More 2 Luv

Underground parties—fat girls and their fan boys.

“I haven’t had sex for the last ten years,” my 500-pound friend Helen said to me as we sat down for tea on a sunny Friday afternoon. I was hovering around 300 myself, so we were kindred spirits — somehow. I was twenty-five. I’d come from Paris to LA for a workshop called, “Love your weight out.” It was a month-long, deep exploration of the multilayered, complex construct of anything weight-related.

Helen picked me up from the airport when I first landed. I didn’t know her, but I didn’t need to; we were going to the same workshop. Right after saying hello, she announced the workshop was canceled. Something about permit usage at the property where the seminar was to take place. On our drive from the airport, we made the decision to use the month to focus on our health and lose weight anyway. I was here; might as well.

Some days, we would journal, go to an aqua gym, or share a trainer and go on a hike. I liked being friends with Helen. She was kind and artsy. She knew how to make things, and wore cool hats and scarves. Something in the way she hugged you let you know everything was going to be okay.

And I felt skinny around her. We were both struggling, although her struggle was 200 pounds more than mine. I felt a bit superior. Even back then, I realized it was a sick thought to have. Years later, I came clean; we’d both lost weight by then and it brought us closer.

There is a lot of dysfunctional thinking in a fat psyche — in mine, for starters. A lot of twisted stuff to unpack; lots of comparison, lots of justification, and plenty of envy. Maybe other people did that — not just fat ones. I wouldn’t know; I was always fat. And that’s a stigma you can’t hide.

Back to Helen’s having not had sex for the last ten years.

Her reveal came out a little fast, a little out of control, and lacking any context. Her desire to talk about sex had piled up, and no doubt, her desire to have sex. I regrouped, quick on my feet, as I didn’t want to show that I was taken aback by her admission.

“Wow, no fun,” I responded, wondering if my French compatriots’ reputation for making love and talking about it so casually was what had inspired my Puritan American friend to be so open with me about her sex life — or lack thereof.

What followed was a meaningful conversation about her body and how she was ashamed to make love. I felt more or less exactly the same as she did. Identical pain and shame; just fewer pounds. I was so familiar with the anxiety of being seen naked, being touched naked.

Helen had opened up to me, and I had to give her something. For now, all I could offer was the advice I would have given myself: fix the situation.

 She needs to have sex, I thought. With anyone, really. Just to end the dry spell.

I was listening to her, but I was having a meeting inside my head, plotting ways for her to have sex ASAP. I thought of asking a male friend to help out; heck, I even considered a male escort. Looking back, I realize how out of my mind I was, but I wanted to help my friend and didn’t know how.

A few hours after our conversation, I was in a phone booth and noticed a little flyer with detachable strips of paper. More 2 Luv, it read at the top in large print. I called and found out they organized parties for large women, and the men who like to have sex with them. I’d not remotely heard of anything like that. Hmmm.  

 That was better than pity or paid sex. My head was intrigued; my tummy agitated, thinking about a party where every man was attracted to the one thing I’d been ashamed of my whole life. I wanted to go.

The next More 2 Luv was the following Saturday.

“We’re going out,” I told Helen. “I’ll come early to help you pick an outfit. You don’t get to ask questions about what we’re doing, but be sure to shave your legs.”

She fought me for a second, but I won.

For me to decide what to wear was easy, I’d gathered rules along the way: nothing sleeveless, striped, short, or tucked-in. And, of course, lots of black; they say black is slimming — I don’t know about that, I always felt fat anyway. I had a famous collection of shoes and scarves — but in between, everything was black.

I avoided mirrors at all costs. I had a small one in the bathroom for make-up and a low one by the door for shoes. That was strategic: if I didn’t see my fat self, maybe it didn’t exist. Until I would use a public bathroom and become very sad; that could be how I developed a peculiar propensity for going long hours without peeing.

On the day of the More 2 Luv party, when I arrived at Helen’s, half her closet was in a pile in the middle of the room; she needed help. Her clothes were the opposite of mine; I don’t think she owned a single black anything. Turquoises, pinks and greens, polka dots and stripes; preferably combined. My mother believed in single-pattern, two-color outfits; she would have had a seizure in Helen’s closet. Even I got a little dizzy.

We found Helen a lovely outfit: flowered top, elegant blue skirt, and burgundy Marie-Janes that matched the top. A little lipstick, a little mascara, and a spritz of perfume. Adorbs.

“How do I look?” she asked, sounding twelve.

“So beautiful,” I answered, prepared to lie but not needing to.

We stood in front of her full-on mirror, and I examined her from head to toe. I could see some of my reflection too, but didn’t care; this was all about her and she looked amazing. 

I told her the details about the party as our taxi approached the party; she almost didn’t get out of the cab. I was prepared for that. It was a risk I’d been willing to take, knowing that if I’d told her beforehand; we wouldn’t have made it this far.

My speculation was that she’d be intrigued more than upset. I reminded her that she wanted to have sex. She smiled, it worked, and she followed me inside.

This adventure was as exciting and scary for me as it was for her. I probably would have gone alone if she’d bailed, but I was glad she’d joined me. At the time, the way I saw the world, walking into a party alone, was evidence that my life was pathetic. That I was pathetic.

The moment we entered, I relaxed. Nobody was judging; they were too busy having fun. Clearly, men who went to More 2 Luv were attracted to the very thing I spent my life hating and camouflaging. Not here. If anything, the more — the more. These women seemed like they’d missed the fat-shaming era altogether. They’d not been taught the rules about black clothing, sleeveless tops, or Mom’s two-color, one-pattern dictum.

