It wasn't her face (though it was a beautiful face, something you knew even before that first time you saw her take off her sunglasses) that so captivated me; and it wasn't her eyes, either (though, like I said they were incredible, so gentle and vulnerable and bitter and aloof all at the same time, so much in contrast to that cold look the sunglasses gave her), nor her hair (don't get me started), nor her body (amazing, screeching curves), nor the way she walked (she tried to walk in a businesslike way, but she couldn't completely shake some of that runway strut which seemed to say "I'm incredibly hot and you'll never have me, sorry, I can't help it, that's how it is"), nor her personality (unfathomable because of her aloofness, but somehow you knew it would be terrific if she ever let it out), no, it was none of those things.
It was the way she ate.
I'd serve her a "regular" (Cheeseburger, fries, chocolate shake) and she'd put down whatever she was reading and just stare at it for a minute, as if she wasn't sure she should eat it (though she obviously wanted to) or as if she couldn't decide where to begin. Then, finally, she would take a sip of the shake (for example), savoring it, with her eyes closed, shiver slightly and start to smile. Then she'd take a tentative bite of her cheeseburger, suppressing a moan of pleasure. Then she'd eat a little faster. She tried to be discreet, but she enjoyed her food more than anyone I'd ever seen. It was more like lovemaking than eating. When she was about halfway done she'd slow down, a bit regretfully. She would stop a few minutes later, about two thirds done. Then she'd sigh, pay her bill, leave a large tip, and leave. Occasionally she'd make a comment. "The fries were fantastic today," or "Fred, you're a genius."
I was in love with her, though in kind of an abstract way. Even though I saw her nearly every day, she was so remote that I couldn't quite believe she was there in person. I loved her the way a teenage girl might have a crush on a movie actor or rock star.
It's morning--well, not quite. 1:30pm. Close enough. Time to get up. The naggy little voice in my head starts up again. You'd better send that college application in already. You need to do something, not just hang around this two-bit town, getting fat on burgers and fries. Just how fat are you, anyway?
The voice is not right...I don't need to do anything. And I'm not fat. I've gained weight, of course...but so what? After all, I'm not a fashion model anymore--why diet like one?
Still, the voice is not exactly wrong, either. As I get out of the shower a few minutes later, trying not to look in the mirror, I stub my toe on the scale. Like it's punishing me for neglecting it. I sense the naggy voice starting up, and step on the scale to forestall it.
This backfires.
132 pounds! You were only going to go up to 130!
That was what I promised myself...I weighed 130 before I started modeling and dieting. I hadn't planned on going beyond that.
Of course I hadn't planned on Fred's restaurant either.
I'd heard about the place a long time before I ever went there...at first I thought it was just another health food place with absurd claims. Then I found out it wasn't exactly health food...in fact the food was as fattening as you could get anywhere else. It was just that they didn't use all the awful saturated fats that most fast-food places do, the stuff that's really bad for your arteries.
Plus, the food was good. It was the best anywhere, according to some.
I promised myself that when I quit modeling I'd check it out. When I finally did, it was even better than I expected. It was practically addictive! I'd only planned to eat there once or twice, but stayed in town for a week, then another.
Now I've been here a whole month.
At first I thought it didn't matter--even though I ate at Fred's a lot my stomach was so shrunken from years of dieting that I couldn't even finish a whole meal. I'd get so full I didn't even want to go back for two or three days. But for the last couple of weeks, I've been finishing easily. And I haven't missed a day in a long time. And last week I even started having dessert...that was the kicker. That all-you-can-eat dessert bar. Yesterday I tried the Tera Misu, and even though I was already "full" ended up having three helpings!
I sigh and look at myself in the mirror. The fat is distributing itself nicely, filling up the hollows and erasing the bony outlines that were there before...but around my hips and belly are tentative bulges that testify that I am no longer a model.
Briefly, I think about dieting again...no. That isn't
going to happen.
Face it, your addicted to food! You couldn't stop if you wanted to!
