Fat Chance

by Nick Spalding

  With that settled, Greg was off through the changing room door quick as a flash.

  ‘Greg!’ I called after him.

  ‘Yeah?

  ‘Don’t you want your ball back?’ I held it out, smiled, and cocked my head to one side in the most outrageously flirtatious way I possibly could with my clothes still on.

  It had the desired effect.

  Greg took the ball back. Dropped it. Picked it up again. Gave me a sheepish smile and disappeared from sight.

  I, on the other hand, walked calmly and slowly into the girls’ changing room, feeling very smug indeed.

  Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush here or lie to you: Greg and I wound up having sex for the first time about four hours later.

  I am completely unapologetic about it as well.

  My sexual experience up to that time had been with one guy called Chris, whom I’d dated the year before for a couple of months. As first-time sexual partners go, Chris was a fine introduction into the world of carnality, but he never really managed to knock my socks off. The only times I’d achieved an orgasm before the first time with Greg were on my own, and generally resulted in cramped fingers.

  Greg had been with a couple of girls prior to me, but both had been one-night stands, so we were really on a par experience-wise when it came to that sort of thing.

  The coffee in the canteen turned into a couple of alcoholic beverages in the local pub, which in turn led to a rather unsteady walk in the park, a good hard snogging session on a bench, and the aforementioned sex back at his parents’ house.

  It was just as well they were out at the cinema, as the sounds I made during the huge, rushing orgasm I felt as Greg came inside me would have disturbed them to an enormous degree, had they been downstairs watching ‘Corrie.’

  I felt a small pang of shame as I lay next to Greg on his single bed, as I tried to recover my wits. There’s a name for girls who sleep with guys on a first date. It rhymes with hut, nut, and rut.

  That small pang would stay with me for another couple of weeks until I realised I had fallen in love with Greg at first sight. When that happens to you, all bets are well and truly off.

  Over the next few months, we embarked on a marathon of sex that only two teenagers in love can possibly maintain without serious injury. In fact, as I sit here looking back on it now, I can safely say that our sex life was always incredibly healthy, varied, and very regular throughout the first few years of our relationship.

  . . . right until we got married and both fell into full-time jobs. But even then, we always made sure that we had sex at least once or twice a week, unless I was on my period, or either one of us was working lates.

  In fact, our sex life was very healthy until about seven years ago, when we both hit our thirties and started to put on weight.

  A funny thing happens to your metabolism when you reach thirty. It decides that it’s had quite enough of burning off all that energy at a fast rate of knots, and figures it’s time to take things easier from now on. Where once you could stuff away over two thousand calories a day and care not a jot, now the ounces and pounds start to slowly pile on.

  You don’t notice this happening, of course. If you did, you’d probably take steps to avoid it. But when you work thirty-eight hours a week and have things like mortgages and car insurance to worry about, it’s amazing how fast you forget about your health and physical well-being.

  So there comes an inevitable day when you go to put on a pair of jeans that you haven’t worn since last summer . . . and discover that the bastard things won’t button up anymore. Then you rush into the bathroom, brush the dust from the electronic scales that have sitting behind the laundry bin for two years, and stand on them with your heart thudding in your chest.

  That day was the first time I’d ever looked down at the scales and seen a weight reading of over ten stone.

  Needless to say I went on a diet right there and then. And for a while it worked. I went back under ten stone and called it a victory.

  But then more years went by. Thirty turns very quickly into thirty-three, then thirty-four.

  And the metabolism keeps slowing.

  And the mortgage payments keep coming out of the bank.

  Life becomes all about staying financially afloat and the constant drudge of commuting to the office.

  Sex unfortunately becomes a rare monthly treat, rather than a daily recreational activity.

  It becomes less and less of a treat the more you start to notice your love handles getting in the way. Marry that with the sound of your newly acquired body fat slapping together and your libido doesn’t really stand a chance.

  Where once you whispered filth into each other’s ears and dressed up for some sexy role play, you now just go through the motions with one another before falling asleep—and are frankly surprised anytime you actually manage to achieve an orgasm.

  If a couple has been together for a long time and their sex life has gone off the boil, they will often try to inject a little excitement back into their relationship, either by trying something a bit risqué or by attempting to recapture the magic of their early lives together.

  Greg and I made the mistake of trying the latter option.

  It was about six months before we started the competition, and we were both at what you could describe as our lowest ebb, in terms of our sex life and our lifestyles in general.

  January is never a good month when you’re fat. You’ve just had all the excesses of Christmas to deal with. And boy, did we get particularly excessive this year. Tins of Quality Street were consumed with abandon, turkey sandwiches were crammed in our mouths like there was no tomorrow. I drank my way through what felt like an ocean of red wine and Greg did much the same with the lager.

  I confess that this edible debauchery was largely my fault. The embarrassing horror of getting stuck in the green dress the month before still weighed heavily on me, and I tried to cheer myself up in the only way I knew how: by eating.

  What a cruel and idiotic thing the human brain truly is.

