I counted all 72 not-quite stairs as I climbed them. The Appalachian woods around us sung with romance as my body sung about the chaffing going on in the yonder regions between my thighs. Damn adventurous dates. Ham leaned in slightly to speak. The smell of him was a toss up between Camel Menthols and chicken grease. Neither of which I had had the chance to enjoy in the last gruesome hour.
“So, you think I could ask you a question?”
“If it’s to go up some more of this hill you might as well call it a day, buddy.”
“Will you kiss me?”
“And we couldn’t have done that at the bottom?”
I saw the small smirk on his face of ‘oh isn’t that cute’ and knew my impertinence wasn’t hitting home. Ham had a lean runner’s body and no panting to speak of. I, on the other hand, carry around an ass the size of Vesuvius and needed a moment. I was unsure of the kind of man that would take a fat chick hiking into the woods: possibly sadistic. It was only our second date and I was dripping worse than the Wicked Witch of the West. And I wasn’t even getting any action for all the sweat pouring out. The only thing going down on me was a tick. And the man wanted a damn kiss. I glanced around at the plateau area we had reached, realized there was no buffet line picnic or pizza delivery man waiting and turned right back down the hill. I had long ago decided that if a man made me do that much work there had better be beer or food at the end of the journey. Ham had provided neither.
It was the same story every time. No man could figure out what to do with all my curves. There was Horace who decided to be terribly offended for me and reiterate loudly how very not fat I was when I said things like “excuse my ass” in a movie theatre or “there’s no way that dress is going to stretch over these birthing hips” to the clothing store clerk. There was James who got a hard on every time my jeans were just out of the wash and a little muffin top action appeared due to the tightening of freshly dried denim: which actually wasn’t such a bad thing until I realized he was literally trying to spill things on my jeans so I would have to wash them more often for his enjoyment. And then there was Peter who thought he could train the fat out of me by switching fattier items in my fridge with less fattier items one by one. As if a fat chick doesn’t notice when her Haagen Daas is replaced by some tofutti concoction. All I wanted was a date to bring oreos instead of flowers or pull out some chocolate sauce instead of body oil. Was it really too much to ask?
-Madeline Hudgel
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Fat Chick Love
- -Where Your Cupcakes Are Safe-
- An online literary journal with the goal to explore the lives of modern day fat chicks who own their fatness through well-composed, provocative, and humorous literature. The good, the bad, the fat. Questions, suggestions, and submissions can be sent to fatchicklove@yahoo.com!
Open Call For Submissions
We are looking for true, well-written, provocative, offensive, gritty, funny stories about the life of a modern fat chick. We are open to stories from skinny girls with fat chick mentalities or men who love fat chicks or hell, just about anything else related to the theme. Hints: Shorter is better (aim for around 1500 words max), but we will consider longer submissions if the work is quality. DON'T SEND sentimental, sweet, or sappy pieces. We are looking for pieces that push the edges of propriety – pieces that rough the writer and hopefully the reader up a little. Please send all queries and submissions to fatchicklove@yahoo.com.