PART I
Bria moved slowly across the bed toward her lover's hand as he continually inched back. He forced her to crawl to him. Her aching for him was more than penetrable. It seared her soul.
"Why do you do this to me?" she asked in a breathy staccato-like voice. Matt, looking at her mouth, wet and pouty before him, forced a sudden lunge startling her. He deliberately, but gently took hold of that plump lip between his very white teeth. He began to slowly nibble and she instantly felt her sex catch a flame from the chaotic burst of fervid heat. Just like the humid and sticky Philadelphia heat in late August that she was actually experiencing. Not that moment with Matt, the handsome lanky swimmer. His lip biting often ran through her head at moments that she least expected.
She was furious that she had no control over that relationship. She seldom had control in any of her relationships for that matter. But Matt was different. His late night visits up West River Driver and over the Falls Bridge up winding roads to her house in Germantown were times she anticipated with great yearning. She would often leave the door unlocked for him so he would just slip into bed beside her. She relished the thrill of being awakened by her paramour, feeling his long slender legs wrap themselves around her thick thighs as his manhood greeted her joyously. She hated these thoughts, but they came so randomly, and her desperation was manifesting itself again with longing for the touch of a man. That special someone to remind her that she was indeed a human and in great need of affection. She accepted Matt's inconsistent bidding on her because she was needy, and she didn't want to cause trouble. Therefore, she pushed her true feelings aside and chose to have it his way. She thought it was much easier to accept these sub-standard lovers, for it was better to have some attention rather than none at all. At least that is how she rationalized it. She tried to play it brave. Unfortunately, it was all such a horrible front.
The truth was she was hypersensitive, and to pretend to be emboldened was much easier to pull off. And although some people thought that she had some nerve in being picky, she felt that it was justified considering all that she had been through. She always asked herself why sensitive people are the pickiest people. She thought that it was quite peculiar. Considering that she would not by any means be thought of as a standard American beauty. She was just a Philly girl. A smart girl, but a fat girl. And one that had been through such a god-awful divorce that she knew there was an entire population of men she would never date again. In her quest for new found glory, she tried to immerse herself in pop-cultural indulgences such as café mochas, designer shoes, handbags, and fragrances since she couldn't quite fit into clothes she longed to be in. She was jealous of the pale, yet fashionable mannequins that stood chicly in the shops on South Street. She passed those stores by with great contempt, and stopped in Soho, the gift shop. Here she could get that pink wig she promised herself she would wear to the Diabolique fetish ball this November if she got the nerve.
She knew that if she only tried a bit to mingle in the scene, she would find someone again. She simply had to, but was her pickiness that kept her at bay. What was she supposed to do? Bria was 32, and without any prospects whatsoever. Although she had recently lost some weight, she was still a "biggun," as her ex would tease. She learned to get around this by being thankful she never grew a second or third chin, and that her breasts were prominent enough to give an illusion of a waistline. One that had gone from a 29 to god knows what. She had always been a curvy girl, but had been burgeoning on the edge of morbid obesity in all her sorrow. As she moved about in Soho, looking for silver rings that would style rather nicely on her chubby soft fingers, she tells people who aren't really that close to her, "excuse me" so that she has enough room to fit down the narrow path leading to the glass case that houses all the steal-worthy items.
"I'll take that one," she tells the petite woman who looks at her suspiciously. Bria, feeling paranoid as usual, is not sure she is getting this look from the woman because she is black, or if it's because she is fat. It makes her uneasy as she watches the rings in the display case. The clerk reaches for a snake-like ring that has a black jewel for an eye instead of the ring Bria points out. "No, not that one," she says, "that one. Yeah. That's it."
The clerk walked the ring to the front counter. There, Bria sees a darling little velvet and rhinestones collar with the word "PRINCESS," in the center.
"I'll take that too. Plus the pink wig," she tells another woman behind the cash register, and then reaches for her credit card. She also takes out her license because she knows the clerk, who has seen her in here before, is going to ask her for her identification. Bria hands her the card only, and in what sounded to Bria like a Southeast Asian accent, the clerk said, "ID." She didn't say please, which irritated Bria. However she obediently handed her license over to the woman, and waited as she charged her card.
"Thank you," Bria said as he took her receipt and belongings and headed back to her car. She was lucky to find a spot on 4th Street between South and Bainbridge, which is practically a miracle in the late afternoon. Now she would go back home, and sink into the world she had grown to become comfortably wrapped up in the middle of: her Internet world.
PART II
Bria kicked off her open-toed sandals as she entered her living room, and dropped her bags on the floor. Sweat slithered down the sides of her face as she tried to catch her breath from walking the 14 steps to her front door. Her happenings were routine, and teetering on the edge of OCD behavior. In fact, it was. She described things in her childhood that her former therapist attributed to a posttraumatic stressful event. This supposedly explained her rush to sex, specifically her oral fixation that drew her to long thick shafts that contrasted against her full greedy mouth.
She settled in her messy dressing room that housed her PC, Vanity, and a shit load of clothes. Most she could no longer wear, but she held on to them anyway. It was if her fat was unrelenting, and it was a continuous battle for her. She had a bizarre self-image. She berated herself, but only wore the finest foundation and lipstick MAC could offer. Her mother always told her that she had the most beautiful face. So she believed that one positive message. Everything else managed to slip through the cracks. She settled in her swivel armchair, lit a joint, and looked at the pictures on her wall and bookshelf that represented a happier time in her life. It was a time when she was energetic and involved. Now she had become an isolationist although she would never admit that fact. In her cyber world, she was safe, and here she was a princess, and to some, a real beauty.
Initially she couldn't believe the attention that she got from the men online. There were older wealthy men from the Main Line who spoke of unhappy marriages and how they needed a "kitten to spoil." There were the braggadocio types who claimed to be at every happening party that Paper-Street held, and other popular weekly drink fests were only the beautiful Philadelphians played. There were groups and chat rooms for every quirk, perk, or syndrome one can imagine. There were men who called themselves FAs or "Fat Admirers" who wanted to make her fatter. She immediately cast them aside, and put them in the I-might-be-crazy-but-you're-a-freaking-weirdo file. Her most peculiar admirers she thought were the handsome young white men who couldn't get enough of her on web cam, or photos of her breasts and backside. She was the reluctant whore, but enjoyed what felt like a sense of control over the rosy-cheeked boys who dated women much younger, and whose bodies were more taut and supple. Yet the young men unabashedly chased her. She knew that they weren't serious, but it was fun. She teased the 19 and 20-year-old online fans, and became more open to actually meeting 21 through 29 year olds, she had never actually met anyone in person. Now it was about time she changed that. It was perfect that she stumbled into Dustin. He was 26, enigmatic, and a wanna-be rock star from Center City Philadelphia.
"Is that really you on your web page?" he asked in random instant message.
"Who r u?" she replied while feeling insulted he didn't believe it was her.
"Nobody," he responded. "But you're gorgeous. What's your name? How old are you, and when can I "cum" over?! Lol"
She laughed back at his banter because it was simply ridiculous that he would suggest something like that without even knowing her name.
"What's your name?" she asked. "I am Bria."
"Wow, a lovely name for a lovely girl. I am Dustin, and I am 26."
"Oh, um thank you."
"Why oh? How old are you?"
She hesitated but began to type. "I'm 32"
"Ooooh an older woman, how nice. You certainly don't look 32. I mean, don't you like younger men?"
