Her arrival was the highlight of my evening. I had spent the entire day
thinking about her, automatically assuming that she would still possess the
beauty I envied for years. So, when the image of
control-top-pantyhose-gone-hog-wild under too-tight polyester dress waddled
through the door, it took a few minutes for my brain to register who she
was. She wasn't just fat. She was fat and sloppy. The drop dead features I
recalled had taken up residence within the folds of too many chins to count.
I felt a feeling of sudden empowerment tickling its way up my spine.
Fat bitch. Good!
Amazing. Twenty years of unbridled hatred dispelled in a matter of minutes,
as though her fat cells had sucked the venom from my veins. I remember
thinking it was time to finally forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones
and all that. Of course, it didn't hurt her case that I was in the best
shape ever, while she had obviously spent far too much time exercising her
biceps by repeatedly lifting a fork to her mouth.
Fat ass heffa! Wait til I tell Martin.
Damn, I could just shoot myself! I had downplayed the importance of the
event when he insisted he escort me. I accused him of wanting to see her, of
wanting her still, after all these years. I had laced up my bitch uniform,
(the skin-tight one with detachable claws) and strutted my
"don't-even-think-about-gettin'-none-tonite" attitude around the house for
an entire week. Finally, summarily beat down, he declared,
"Forget it then. Go by your damned self, Denise".
Now, I'd give my last sista card to have him bear witness to this mass of
puckered lard that used to be the ass he couldn't keep his eyes off of.
Fat nasty skank. Good!
The drive home gave me time to rehash the evening in my head. Mini-skirt
hiked up over shapely sleek thighs, I thought of every fat lady joke I'd
ever heard and cracked up. I was happily avenged. Maybe now, I could finally forget the look on Martin's face as he struggled to stop the orgasm I had
inconveniently walked in on. I could deafen the sound of her moans, thick
with the urgency of "i'm-almost-there-don't-you-dare-stop-i'm-finna-cum". I
could erase the picture of her slender bow-legs wrapped around his back,
hips thrashing wildly, humping my man like I had granted her special
permission to turn his ass out.
All these years, I had heard him whispering her name in my ear each time he
grunted and spewed his semon in me. I couldn't wait to tell him that
"Fine-Ass-Giselle" looked like she had swallowed the entire state of
Georgia.
Sloppy hoe.
I burned off a little of my new found exhuberance skipping upstairs to our
bedroom. Martin was asleep, eyebrows scrunched in the middle of his
forehead. I slid in bed and pressed myself into the vee of his torso.
Instinctively, he wrapped his arm around my still tiny waist. I rubbed my
ass against him until I could feel the lumpiness of his loins begin to
harden. For the first time in a long while, I wasn't angry at myself for
wanting him. He caught my rhythm easily as his length unfolded within me.
Twenty years of grudge-fucking dissipated in the explosion of my climax.
Good.
Yvonne
(c)1999
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(c) 1998