Okay, so don't diet. At least cut back. You're not so bad now, but you don't want to get huge, do you? Leave this town, anyway...there's too much temptation here.
Well, I will leave, as soon as I go to college.
I get myself a cup of coffee and go to work on the application form. I get down to the essay question: "Why do you want to attend Stevenson College?"
I feel like writing "Hey, it's something to do," but doubt that will fly. On the other hand, it might be a big deal getting a celebrity at their school. I could probably doodle on it in crayon and still get admitted.
But why do I want to go, anyway? Just because my parents went? I planned to go at eighteen, but then got sucked up into the modeling thing. It might have been a fine thing to do then, but now, at twenty-four, with more money than I know what to do with, does it make any sense?
I sit gloomily contemplating the form for several minutes, unable to write a thing.
Then my stomach rumbles a bit. Chocolate milkshake. Fries, those really good ones that Fred makes, so light and crisp and fattening! and delicious...
Oh no you don't. You've got to stop going to that place so much.
"I know...but after I leave town..."
Then suddenly I noticed something on the bottom of the application form.
"Applications must be postmarked by November 12th to be considered."
It was the twenty-fifth.
Pie...maybe some cherry pie...I haven't even tried that yet.
"Maybe I'll go to college next year," I said. It sounded like a wonderful idea.
Oh come on! What are you going to do in the meantime? Hang around here getting even fatter?
But I have to have a cheeseburger...I can't eat fries and a shake and a burger and pie...
No, no. I won't get fatter...Maybe I'll go to Paris, take some private art lessons. I've always wanted to do that.
I go Fred's and start eating and immediately feel much happier.
I thought you said you weren't going to get fatter.
Well, maybe a little fatter...
Ever so gradually, she came out of her shell a bit. She always came into the restaurant about 3pm, when hardly anyone else was there (which is why I served her myself--I usually ran the place without a waitress between 2 and 5). One day, when the place was empty except for the two of us, she said:
"This food is so good...I can't believe it's actually healthy."
"It isn't really healthy, just not as bad as most restaurants," I said. I told her more about my cooking techniques, my avoidance of saturated fats, my use of goat's milk, all my other precautions.
"Of course," I concluded "It's still very fattening."
"Yeah, I've noticed," she said with a wry smile.
"Oh, but I didn't mean you had anything to worry about...you're very slim."
"Not nearly as slim as I was before I started eating here."
"Really? I can't tell."
"Yeah, well, I sure can."
I take my portfolio to Fred's the next day. I don't really know him, but I don't know anyone else in town either, and I need a reality check.
Unfortunately the place is busy...I don't get a chance to talk to him. Anyway, I pretty much forget about it when I start on the BBQ ribs. They are heavenly. Even after a full order of them with a milkshake, I want more. Too embarrassed to eat that much in public, I order some to take home.
I hurry home and resume eating...it's wonderful. One thing about eating is it make the naggy voice shut up.
There's a knock on the door...it's Fred.
"You forgot this," he says, handing me my portfolio.
"Oh, thank you!" I say "Actually, I wanted to show this to you."
"To me? Why?"
"You said you couldn't tell that I'd gained weight. Come in. Look here..." I show him a picture from the Sport's Illustrated shoot I did. "That was only three months ago. Wasn't I a lot thinner?"
"I guess. It's hard to tell, the way you're dressed now. Why don't you put on a bathing suit?"
Oops. It's a reasonable question, given the question I asked him, but the idea of modeling a bathing suit for a strange man in my apartment seems a little scary.
"Well..." I say, not knowing what to say. He picks it up quickly.
"I can understand why you might be shy," he said "So if you don't want to..."
"Oh, what the hell," I say. After all, I've worn less before huge audiences of fashion Nazis...what was the big deal? He's a nice guy, I feel pretty sure he won't get weird on me. I go to the bedroom and change.
"Okay, yes, you have gained weight," he admits when I come out. "But you look great. You look better, in my opinion."
"Oh, come on. I don't look better."