One woman, in particular, blew my mind. She must have weighed 600 pounds, if not more. She was wearing a Hawaiian shirt and shorts. Shorts. She was dancing to a slow song with this rather handsome, petite gentleman. He was so very into her, and she clearly loved it. I felt jealous; never had I been in a situation where being a plus-size was literally a plus. It’d always been an in spite of—at best.

My inner debate was oscillating between honest admiration and my mother’s complete and utter judgment that someone went out in public looking or dressing like that.

The buffet was basically sodas and candies. They didn’t have a liquor license, but these women didn’t seem to need liquid courage.

I stood at one edge of the room, unsure what to do. My reference points were all flipped upside down. These women owned the space, as if being fat wasn’t an impediment; on this floor, it was an advantage. I hadn’t known the existence of such a world. There was the usual disco ball on the ceiling, reflecting on the massive bodies, making everyone polka-dotted. Not having any point of comparison, these women didn’t look out of proportion on the dance floor; I was watching a ballet of Boteros.

At 250 pounds, I was half, if not a third of the volume of all the other women there. Usually the fattest in the room, it was very disorienting to be the thinnest. These women were having more fun than any skinny-bony-model-type women I’d ever seen. Heck, anyone I’d ever seen. My years of hating myself for being fat didn’t find a place to land in this room.

While I dealt with my flood of complex emotions, I was following Helen out of the corner of my eye; she seemed fine — better than fine — she was with a man, noticeably engaged in conversation. I stood in her eye-line and made the, ‘Is everything okay?’ face. She saw me and smiled with all her might. Phew.

Just then, I noticed Carey. He was firmly planted by the exit door, hands in pockets, looking like he wasn’t there for himself, either. He was wearing brown suede shoes. I like men in brown suede shoes.

 “Why are you at this party?” he asked, surprised, as if to say, “You’re not fat enough to be here.” I liked him even more.    

“I brought a friend,” I said, watching Helen flirting with the cute boy.

Carey spit out his drink, laughing, as he realized his cute friend was picking up mine.

He had brought his friend who needed to have sex. So had I.

After making sure Helen and cute boy were set, we migrated toward what turned out to be his pickup truck. He opened the door on my side. His assuming I was going to come along with him was sexy. By getting in, I green-lighted his move.

In my head, on that night, in this universe, I was thin; so I could have sex with no hang-ups or self-criticism, for once. Being wanted — even if mostly for sex — is a potent magnet. One I didn’t know how to resist — just yet.

He took me to his Sub-Zero-equipped-kitchen type house in the Valley. I had a passing thought that if things worked out with Carey, I could like it here. When the seminar got canceled, Helen found me a room in this communal house in West Hollywood. I had to vacate by the end of the week. I was no stranger to arriving on a second date with my belongings.

Carey seemed to be checking all the right boxes. He was funny, elegant, caring (he too brought his desperate friend to the party, after all), and looked attractively sad. I also liked the grey couch in the high-ceilinged room where we sat. The coffee table on antique wheels was made of recycled wood. It reminded me of the barn where I used to board my horse. I loved it, and I took this as a sign that it wasn’t wrong for me to be there. 

Chatting seemed like the proper thing to do, before doing what we came to do. He proceeded to tell me that his father had been sentenced, that very morning, to life in prison, for ordering a hit and successfully killing his second ex-wife. His dad was a very legit CPA, and the ex was going to expose his creds as bogus; time for fraud turned into life for murder when he decided to have her whacked. Oh, boy.

Great foreplay, if you ask me. And great sex. It was my first time making love on American soil. I liked that dramatic start. I came for the seminar but secretly wanted to find a way to stay. I was looking for new adventures and this night of Botero dancers, jailed fathers, and first local lovers definitely did not disappoint.

The next morning, Carey brought me breakfast and another proposition:

“Water the plants, feed the cats, keep the house clean — as in, make sure the cleaning crew can get in every week — and use the car so the battery doesn’t die; I’ll send you a grand a month to live here.”

Carey, traumatized by the trial, had enlisted in the army; the father was never getting out; someone had to put that Sub-Zero to use. I said yes. He handed me the keys as he left, holding the cage of the pet monkey he was going to drop at an animal sanctuary on his way to Bakersfield.

I was his final fuck before being shipped overseas. I ordered a move-in truck right then and there. It had served me well to help Helen get back on the horse: a grand a month, a rent-free house, and a good first American orgasm. Maybe Carey and I didn’t attain relationship — air quote — status, but he did more for me than guys I was with for years.

I met the man who’d become the father of my daughter not long after that night. Our second date was a dinner made in said Sub-Zero kitchen, and our first lovemaking — not in that order.

Helen called me the next day. She broke her ten-year spell with Cute Boy and loved it. She met her husband — not the cute boy — and got married that same year. I did, too.

That More 2 Luv evening erased the big fat lie we’d been told our whole life — overweight people should be ashamed of themselves. That night, we declared we were not lesser people. We took our whole selves back and changed the writing on our walls; if we’d been born 700 years ago, during the Renaissance — where the standard of beauty was to be fat and pale-skinned — Helen and I would have been the shit. It’s all relative.

My needle moved. The one measuring my weight went down; the self-love one went up. The seminar may have been canceled, but intentions and human spirits being what they are, wisdom found us anyway, through aMore 2 Luv flyer in a phone booth.