Chapter 1 - section 1(Writer's note:
From here on out, I regret to forewarn you that the story does slides into the shallow, yet inescapable, depths of Predictability(TM). If that's okay with you, since you're only reading this story to satisfy voyeuristic interests you'd never dare admit in public, I'm sure... then enjoy the story, just like I probably would as well. Nevertheless, personally I find predictability boring as all fuck. I'm sorry about what's happened to this tale of half-assed, petty acts of revenge. There is no other way to explain this shift than to admit that I dragged this story out too long - the rubber band has begun to tear at this stage, and yet here I am, filling the lacerations with a narrative glue I may as well have bought from the local supermarket, and the package declaring, in bold letters, "Attention consumer: product does exactly what every other narrative-glue does, and nothing much more." Here I go anyway, attempting to wrap this story up by letting it take the shape of pure fantasy of such unlikely and unrealistic social events that, at best, I'd call anything from here on out: W I S H F U L F I L M E N T
Or there's the other option. If you'd prefer less self-laceration, leave positive comments below - you'll help me purchase an undisclosed amount of intellectual-sexual gratification with compliment-dollars. It's the only way I'll ever keep writing I *swear*. Ooooo. Oooooooo, how does one EVER go on? ...
All the best,
Thomas Pynchon's unregistered son
Part 1: http://fantasyfeeder.com/stories/view?id=107916
Part 2: http://fantasyfeeder.com/stories/view?id=138538
[18 September, Monday - 29 September, Friday]
For now, nothing else special happens. Except for the old ordinary things: still addicted to indulging in gluttony, losing herself to food-crazes, returning to herself as if waking from a frenzied dream - and not just in a cold sweat either, but spread-eagled on her sheets with her gut doming out at the ceiling.
On top of this, she's started going to more parties all on her lonesome. Jane and Tamara don't seem so flustered that she hasn't invited them along to these shindigs, and Ruby is probably too busy straddling Lucio to care about friendship anymore.
Part of her hopes she'll meet someone at one of these parties. Chances seem low, really. Even lower still is the possibility of meeting anyone okay with bigger girls. And yet she ends up getting carried away imagining little fantasized situations where some-one introduces her to some-boy, and a crucial moment of eye-contact is made, leading, in whatever labyrinthine way, into a face-to-face. It makes her heart fall flat and damp every time she rocks up to these parties only to find nobody makes honey-laden glances in her direction. But a few beers and maybe a wine later, her senses have been swooped away from all that care. And there we have it; by this point, she's seeking escapism.
After all, the real reason she's turning up to these parties - so much as she'll tell herself and others it's just for booze and fun times - it's actually to prove to herself she's still attractive.
Unfortunately, her clothes keep failing her in small ways, drawing all of those frowny-stares nobody wants directed at them. Might be because she loves all her party outfits far too much to simply see them replaced.
This night for example, up at a rich kid's parents' colonial mansion atop Surveyors Hill looking out over all the city lights, she's rocking her low-key heel boots, leather jeans, and a wool jacket over a beige turtleneck. It's these sorts of things she loves too dearly just to give up. Yes, all this could awkwardness could reasonably be avoided, if she'd just stop eating. But even now, as she laughs and jokes with some friends crossing the party floor, without even looking she picks up a few mini cakes and scoffs them, licking her fingertips daintily so that she doesn't attract bad attention. But pretty soon, she's been coerced into playing beer pong. Since she's a bad thrower, she ends up missing bags-worth of shots in proportion to her opponent, who shoots all her cups much to the chagrin of the audience who crowd around as she is forced to tip back nine cups of beer. She makes a woozy flourish by tipping the last cup, arching backwards as far as her neck will allow. With her elbow high and head tilted back, the front of her turtleneck gets pulled up, and her underbelly can be seen rounding out over her belt, lovehandles daring to peek out the sides. Once she takes a woozy faltered step sideways, it all goes jiggling. Weird thing is, she doesn't immediately pull her turtleneck back down because... why should she? So the rest of the night features the under-crescent of her stomach there to be seen if you'd only glance down and look.
Three or so parties later, she's grown used to those kinds of stares, whether positive or negative - needy, in fact. So needy that adrenaline has begun to shoot through her veins as if injected direct into her heart valves. You couldn't locate the threshold of this sudden character-change even if you beat her over the head with ten PhDs in psychoanalysis. The switch could have occurred at any time - at any one of those house parties - might have been a latent trigger, perhaps something always present which until now had operated silent and camouflaged underneath endless excuses, maybe even the result of cumulative humiliation... Whatever it was, it came out in full colour somewhere along the line, and now she's stuck with this newfound obsession for confrontation. In other words: for leaving the privacy of home in clothes too tight for her now thicker body, all for the meagre purpose of being noticed. Any notice is better than none at all.
[7 October, Saturday]
Which is probably why she does what she does on Monday morning.
Under the false pretense of "needing sunlight at the beach", she returns to the same spot at which she'd hung out with Molly and Vikky those few weeks ago. She gets this weird feeling of rebellion going past the table they'd sat at, and going down the very same walkway that strange couple had taken, following their trail, feeling all the while as if she were mimicking the obese girl.
And now here she is, in badly fitting clothes, strutting hard and purposeful as if to say "f@ck you, and you, and you too", at anyone who dares look. Which is a plentiful amount of people, it being a Saturday, midday, peak time for the population to be under the clear blue sky and blaring sun. And yes, believe it or not, after finding a spot at the high-end of the beach where the sand is soft and warm, she wraps her towel around herself, sheds her clothes down to her bikini and lets the towel drop. Thus stands Georgia in a power pose, hands on lovehandles, fingers indenting soft flesh, and her potbelly sticking out smooth as a baby's bum for the entire beachcrowd to see. She reaches behind her head, shimmying her bikini strap to get it comfortable around her neck, causing a bit of jiggle in her breasts - then walks down to the shore, hips see-sawing, sending each cheek into a wobble as they nod up and down. Stares cling to the back of her neck, some trying to look away, others lingering impolitely. Regardless, a fresh jolt of energy is sent through her with every step she takes, until her toes kick the water and cool waves come to wrap around her hot feet, up her shins, thighs, torso, and her entirety as she dives headfirst into a swell rising to meet her.
Hour and a half later finds her bulldozing through her second order of wedges, and yet a third on top of that on its way, because she's "still hungry, surely that's okay."
[10 October, Tuesday]
By Tuesday afternoon, without letting Georgia know, Ruby'd stocked the cabinets and refrigerator with more food than you'd ever need in an apartment of four girls. So far Jane had been the only one to mention anything, to which Ruby had made the excuse, 'I bought that much food so it all lasts longer.' To that, Jane had given Ruby's shirt (which was almost fully outgrown by her obvious belly) a suspicious glance. But that was the end of it.
Just now, Georgia comes home from work, and does what else but a beeline for the pantry. Finding more food than she'll ever need, she takes just as much, making sure nobody sees, and stashes it in her bedroom's mini fridge.
She binges until it hurts, kneading her stomach, sensually bloated with food, before falling into a late-night, sugar-hazy sleep in which yet another thin layer is added to her body.
12 chapters, created 5 years , updated 2 years
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