Kitty Fisher

Size-positivity, feminism, self-esteem crises, ginormous tits.


Posted by Kitty on October 20, 2008

She is beautiful. Heart-shaped face, flawless clear white skin, wide-set eyes of the clearest deep blue, jewel-like, fringed with black lashes; her mouth is wide, shapely, and always a slightly glossy red, quick to a knowing smile that reveals perfect white teeth.
Her hair is tousled, flawless highlights scattered in sweaty curls. Helmet head. She has just been skating for nearly two hours, and her shirt collar is damp, her hair sticking up unevenly, disarranged.
“You all are bad for me,” she says, sitting on the speaker by the mute jukebox, a little higher up than the rest of us, who are sitting at the table in the bar. “You all tell me these things, tell me how you love it when I booty-block you, tell me how gorgeous my ass is and how jealous you are of it. And it goes straight to my head.”
We are teammates, friends; we’ve known one another for years, and we know one another’s foibles, weaknesses, troubles, snatches of one another’s histories. There is no reason she should be able to hold us spellbound, but we each seem to have independently decided to let her. Yes, she is that pretty, and yes, she is that charming. She is funny, but we well know the edge she carries, always ready to cut. She has wounded me before, but then, I have most likely wounded her. We are after all teammates. We’ve been through a lot.
“So it catches me completely off guard, because of all this flattery,” she goes on, “when I go out to a bar, and the men come, and they say cruel things. Like last weekend. I had told this man that his story was boring. I was doing him a favor. His story was a train wreck; nobody was listening, and he was dragging us all off the rails with him. I was only being direct, as my people are.” She is from a neighboring city, where people are more direct of manner than in our city. “You know, I was doing him a favor. But he got that look on his face, that posture,” she tilted her head back and forth, moving her shoulders as battling roosters do when sizing one another up, “that ‘yo mamma’ kind of posture, and I thought oh shit, it’s on now. And I was ready, you know I can dish it out and I can take it. But then he says, So you think you’re so clever, in your stupid scarf that doesn’t match your shirt! Oh, oh! I said, Oh no! Oh no, it’s the fashion police! And this man, this man with hockey hair and acne like pennies in craters down his face, he stands up and he holds his hands out to either side of his hips,” and she gestures, holding a hand about six inches away from her own hips, “and he says Oh yeah? Oh yeah, and shakes his ass and his hands.” She gestures, mimicking the gesture.
She is a plus-size model. She wears a size S shirt, in our two-piece skating uniform, and a size XL skirt. The same size skirt I wear. But I wear an XXL shirt. I am top-heavy. She… She is bottom-heavy, to put it mildly. To put it explicitly, she has the kind of waist-hip ratio that reduces most human animals to mute salivation. It is primal. It is hypnotizing.
It is mockable.
She tries to be proud of it. She is beautiful. She is funny. She is dangerous. She is steel and velvet and has her face in magazines. She can work eyes, mouth, across a room and reduce men and women to puddles of goo.
“Oh yeah,” she says, bitterly, mocking this man mocking her, shaking as if holding a gigantic pair of hips. “My friend grabbed my arm, my shy girlfriend, and said That is it, we are not staying at this lame party, and all of you can fuck yourselves. And she took me to the car. And she drove me the whole way home, and I was crying so hard I couldn’t talk. My eyes swelled shut.”
She looks around at us, her audience.
“You girls are bad for me. You inflate my head, saying all these nice things about my ass. It makes it such a shock, every time, when this happens to me. But it happens all the time. That was the first in a set. Last night some local asshole was the second time. I’m waiting for the third one.”

Another bar patron comes over. She is middle-aged, partially toothless. She wants to use the jukebox. “Excuse me, ladies,” she says, cheerful, friendly. “Move your fat asses, can ya?”
The looks we all turn on her must have been frightening; she holds up her hands. “Skinny asses!” she says. My teammate hops down off the speaker, shooting me a rueful smile. The woman says to her, “Skinny asses!” but my gorgeous teammate just walks back to the bar, shaking her head.


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