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When I hit thirty, he brought me a cake,When I hit thirty, he brought me a cake
When I hit thirty, he brought me a cake, three layers of icing, home-made, a candle for each stone in weight. The icing was white but the letters were pink, they said, eat me. And I ate, did what I was told. Didn’t even taste it. Then he asked me to get up and walk round the bed so he could watch my broad belly wobble, hips judder like a juggernaut. The bigger the better, he’d say, I like big girls, soft girls, girls I can burrow inside with multiple chins, masses of cellulite. I was his Jacuzzi. But he was my cook, my only pleasure the rush of fast food, his pleasure, to watch me swell like forbidden fruit. His breadfruit. His desert island after shipwreck. Or a beached whale on a king-size bed craving a wave. I was a tidal wave of flesh too fat to leave, too fat to buy a pint of full-fat milk, too fat to use fat as an emotional shield, too fat to be called chubby, cuddly, big-built. The day I hit thirty-nine, I allowed him to stroke my globe of a cheek. His flesh, my flesh flowed. He said, Open wide, poured olive oil down my throat. Soon you’ll be forty… he whispered, and how could I not roll over on top. I rolled and he drowned in my flesh. I drowned his dying sentence out. I left him there for six hours that felt like a week. His mouth slightly open, his eyes bulging with greed. There was nothing else left in the house to eat.
When I turned thirty, he gave me a cake, with three layers of homemade icing, and a candle for each stone of my weight. The icing was white but the letters were pink, they said, eat me. And I ate it, doing what I was told, without tasting it. Then he asked me to walk around the bed so he could watch my big belly wobble, and my hips shake like a huge truck. He'd say, the bigger the better, I like big girls, soft girls, girls I can get lost in with many chins and lots of cellulite. I was his Jacuzzi. But he was my cook, my only joy was the rush of fast food, his joy was watching me grow like forbidden fruit. His breadfruit. His desert island after a shipwreck. Or a beached whale on a large bed wanting a wave. I was a wave of flesh so fat I couldn't leave, too fat to buy milk, too fat to use my fat as a shield, too fat to be called chubby or cuddly. When I turned thirty-nine, I let him touch my round cheek. Our flesh flowed together. He said, Open wide, and poured olive oil down my throat. Soon you’ll be forty… he whispered, and how could I not roll over on him. I rolled and he drowned in my flesh. I drowned out his last words. I left him there for six hours that felt like a week. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes bulging with greed. There was nothing else left in the house to eat.