Salon (poem in Two Parts)

Chapter 1 - Salon

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Th ey gape as I waddle
and Gawk as I quake.
Sure that I’ve made
some silly mistake.

It’s a salon.
Why are you here?
You have an appointment?
Oh sorry dear.

At the nail stations,
they twitter and snit,
concerned for their chairs.
Where will I sit?

I hear the one,
who does the waxing.
First the whispers,
then the laughing.

A few words discerned,
“… to wax her hair…
huge fat woman …
“… pointless affair..”

Insults levied
by waifs painting nails,
acetone huffers,
losing brain cells.

Little they know,
I’m a sex goddess.
Awash in suitors
and fawning plaudits.

On my way home,
I hit the drive thru,
Two burgers and fries,
Yes, please. Coke too.

Home and still mad,
I eat my big snack.
Post my review,
swear not to go back.

What will I do
with my two hours now?
Boyfriend’s at work
and no one’s around.

I open my purse,
get my vibrator,
crawl into bed,
and praise my creator.

Glutted, lolling,
and overindulged.
An idea comes!
Let it be promulged.

I call my boy,
ask for a present.
He said yes, but why?
“Salons are unpleasant.”

He spoiled me,
granted my wishes.
My will be done,
because I am delicious.

My value affirmed,
my esteem restored,
I fell asleep,
and peacefully snored.

----------------- 1 week later ------------------

My toy arrives,
on the forklift,
My indulgent boy,
drags in my gift.

An OB/Gyn
power table,
complete with stirrups,
strong and stable.

My boy moves it
to my spare room.
There, his queen,
he will deplume.

I give directions,
for his new task.
He always does,
whatever I ask.

He wets the towels,
and heats up the wax.
He preps my table,
with drinks and snacks.

I undress
now fully nude,
caress my belly,
peruse the food.

My new esthetician,
he too it seems,
will gape and gawk,
and objectify me.

But he’s hard as rock,
from watching me.
Now that’s my salon,
and this one is free.

I fake an attempt
to mount the table.
I’m so fat its hopeless,
I won’t be able.

But I know my boy,
he’s surely watching.
This is for him,
my fat rolls sloshing.

Predictably,
he forgets his duty.
Kneels behind me,
kissing my booty.

“Later my boy,
go get my stool.”
On command
he follows my rules.

Now I climb,
to sit on the table,
turning with effort,
my balance unstable.

I see my huge belly
Lurch with each shift.
A pity we don’t
still have that forklift.

My boy helps me,
maneuver my legs.
I cannot lift them,
over the footpegs.

Fatigued and feeble,
“I need to relax.
Give me the bag
of Cracker Jacks.”

A 12 serving bag,
if you believe labels.
I recline while eating,
on my inclined table.

He readies the stirrups,
as I feed my face.
I watch him heft
my legs into place.

The stirrups pry
My thighs open wide.
Cellulite falls
in piles to each side.

My pelvis turned up,
My vulva exposed,
Deep parts that usually
Hide in my rolls.

I reconsider
My plan to get waxed.
Maybe instead
I should have asked …

Where did he go?
Did he fucking leave?
“I can’t get down!
I can’t believe … ”

Ohhh… he’s down there,
eclipsed by my fat.
He kisses my loins,
to show where he’s at.

Treasures long buried
now free to explore.
His tongue ventures
farther than ever before.

I finish the bag
of Cracker Jacks,
Right as I reach
my first climax.

Engorged and lazy,
I let myself bask.
While he does things
I’m too shy to ask.

In languid,
lounging, ecstasy,
A feast of orgasms,
spoon-fed to me.

One last time
I cream and flutter,
“I cannot breathe.”
I say with a shudder.

He stops and rises,
Kissing my navel.
I ask him to fuck me,
Here in my cradle.
He said,
“Sweet girl, I am not able.
I already came.”

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For the illustrated version, find
"Homage to the Gluttoness", by Adip Ophile
on Amazon books