"Well, I'm a bad person to ask. I prefer women who are on the larger side."
"Really? One of the mythical 'FAs'?"
"Yep. If you were my girlfriend, I'd encourage you to gain a few pounds."
"God." I laugh. "The way you cook? If I was your girlfriend I'd be huge!"
"Maybe so," he says with a smile.
She was really driving me nuts. It was bad enough before, but after I'd seen her in a bikini, seen her little swollen belly stick out pugnaciously, a portent of the pot-belly I suspected was to come, seen those cute little bulges that formed at the edges of her suit, seeing her beautiful body that seemed primed to expand quite lusciously, I really couldn't get her off my mind. She would make a gorgeous fat girl.
And her capacity was increasing. She'd started coming in earlier. She'd become fond of the Cajun shrimp appetizer, which she'd follow with maybe a burger or ribs, French fries or onion rings, and the inevitable milkshake...and then she'd come back a few hours and hit the dessert bar. It was funny watching her eat dessert. She had fairly dainty portions...no one would have thought her a big eater. But she'd make so many trips!
There was one odd thing...every once and a while, she'd get a guilty look on her face, and stop eating for a bit. Occasionally a day or two would go by with no sign of her, or she'd leave in the middle of a meal, well before she was full. But usually when she did either of these things she'd eat more than usual the next time she came in.
145! You fat pig! What's the matter with you? Are you just going to hang out in this town, watching yourself get fatter and fatter?
It's starting to look like that's what I'm going to do. I bought a plane ticket to Paris, but at the last minute I didn't go. I tried to stop eating so much a few times, but all that did was remind me how much I loved eating.
I'm still not fat, but there's no kidding myself...I'm getting a belly. It sticks out whatever I do. I feel ashamed of it, but proud of it at the same time...I feel like I'm thumbing my nose at the fashion industry, all those awful models and agents and fashion editors and toadies and parasites that I hate. And Fred sure likes it. I've caught him checking it out a few times.
But the naggy voice won't stop. It's even getting worse.
Still, I haven't come up with anything else I'd rather do. And besides, the belly voice isn't slacking any either.
I like this town. I'm getting to know a few people. It's beautiful. I have this great place on the beach. I can swim, go for walks, read, take art lessons from the weird old lady genius who lived a few doors down...
And I can eat. Fred's food is amazing. I'd thought I'd be tired of it by now, but it's getting even better.
When I saw my doctor last week he scolded me about my weight.
"Outside of that, you're quite healthy," he said, grudgingly. "Your cholesterol actually lower than it was. And your blood pressure is better than it was. If you just lose some weight, you'll be in perfect health."
"What if I gain weight?" I asked.
"Well, you really shouldn't...why would you?"
"Because I eat a lot."
"Well. I can recommend a diet..."
"Oh please. I know more about diets than almost anybody. I dieted constantly for six years. You don't need to tell me about diets."
Well, somebody does.
So Julia came in one day looking a bit sad. When I
brought her the main course (after she'd but away some Cajun popcorn and half a
milkshake) I couldn't help but comment.
"Are you okay?" I asked her.
"Oh, yes," she said, with a sigh. "I mean...I'm okay, but sometimes..."
"Yes?"
She looked around. We were alone.
"I feel bad about how fat I'm getting."
She didn't need to put on a bathing suit for me to tell. She now had a modest but quite definite pot-belly, bigger breasts, bigger hips, bigger butt, a hint of a a double chin...you still wouldn't call her fat, but she was certainly on the chubby side.
"Oh, that's too bad," I said. "Have you considered eating less?"
"Yes. But I can't diet now...I have no resolve. The thing is, when I was modeling I could diet because I had to, to keep my job. Now there's no reason to. And I love eating..."
"But if your weight is making you depressed, it seems to me that's a reason to diet."
"Yes, but the thing is...I don't think it should make me depressed...I really don't need to keep my weight down, except to adhere slavishly to a standard of beauty I really don't believe in."
