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Starving Makes It Fat

Starving Makes It Fat

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Published by Sleepin'World

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Published by: Sleepin'World on Nov 10, 2008
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06/16/2009

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Starving Makes It Fat
"Anger as soon as fed is dead - 'Tis starving makes it fat." 
- Emily Dickinson Matthew stepped onto the scales. Trish, the coordinator, read out his weight. He'dlost three pounds, bringing him to his target weight. He got the loudest cheer of thenight. He smiled modestly. Under cover of writing down his achievement on hisWeight Warriors pocket card, he looked the women over.He'd already had four of them: Angie, Claire, Jane and Sonya. He could have hadTrish too, but he never did coordinators. They were inclined to be vengeful and moreintelligent than their clients. If he got Sharon in the sack tonight, he wouldn't have tocome back next week. He glanced at her. She blushed. He looked around the room.Angie simpered, Claire grinned, Jane looked down, and Sonya refused to catch hiseye. A good haul. Of course, they were oblivious to their collective nature, eachthought herself the only recipient of his attentions - these women didn't boast aboutsex. He could never have got away with it if they did. Sometimes, when he looked at women, he saw them composed of food. Claire,the fast food queen, with vanilla milkshake flesh-tones, and hair the stringy,bleached texture of reconstituted French fries. Jane: cocoa-colored skin and candypink lips. Sonya - a dairy maid with dimpled hands like cheese fingers, and acres of creamy curves. He timed his exit so Sharon was shoulder to shoulder with him. More accurately,her shoulder - mottled but solid, like prime beef sausage - brushed his elbow. Shewas nearly as wide as she was tall, and her blonde moustache showed how inefficientfacial bleach could be. Matthew wished she waxed. Smooth skin was much easier totransmute in his imagination, especially with his eyes closed.'May I offer you a lift home?' He spoke gently, both to avoid startling her if shewas skittish, and to ensure the other women didn't overhear.Tonight Sharon would be his J-Lo. He hoped she wasn't a grunter. It was hard toimagine Jennifer's sultry tones and lavish love-gifts of Rolex and iMac, if the womanbeneath him was honking and squealing. He hoped she wasn't a virgin either. Hehated the tedium of it, and deflowering was always followed by much emotional guff.He began to hum under his breath, 'I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky, I shouldbe so lucky in love.' Sharon giggled.
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Five hours later, tired and smelling of the magnolia shampoo that was all he couldfind in Sharon's bathroom, he escaped. It was easy to get away.'Sharon, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me. You know I'm gettingmarried soon? It's why I'm at Weight Warriors - to lose weight before the wedding. I just couldn't resist you, but please ... can we pretend it was just a wonderful dream?I love my fiancèe and although she could never match up to you physically... well,she's blind, and so ....' No fat woman ever impeded his departure once he mentioned
 
the sightless bride-to-be. He sat in the car and dictated a long message to Liz's mailbox. Now it was over toher. Tonight's Fat Fighters was his last meeting in Stroud. He would be home with herin three hours. They'd have two weeks together before it was her turn to come uphere. He swung the Volvo around Stroud's rain-slick streets. Overweight womenappreciated a big safe car. The seduction started there, in a seat that didn't crampthem, riding a suspension that didn't groan under their bulk, with space to relax andappreciate how Matthew attended to them. The car was his introduction to theirbedrooms - and it worked every time. Lazily he calculated the takings. Twenty women in five weeks. Monday night:Weight Warriors - six women. Tuesday night: Lighter Ladies - six women.Wednesday: Yoga for Weight loss - only three women bedded there, a disappointingscore. Thursday's Fat Fighters - five women, all of them coy and respectable. Hisquota was met; twenty bed-post notches meant he could go home to Liz and relaxfor a while. He grinned to imagine how much money they would make from theselovelorn fatties, then scowled, remembering the strenuous evening with Sharon.Catching sight of his forehead in the rear view mirror, he relaxed it immediately.Women fell for his boyish, tousle-haired sensuality. He couldn't afford frown lines.For a while now he'd been wondering how they would make their money when hecouldn't do this any more. Nobody stayed young and charming forever. He found itever more wearisome to superimpose imaginary women on the chunky bodies heseduced. He'd never failed yet. But one day, morbid obesity would defeat him - thetickle of a walrus moustache would not translate in his mind to the silky tresses of avisionary inamorata and he would wilt ... forever.
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Liz said not to worry. She said she was thinking about what scam to operatewhen he ceased to conquer weight-challenged women. He should feel reassured, buthe didn't. Suppose Liz decided he was expendable?He pushed the thought back into the mental crevice from which it had crawledand resolved to think only about money. Money was his aphrodisiac: if all else failedhe could imagine the women - Buddha-like - were composed of soft buttery gold.Infinitely attractive. Then the bigger they were, the better. *'Good morning, may I speak to Miss Claire Henderson, please?' 'Speaking.'The voice was bright, conveying feminine bubbliness. There was nothing tosuggest the speaker was six stone overweight. Liz pondered that, as she continuedthe conversation. Very few women had fat voices. 'Miss Henderson, are you able to speak privately, or would there be a better time
 
to call you?''Why, what's this about?' Most of the bubbles had popped now, replaced by flaturgency. Liz always wondered how many of them expected what was coming next.What proportion of the large unloved had a premonition of certain punishment fortheir one horizontal transgression? Suppose she just said, 'Two weeks ago you hadsex with my Matt. You must have known he didn't want you for your looks. Now hewants payment for services rendered and I'm ringing on his behalf to collect.' Howmany would pay up? But that would be the lazy approach. Dear Matt had workedhard, now it was her turn.'Miss Henderson, I'm afraid it's not good news. Mr. Matthew Helme has asked meto contact you on his behalf. Are you alone?' 'Yes. Yes I am, what's wrong?' Now the voice was leaden - old, and at least asheavy as its owner. 'Possibly nothing. I do not wish to alarm you unduly, however ...' Liz allowed thepause to grow, opening a crack in the universe through which the woman's worstfears could crawl. '... I am sorry to say Mr. Helme has a communicable disease.'Another pause. Sometimes the women rushed to fill it, sometimes they were mute.Neither response reliably predicted their future conduct. Some garrulous onesbaulked at Liz's fees and refused her appointments, while silent ones could cave inswiftly, handing over cash for three or four 'repeat treatments'.
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'He is deeply ashamed. He has paid for you to have a private consultation withme to establish whether he has transmitted any infection to you. This consultationwill be completely confidential and avoid the need for you to visit your doctor or aclinic for sexual diseases.' Liz used 'clinic for sexual diseases' to shock the women into submission. MissHenderson was no exception. She accepted the first appointment offered to her. Lizhung up before the woman could bid for reassurance. Time for a reward: she hit themedia player button on her laptop and the rich sound of Josè Carreras singingNessun Dorma filled the room. She loved Carreras - he had a voice bigger thanhimself, unlike Pavarotti whose voice was smaller than the man. The Regency office in which she sat was a sweet gem of architecture. Mellowbrick and paned windows wrapped her in the comforting illusion of old money. It wason a short lease, of course. Six weeks. The scam always started with the short lease.She flicked through the spreadsheet, checking the future office rentals. After Stroud, it was Taunton. Matthew - dear boy - would have bedded all thelardy ladies he could manage, and Liz would spend a fortnight dispensing placebotreatments at £500 a pop from an office in a barn conversion. Then Telford, a ratheraustere but impressive office there, and then they'd be off to Spain. Matthew wouldneed to restore his tan and Liz liked the Algarve. It gave her a chance to inspect thehalf a dozen villas which brought in enough genuine income to keep the taxman atbay.

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