Fix It in Post

Chapter 1 - Fix it in post

The robotic voice of my agent comes out of the phone and blasts my eardrums: "How much longer until you get here? You're late!"
I sigh as I finish the last drop of protein shake. I toss the bottle into my gym bag before whistling to get the driver's attention.
"Don't worry," he informs me, "we'll be there shortly."
He better hope so. Why did Gula, the multimillion-dollar lingerie company, assign me a driver if he's still showing up late outside my apartment?
"Five minutes and I'll be there," I tell Mark, still on the phone; I’m not feeling comfortable blaming others for my lateness. I make sure not to sweat, having a photoshoot with overly shiny skin would land me in trouble.
When the car stops, I don't even bother greeting the driver. I bolt out of the vehicle, bag in hand, and enter the studio.
Mark claps, sarcastic as always; his wasp waist is surrounded by a thin belt. It’s so small he could have stolen it from a doll set.
He freezes me with his gaze: "The dressing room is on the right, put on the boxers right away, we're running late."
I nod before obeying. In the dressing room, there's a hanger with only one pair of underwear hanging from it. They're peach-pink, classic. I approach them, a bit confused.
Gula always keeps an eye on trends, which is why it has practically monopolised high-fashion lingerie. I'm surprised by the choice of a colour that was trendy years ago and such a traditional model... Did they offer me $500,000 just to pose in a pair of boxers? They really have money to burn.
I grab them and stand in front of the mirror. I flex my abs and biceps, looking at myself with confidence. Gula surely has money to burn, but who wouldn't want to spend it on me?
I take off my pants and briefs before grabbing the pink boxers. They're very soft; I think it's a new material created by Gula itself. When Mark called me about this job opportunity, he couldn't hide his excitement; taking 10% of my earnings, he pocketed a nice sum already.
After fashion week, several studios and fashion brands contacted me. I gained thousands of followers in just a few days. After years and years of effort, callbacks, dietary regimes, and gym sessions, my career is finally taking off. And I’m only 21! I’m glad I dropped out of college.
As I slide my second leg into the boxer's hole and pull them up to my hips, I feel an itching sensation on my buttocks. I scratch with my hand to realise that this underwear has an extremely long label; I think it's because it's made of that new material, and they've printed a detailed report on how healthy and "green" it is. I shrug and head towards the set.
The photographer is tapping her foot impatiently as I make my way to the center of the room. This dynamic reminds me of the first photoshoots I did for independent designers, just under two years ago. Minimalistic, great lighting, few people on set.
I follow the photographer's directions; she's a woman with a huge septum ring and her hair pulled up in a horrible chignon, while Mike's gaze on my body makes me a bit uncomfortable. Not that he sees my flesh or beauty when he looks in my direction: when his eyes meet my muscles, he only sees a money-making machine.
Mark starts rubbing his hands together as I feel a sharp pain in my stomach. Maybe I'm pushing my abs too much. Instinctively, I touch them, but I can't find them. I feel soft.
My panicked eyes look at the photographer, who smiles at me and repeats the next pose I have to do. Mark, next to her, seems relaxed. There are no mirrors in this room, but something feels off. The underwear seems to be getting tighter with every breath.
"Are you okay?" the photographer asks me, seeing me a bit stuck.
I nod, clinging to the few shreds of professionalism left in me. I move a curl that was covering my forehead and raise my arms above my head, confidently observing the camera.
A laugh escapes Mark’s mouth. I feel another pang in my stomach.
Finally, I muster the courage to lower my gaze. I find myself with a pillow of fat on my abdomen, not allowing me even a glimpse of the boxers.
I scream.
"We can stop here if you want," Mark informs me, "but then the $300k we’d get at the end of the campaign will be cancelled."
I've already spent most of my 180K on the new apartment, the jacuzzi, the new Versace pieces. Which won't fit me for a while, I think, as I jiggle my belly. It's growing every second.
I have to take off the boxers. I look at my agent, my eyes producing bitter tears: "Mark, what's happening?"
He assumes a surprised expression: "Didn't you read the contract?"
"Of course! There was nothing written about anything like this happening," I reply, stuttering and patting my face, I slap myself just to make sure that this is really happening. And the sound my big cheeks make when I touch them… feels very real.
I'm having an allergic reaction; it's the only explanation. The photographer keeps taking pictures of me, whispering to Mark, "Don’t worry about his expressions… we'll fix it in post."
"I'm not talking about the contract you signed, silly!" my agent continues. "The boxers you're wearing had an attached contract, didn't you read that?"
My heart sinks and falls on the floor. Or it would, if my body didn't take up a metre in every direction. The boxers are cutting off my circulation; I feel my flabby legs pressing to break the elastic. My once firm and statuesque buttocks are now two deflated, cellulite-covered balloons the size of a sofa. With all this meat, I feel like I’m wearing a butcher shop on the lower half of my body.
"Gula is drawing inspiration from the fat liberation movement for the next season," adds the photographer, snapping pictures of my ever-expanding body, "this material is capable of turning even the fittest of models into a plus-size legend." Sweat now covers my face; my hair sticks to my forehead.
"But once I take off the underwear, I'll go back to normal, right?" I ask, feeling my voice interrupted by longer and more laboured breaths.
Mark and the photographer look at each other before turning to me. "We'll find out soon."
And finally, the boxers give in, tearing apart and falling to the ground. I cover my private parts before realising I can't find them. They're buried in fat.
I no longer feel myself getting fatter, but I don't feel myself getting smaller either. Mark takes a photograph of me and approaches.
"Trust me, I thought I made the right choice," he says, handing me his phone. A mass of rolls and folds expands on the display; it doesn't even look human. My heart stops beating: that’s me. I need to lie down. I let myself fall to the ground, panicked.
"The plus-size model is the future," he concludes, "according to the contract, you were only supposed to gain about fifty pounds, but there was a very small chance you'd have an allergic reaction... but don't worry, the maximum was 1000 pounds... you're a bit less for me."
"Like?"
In a whisper, he tells me, "... 900 pounds?"
I burst into tears even more than before. Everywhere I turn, everywhere I touch, I feel only soft, weak fat. I see stretch marks and cellulite everywhere, on my fingers, on my thighs.
Seeing that his comments aren't helping me feel better, Mark shrugs and, somewhat disgusted, puts a hand on my shoulder, which was once defined and sharp but is now buried under layers of fat.
My agent looks me in the eyes, and I understand that he doesn't want to work with me anymore; he didn't think this weight gain would be so drastic. Not on my face, now undefined due to two huge cheeks and a triple chin that limits my movements, nor on my body, where the T silhouette has become a Q, where the leg is a massive fupa larger and thicker than my dick was until twenty minutes ago.
Disheartened, Mark walks away and concludes, "Worst-case scenario, there's always OnlyFans. The obese category sells well, I've heard."
I collapse into uncontrollable sobs, realising that my once-promising career has been shattered in an instant, and I am left as nothing but a shadow of my former self, engulfed by layers of fat.