize he must have seen me get out of the car through the narrowed slats of the drawn blinds.
Once I've collected myself, I give the door a gentle nudge. It drifts open.
I don't know what to expect. There's a bed. Mr. Robinson is reclining on it, in the same clothes he wore at school, but his shoes are off.
There's nothing really sexy about it, except that it's him, and that we both know why we're here. He's watching TV. It feels almost domestic.
He looks over at me.
"Close the door, would you?" he says.
I do.
"Lock it behind you," he says.
I do.
I expect him to click the remote to turn the TV off, but he doesn't. The quiet jabber continues unabated.
I set my bag down. I kick off my sneakers.
He swings his legs around, gets off the bed, and approaches me.
I feel very short with him standing right in front of me.
(I'm barely over five feet. I always feel so big around Alex, partly because she's thin, but also because she's almost as short as I am. Mr. Robinson is at least a full head taller than I am.)
He looks down at me, staring at my face. I avoid his eyes. In the periphery of my vision, I try to divine what he's thinking. But I can't.
It crosses my mind that I could still be wrong about this. There could be an alternate explanation for why we're together, alone in this motel room, some major way I've misapprehended his invitation.
Then he runs his fingertips over the skin of my fleshy upper arm, raising goosebumps and hardening my nipples, and the possibility that we're not here for sex suddenly becomes very remote.
"Did anyone see you?" he says, quietly.
"No," I say.
"Good," he says.
His fingertips are making a few more circuits on my hateful upper arm, and his other hand is on my hip. My own hands dangle self-consciously at my sides.
"I'm glad you didn't knock," he says.
"Why?" I say.
"It isn't much of a clandestine encounter if you're attracting attention," he says, smiling.
He's close enough that I can smell his breath--somewhere between spearmint and coffee. I don't mind it.
I still haven't said or done anything.
His hands pause.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks.
I nod, still not meeting his eyes.
I want to tell him everything. About the fantasy in the mirror, about not being able to think about anything else at school, about why I've suddenly been so different around him.
All the stuff I told Alex in the car.
But I feel stuck. The gears in my brain are clashing.
Finally, I force something out.
"Could we...?"
"Yes?"
"Take a shower?"
He grins. "Of course. Anything you want."
There's a countertop with a sink and mirror on the back wall. Nearby, a thin door. There's a tiny bathroom in there with a toilet and a combination bathtub/shower.
Barely big enough for two.
I make him wait outside the bathroom while I get undressed and get in the shower. I leave my clothes in a neat, folded up pile on top of the toilet tank.
I stand under the spray--just a little too hot and hard for what I'm used to--letting the nervous sweat of the day rinse off my skin and run down the drain. It's a moment of blessed loneliness.
Then I call him in.
Through the curtain, I hear the door open. I sense his approach.
