Trippin...Dirty Style

After months of lying flat on my fat back it was time to get out. After all, moving is key to the “binge eating as a hobby” agenda. Sitting in front of the glass door like a dog got is not. I’d always envisioned pointless eating and napping to be more entertaining. There’s a missing element…you have to be getting one over whilst being pointless. Example (for the short bus fatties)…I’m supposed to be at the gym/work/saving the world…yet there I lie on the couch watching The Biggest Loser, eating the pizza I ordered without moving an inch. Like that. Having Fat Back doesn’t qualify. I didn’t dare call the meal train fatties and request random entertainment. They would just bring more food. I wanted it. My ass…did not. So I called upon a slightly shadier crowd. My “dirty girl” fatties. Don’t even act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Snap your thong and stay with me. It was February. You know what that means? Yes, Valentine’s Day. And? Yes, chocolate. And? Yes, sex. And? Yes, the reveal. I always dread the reveal. Why doesn’t Valentine’s Day come at a more appropriate time? Like, July, when I’m tan and less voluminous. No. Let’s have a mandatory sex holiday in the butt ass middle of winter when I’m as white as humanly possible, as fat as usual and as hairy as a Yeti. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

I called up my girl “Tori” (names changed to protect the not so innocent). As luck would have it, she needed to exchange a recent purchase at the dirty store. Seems edible panties contain carbs. Who knew? Off we went. Whilst I hadn’t envisioned my first post-op outing to include whips and anal lube, it beat the fat train. I worried my boss would see me and think, “She can’t come to work but she can shop at the dirty store?” Yes. That’s the simple answer. One doesn’t call upon the use of too many brain cells in such an environment. With the user friendly packaging these days, you barely have to string together a dirty thought before you see it being played out on some sort of random paraphernalia. It’s beyond frightening. And besides, if I happened to see her, I would surely black male her for silence. Job security. At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll say it again. God sends me the fatties. All types. Yes, even at the dirty store. (Random sign of the cross). Why? Surely the dirty store would be a “safe” place for me to hide in my delicate state? Apparently not. They find me. I often think I have “Fatdar.” My ass must send out some sort of fat sonar. Every once in a while the signal gets crossed. No good can come of this. Whilst I am a fan of all SIF, I have trouble relating to the overly confident fatty….for all the obvious reasons. I want to be one! It’s fucking fascinating!

“Tori” went to find her some carb friendly panties whilst I wandered about the cabin. I thought I might find some sort of fat friendly forever 2X apparel for the reveal. As luck would have it, they had a fatty section. Not a sole shopping over there. Shocker. Who’s coming to the dirty store for plus size puss apparel? Allow me to answer that, no one. No, you will find that crowd right smack in the middle of the size 2 lingerie. And so was I. I don’t appreciate random fat chatter whilst I am deep in thought (and squeezing all that is me into a thong requires deep thought). I had my eye on a bluish/green number that looked like it may accommodate the better part of my fat cells. And then she spoke. And no, I don’t make this shit up. I wish I was that funny. “My boyfriend doesn’t like it when I buy these outfits.” Silence (for all the obvious reasons). I refused to engage. Reasoning would not help this situation. This failed to stop her. “He says he doesn’t see the point when he’s going to take it off anyway.” *** Pause for random vomit as a result of said unsolicited visual*** I looked for “Tori.” She was being strapped into some sort of bondage bra. I felt the remaining discs in my back collapsing under pressure. It was too soon for such an outing. I was being “fatcousted” and no one was there to save me. “Wow, that’s awesome.” That’s all I had. No more. No less. I high-tailed it to the fitting room. I felt safe. Deep breath. Now on to bigger challenges…getting my fat ass into the bluish/green number without the assistance of the dirty store employee.

Whilst I could still breathe, I poked my head outside the fitting room and called for “Tori.” You’ll recall I said “Tori.” Not my new overly confident SIF stalker. And you can just imagine who answered the call. Yes. “Wow, I’ve never been that skinny. I was 250lbs BEFORE I had my first kid.” Thank you for the random over share. I retreated to the confines of the fitting room for air. Why? Isn’t there an unwritten rule pertaining to fat and silence? Apparently not. I listened to her go on and on whilst I chiseled myself out of what would be my new reveal outfit. Not bcs it made me look thin or covered all that is me. For the very reason that I had to get out of there! The visions of that Stallion riding her show pony side saddle whilst the dirty outfit went flying about was just too much for this fatty to bear! When I came out, “Tori” was waiting for me. I gave her “the eye.” Being a SIF, she knew exactly what that “eye” meant. Straight to the anal lube and cock rings. No, I’m not into that shit. I sure could be. I was traumatized. Stay with me. It was a diversion. Surely overly confident fatty wouldn’t follow us down such a scandalous path. Of course she would. There was no stopping her. The visions in my head were about to cause random seizing. We had to get out of there. In a last ditch effort to lose said overly confident fatty, I grabbed a self-masturbation kit…for men. I was trying to send a message. She gave me that look…“You poor thing. Your boyfriend won’t sleep with you.” Delusional. I shot back. “No, it’s a gift. For yours.” Touché overly confident fatty. Touché.