  When faced with this kind of adversity through addiction it should prompt you into doing something positive about it. Logic suggests that if you’re hooked on too much fat and sugar, there should be a part of your cerebral cortex ready and willing to metaphorically slap you around the face a few times until you come to your senses and start eating tofu. But no, the little sod doesn’t do that. Instead it tries to cope with the misery of addiction by plunging you even further into the mire of the very obsession you need to get away from!

  It’s the equivalent of burning your hand in the fire and going back repeatedly to see just how crispy you can make your skin before the entire appendage drops off.

  So during Christmas I salved my wounded self-esteem by making myself even fatter, in a glorious downward spiral that would have seen me washing myself with a rag on a stick and unable to walk if it hadn’t been for Elise and her radio competition.

  Between Christmas and the third week of January I’d put on half a stone and Greg three-quarters. We also hadn’t had sex for over a month. More specifically, we hadn’t had sex since I’d attempted to fit into that green dress—a fact that should come as absolutely no surprise to anyone.

  This meant that for the first time in our fifteen years of marriage we hadn’t made love over the Christmas period even once. Not one romantic session in front of the Christmas tree, not one quickie while the Queen was on, not one drunken shag after a Boxing Day party.

  Nothing at all.

  I’m sure Greg had wanked off a few times, given that no man can go a month without at least one incident of self-abuse, but my sex drive was utterly dormant for the first time in my life.

  I’ve always enjoyed sex.

  No, scratch that: I’ve always loved it.

  From the first time with Greg, and on through the y
ears until the weight really piled on, our sex life has been the cornerstone of what has by and large been the best relationship any woman can hope to have.

  My husband is kind, thoughtful, intelligent, and loving. He also sports a large penis. This by no means has any influence on how much I love him, but when somebody serves you up a delicious cake, it’s always nice to find a big, juicy cherry on top.

  In all our time together a month has never gone by without sex, not until last Christmas.

  Not even when Greg broke his leg and we had to employ a hastily constructed pulley with block and tackle so he could perform. Not even when I came down with a bout of influenza that would have pole-axed a rhino. I finished that particular session by being sick all over the carpet, but damn it, it was still some good, hard sex we had that night . . . what I can remember of it thanks to the delirium.

  The realisation that we’ve gone so long without a shag dawns on us one night in front of the TV. We’re watching ‘Game of Thrones,’ a program that seems to delight in the depiction of fantasy people going at it hammer and tongs on a fairly regular basis.

  As a gorgeous thin redhead bounces up and down on a ruggedly handsome man in the kind of medieval castle bedroom that every girl dreams about staying just one night in, Greg turns turned to me and said ‘When’s the last time we did that, baby?’

  ‘We’ve never stayed the night in a castle, Greg. I wanted to last year, if you remember, but you made me go to the Goodwood Festival of Speed instead.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant . . . you know . . . what they’re doing.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say and flush red. ‘It’s been a while.’

  Greg starts counting on his fingers. I know full well how long it’s been since we’ve had sex, but I’m interested to see if he’ll come up with roughly the same figure. ‘It’s got to be over a month,’ he eventually says.

  ‘Thirty-four days,’ I reply.

  ‘Really? That’s a lot for us.’

  ‘Yes Greg, it is,’ I sigh, and start picking at one corner of the cushion.

  Greg sits up and looks at me closely for a few moments, before pausing ‘Game of Thrones’ in mid-shag and moving over on the couch to put his arms around me in a comforting manner. My husband knows how to read my moods very well.

  ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’ he says and kisses my cheek.

  ‘I’m not sexy.’ I reply, downcast.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not, Greg. I’m big and fat and ugly.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous!’

  ‘Yes, I am. That’s why we haven’t had sex for ages.’

  ‘It’s only been a month! And we’ve both had lots of work on our plates. It’s got nothing to do with how you look! You always look gorgeous to me.’

  I can feel tears in my eyes, which I’m extremely annoyed about, but there doesn’t appear to be anything I can do about it. ‘But it was almost a month before the last time as well!’ I cry. ‘We do it less and less, Greg. And it’s because I’m getting fatter and fatter!’

  ‘No, no. That’s not . . . it’s not . . . I don’t think you . . .’ Greg blusters. I know he’s trying to come up with an excuse that’ll make me feel better, but I know he won’t find one. He hangs his head and runs a hand through his hair, before grabbing one of his love handles and giving it a shake. ‘I don’t think it’s down to you getting fatter anyway, baby.’

  Oh, great. Now we’re both depressed by our combined weight gain. This is turning into a truly wonderful evening.

  Greg unpauses the TV and we watch the two thin, healthy people bouncing up and down on the bed for a few more moments.

  ‘Turn this off, will you?’ I eventually say when I just can’t suffer the comparison any more.

  We sit in silence for a few minutes before Greg utters the line that most people who have been married for over ten years probably say at some point. ‘Maybe we could do something to . . . you know . . . make it more exciting?’

  ‘What like? Do it on roller skates?’

  ‘Not quite.’ He lapses into silence again. Then I see the light of an idea spark in his eyes. ‘I know! Let’s do a bit of dressing up!’

  ‘Dressing up?’