"Oh. Well, then you should just decide to get fat."
"Well...I suppose I have, sort of..."
"No you haven't. You haven't accepted that you're going to get fat. So you keep worrying about it."
"Yeah, but I don't know if I want to get fat..."
"Well, you've got to decide something. Otherwise you'll just feel powerless and depressed. And since about all you have decided is that you don't want to diet, you might as well go all the way and decide to get fat. You'll love that."
"I will?" She was dubious.
"Sure. You'll eat all you want, with no guilt. And as you gain, your appetite will improve even more. You'll enjoy eating more than ever."
Her eyes lit up. She hadn't considered that before.
"But...how do I accept that I'm going to get fat?"
"You've just got to make a commitment. Want me to help?"
"Uh...I guess. Sure."
"Okay. Promise me you're going to gain fifty pounds."
"Fifty pounds! Well, that would be a commitment all right. But I'm not ready for that."
"That's fine. Take all the time you want. But you're not eating here again until you commit."
"What!"
"You said you wanted my help. That's how I'm helping."
"But...wait a minute...you can't..."
"Sure I can."
Okay, great, time to move on. You don't want to gain any fifty pounds.
I check the scale...I'm up to 149. Fifty pounds would put me right on the brink of 200...fat by anyone's definition. I certainly don't want to gain that much.
Why not?
I get a sudden vision of all the food I'd get to eat if I decided to gain that much...so much food...so much rapturous eating and eating...
Still, fifty pounds is a lot...
Julia came in the next day before I got there and tried to order some food but I'd given instructions...she didn't get served.
"What's to keep me from cheating?" she asked when I arrived. "What if I promise to gain, then renege?"
"Then you can never eat here again. Unless you do gain the weight."
She looked really exasperated.
"What gives you the right--" she sputtered.
"You did. You asked me to help."
"Well...what if I gain ten pounds and then plateau or something?"
"No good. You have to gain at least...I don't know. A pound a month."
"But...that's no fair."
"Okay, if it's a genuine plateau. If you eat here--and eat well--for a month, and don't gain, I'll let you slide. But that won't happen."
She looked at me, a bit peevishly.
"I suppose I should thank you," she said. "You're really making me think, here."
"Good."
Satisfied? You're fat enough, now let's split this town.
I fly to Paris, get an apartment, take art lessons...and eat.
The food is really good...pastry shops on every corner, separated by cafés and terrific restaurants. They help me cope with being away from Fred's. And the naggy voice goes away, and Paris is fun, albeit embarrassing on the couple of occasions where I bump into someone from the industry.
After a week in Paris I've gained four pounds. Somehow I thought Fred's was the problem. But it's not. It's me.
The naggy voice starts up once more.
I was quite surprised when Julia showed up. I'd heard she'd gone to Paris.
"Okay," she said. "you win. Make me fat."
"You're willing to gain fifty pounds?"
"Well, I already gained four...oh what the hell, why not. I promise to gain fifty pounds."
She smiled, as if in awe of her own audaciousness.
"'At least fifty pounds.'"
"Okay, I promise to gain at least fifty pounds..." her smile grew broader.
When I served her, she hesitated. I looked at her. "Well," she said "Here goes nothing..." She started eating and immediately looked happy again. After a while, then looked up at me.
"I'm going to do it," she said, excitedly "I'm really doing it! I'm going to get fat...this is so cool..."
"What made up your mind?"
"Oh, I was gaining weight anyway...I figured if I'm going to get fat, it might as well be on your food."
She ate more than I'd ever seen her eat before.
I try to hear the naggy voice again...I can hear it if I want to, but it's quite dispirited. Oh go ahead! Turn into a behemoth! See if I care! The belly voice, on the other hand, is quite robust. Banana cream pie...pizza...fried chicken...more...more...more...oh, I'm full now...I can't wait to get fatter so I can eat even more...
