looking still still looking

she never admitted publicly that she was fat. on internet dating sites, she always described herself as "more to love" or "a little extra." the truth, however, was that she had reached that point of obesity where gender no longer matters. to remedy this, she had experimented with several haircuts which she described as funky--the type of risky hairstyle ventures that make or break the careers of hollywood it girls but which, on the wrong person, almost always manage to look unsightly--like some sort of defect and not the long-thought-out decision made by someone desperate for affection but willing, finally, to settle for attention.

she was not opinionated. she had no reason to care one way or the other about anything. there was no one to impress. no potential suitors to weed through. she couldn't afford to be choosy--about anything. instead, she made compromises to her fickle worldview with the introduction of any new character in her life. if, for instance, a guy she liked--a guy whom she'd almost certainly been forced to study with the careful eye of a voyeur--believed in abortion, she allowed herself to feel as he did and adopt or assimilate as harmoniously as she could with his set of convictions. her own self-worth was determined by her current crush's opinion of her worth. but it didn't matter. because happiness and peace of mind played a minor role to the things she believed would make her happy--she often dismissed these things, which she had to know intuitively to be good for her, as non-important, nothing more than second-fiddle meditations.

because she held no convictions, regarding anything, she didn't mind the pandemic-like presence of starbucks coffee shops in her area. whereas most people might find this phenomenon to be some sort of pestering ethical violation or a clear example of corporate hegemony or enforced servitude, she saw it as more opportunities to sit and wait for true love to find her one day, sitting anxiously and sipping her mocha frappe like a slob while devouring a book she felt only half-interested in, truth be told.

this is what she did most nights. she sat and she waited. and if no one showed, she'd set her sights somewhere else--the starbucks down the street, perhaps. during the day, she'd go to various shops where she felt she was guaranteed to find someone with similar sensibilities--as meaningless and ever-changing as these sensibilities were. she especially liked the pet store, not because she liked animals, but because she had a seen a boy there once with devil tattoos and gaged ears who called her "chubs" and asked for a blowjob. she complied, forcing herself to believe that he had an unconventional sense of humor and that she might one day, though it didn't matter now, learn to love him--to reconfigure her then ideal to his overall being.

she was sitting there, at starbucks now. she had just gotten off work--a menial position at a local factory where she was treated, not like dirt, exactly, but like one of the guys, their interest in fucking her being somewhat unlikelier than fucking the least attractive man in their group. when she got home, she'd performed her nearly daily ritual of masturbating to pictures on the internet and in one particular gossip magazine of johnny depp. mostly, she liked all that he stood for, the way he had of unifying all women under his spell--she built her fascination and fantasies around this notion--her aspirations to be accepted. that, to her, was sexy.

around two, a young-ish-looking guy, with the simulacrum of a goatee and a greasy muscle shirt walked in. as he was ordering, she looked up from the trash-fantasy novel she was reading. her eyes were fixed, intently, on his. pleez, pleez, she thought, pleez look over here and notice me. already she had ideas. maybe they'd fuck and he'd be so overcome when she unveiled her mostly-fat-tits that he'd be forced to find himself stricken with her and then they'd get married and she'd have something he wanted and then everyone could take a piss because she had an influence over someone. they could all go fuck themselves.

he looked over at her and she told herself not to break eye contact--maintain, lure him in, hypnotize him with your gaze. he quickly looked away, not interested. finally, he looked back, realizing that she was still looking. he smiled at her.

"you smoke?" he asked.
"yeah," she said, lying.
"let's go out to my car," he said. she followed.

as she was raising her shirt, excitedly awaiting his reaction to what she considered her greatest asset, he stopped her. suddenly.

"it's not going to suck itself," he said.

he undid his pants and removed his boxers. he had a slightly-less-than-average-size penis which looked in proportion to the rest of his body not unlike those members gracing some of history's most recognized sculptures. it made perfect sense, too: given that he exhibited so many of the characteristics particular to the alpha-male. it was not what you expected to find under that seedy veneer of idiot tattoos and macho accessories, but, then again, it kinda was.
"it's so big," she said.
he violently grabbed the back of her head and forced it down. face to face with it, she told herself that she would swallow this time. yeah, she thought, he'd probably like that a lot.