  Greg waggles his eyebrows. ‘Yeah, you know. Get some sexy stuff on and role play a little.’

  I give him a withering look. ‘You think Ann Summers caters for a woman of my size, do you? If I try to wear one of those tiny G-string and bra combos I’ll end up looking look a rolled pork joint.’

  Greg has the decency to not argue.

  Another few silent minutes go by. I pick up the iPad and start mindlessly web surfing until Greg pipes up again.

  ‘How about . . . how about what we were wearing when we first met?’

  ‘You mean the rugby kits?’

  ‘Yeah.’ His eyes are gleaming. ‘Yeah, the rugby kits. I can still picture you in it now.’

  I consider his idea for a moment.

  It’s a good one.

  For the first time in God knows how long I feel a faint rush of sexual desire.

  The idea of recapturing the thrill of our first time together, from the photo shoot to his bed a few hours later, is one that I can well and truly get behind. Also, rugby kits come in all different sizes, so even we should be able to find a pair of matching kits that will fit our larger frames.

  Greg walks his fingers along the couch. ‘Maybe . . . maybe we could even take a few photos?’

  Blimey, I hadn’t even thought of that! It sounds great! And pretty damn dirty into the bargain.

  ‘Okay,’ I say to him, a little breathlessly. ‘I’ll go online and get us the outfits. You try to find the digital camera.’

  It takes just three days for the rugby kits to be delivered. They’re not exactly the same as the ones we wore all those years ago, but they are more or less the same shade of blue, and the shorts are the same crisp white that I remember from nearly two decades ago.

  Greg does manage to track down the camera. It’s not the newest, but it will still take some decent timed pictures when propped up on the chest of drawers at the end of our bed.

  There’s no Lionel the Pervert this time around, of course, which can only be considered a good thing.

  Greg and I both change into the rugby kits and join each other in the bedroom. He is holding a photo album, the page open at the rather tatty print of our first picture together. Lionel had made us pay through the nose for a copy, the little weasel, but it had been more than worth it.

  ‘Shall we recreate our first photo, then?’ Greg suggests, putting the album on the bed before giving me a lingering kiss.

  ‘Why not?’ I reply with a cheeky smile.

  Greg goes over and sets the camera timer running. He comes back and I try my best to place myself in the same position I was in all those years ago.

  The camera shutter goes click. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ I say, heart racing. This is all very exciting. My mind is already fast-forwarding to what happened later that day and I’m feeling more turned on than I have in a long, long time.

  Greg retrieves the camera, and fiddles with the settings until the shot that’s just been taken appears in the display.

  We sit on the end of the bed and take a good, hard look.

  My libido is immediately snuffed out as soon as I take in what the photo has to offer.

  The problem is that we’ve managed to recreate the pose we were in back at college a little too well. This gives rise to an immediate and painful comparison to the original photo.

  Frankly, it looks like the two young sexy kids in the original shot have had hoses rammed up their arses and been pumped full of jelly.

  You’d need a good couple of hours in Adobe Photoshop and the constant use of the Bloat Tool to otherwise illustrate the change from young Greg and Zoe to cu
rrent Greg and Zoe.

  Rather than recapturing the erotic vibe of our youth, all we have served to do with this little experiment is hammer home just how blubberous we’ve both grown in the intervening years.

  ‘Oh, good God,’ Greg whispers.

  ‘I know. I look like a whale in a polo shirt.’

  ‘I have tits, Zoe. Look at my big floppy tits.’

  Greg holds up the old photo and we look from one to the other with jaws agape.

  ‘Delete it,’ I order.

  ‘Okay.’

  Greg fiddles with the buttons on the camera and the hideous picture is irrevocably wiped from existence. It will, however, take up near-permanent residence in my mind’s eye for the foreseeable future.

  ‘I think I’m going to take this gear off,’ Greg says. ‘I don’t feel up for it any more.’

  ‘Yes. I think that’s a very good idea,’ I reply. ‘Then I think we should burn them . . . and never speak of this again.’

  Needless to say, the sex did not happen that night.

  Nor did it happen for many more nights after that, until we started Fat Chance. It would take the crazy diets and exhausting exercise regimes to get me horny again.

  It wasn’t an immediate thing.

  I didn’t just wake up the morning after I started dieting to find myself ravenous for sex. I was too busy being ravenous for food at the time.

  Slowly, though, as we both started to drop a few pounds here and there, I started to admire Greg a lot more when I looked at him, and I even started to hate my own body a bit less as the weight loss went on.

  It’s amazing what only a small change can do for you psychologically.

  And it isn’t just the actual weight loss. Replacing all those fats and sugars with vitamins and minerals does wonders. Your skin starts to look healthier; your hair starts to look fuller.

  A lot of incremental little changes add up to big ones.

  And your sex drive eventually returns . . . in fucking spades!

  So much so that I nearly got us both chucked out of B&Q the other day.

  It really isn’t a good idea to go to a hardware store when you have a rampant libido and your husband is dressed as a burly workman. I had no choice, however, as we needed to replace some of the flagstones in the patio.