Weighing her was so much fun...once a month she came to the back of the restaurant, stripped down to her underwear for me and stepped on the scale. Of course, it was completely unnecessary...it was quite obvious that she was gaining more than a pound a month. But we went through the ritual anyway. She always had me guess her weight before I looked at the scale.
"Hmmm," I told her at the start of the fourth month. "Yes, your belly is rounder...it doesn't form a mound in the middle so much--it's more like a globe. And your breasts...I think you need a new bra! They're about to spill out. And your thighs...oh my...you must weigh a good 180."
"183," she said, proudly, "and I can tell I'm getting fat...guys don't pay me much attention anymore."
"Really? Is that tough?"
"Sort of...but I like it, too. I finally feel like a normal person instead of a media icon. Maybe I could even have a boyfriend."
"You couldn't before?"
"No...I don't know if it was me or them, but I could never trust them...they were dating a supermodel, not me. They didn't really care about me, just the admiration I inspired in others. At least, that's what it seemed like."
"Well, if you want a boyfriend, I'd be happy to fill out an application."
"I don't know, I'd get really fat if you were my boyfriend."
"So?" I said, kissing her gently on the neck. "You're going to get really fat anyway."
"Uh..." she pushed me away "Thanks, but I'm not quite ready just yet...maybe when I've gained the fifty pounds..."
"Why?"
"Because I'm having too much fun just gaining weight now...I don't want things to get complicated. Like if things didn't work out between us, and I had to stop eating here or something."
"I see. Well, I guess that's okay."
My neck is practically buzzing from that kiss...why did I turn him down, exactly? Well, I can always change my mind, I guess, besides, I'm hungry...fried mozzarella...chocolate rum milkshake...
I eat happily...my appetite is so good these days...soon I've put away the fried mozzarella, the milkshake, the steak, the tempura...getting full...
Fred shows up. "Ready for dessert?" he asks. He holds out an odd looking pastry that smells very enticing.
"I don't know. I'm getting full. Maybe I'll come back later for dessert."
"Oh, no, have it now while it's freshly baked. I made it special for you. At least try one bite..."
An explosion of flavor. It's unbelievable. It actually brings a tear to my eye. It doesn't even occur to me not to keep eating it. The belly voice takes over. I even forget how full I am until I finish and suddenly notice that my belly is taut as a drum.
"What is that?" I ask.
"L'éclair Fredoise." he said "now that you've given me an incentive to get you to gain the rest of that weight soon, I've taken the gloves off."
"You were sandbagging? You can actually cook better than you have been?"
"Yup."
For a moment I thought I'd screwed up. She looked kind of upset. She looked around...other people were in the restaurant, looking at us. We went to the back room for some privacy.
"So..." she, looking a bit worried "after I gain the fifty pounds, what then? Will you still cook like this?"
"Uh...if you want."
"Oh, good!" she said with a big smile. She came closer to me, rubbing her belly against me (it just so happened to be right at crotch level and felt fantastic). She kissed me.
"I thought you wanted to wait," I said.
"I can't anymore," she said. I closed the door to the storeroom and we made love right there. I took her home and we made love again, more slowly and sweetly.
"Wow, you're good in bed, too," she said "I'm so lucky..."
"I am too. By the way, do you want another éclair?"
"One of those special ones? Are you kidding? Of course!"
When he comes back with a dozen of those fantastic éclairs, I can't believe it. It's a bit scary. I try to hear the naggy voice, but it doesn't have much to say.
You're going to get SO fat!
And then the belly voice pipes up.
Eclairs! Eclairs! Yes, get fat! That's a GOOD thing!
Julia looked at the éclairs for a moment, then finally took a bite.
"Oh, I agree!" she said "It is a good thing!"
"Agree? Who are you agreeing with?" I asked.
But she was too absorbed in eating to answer. I lay in bed behind her and carressed her swollen belly and thought about how big it was going to get. She managed to stop eating long enough to say: "Oh my...is that what I think it is?"
"Yes."
"That's a tough one...what do I do? Eat, or make love?"
"Why not do both at once?"
She liked the idea very much.