Misadventures of a Curvy Girl

by Sierra Simone

  Ireland, probably still chewing over the interview in her mind, doesn’t notice Lyle Parry or my reaction to him. I shoot a glance at Caleb, who also takes note of the smirking way Lyle is staring at Ireland, and Caleb understands immediately. He hangs back, ostensibly to talk to Lyle, but really to step between Lyle and Ireland while I shepherd her back inside the tavern.

  Caleb and Lyle greet each other and make some small talk as we all move down the sidewalk, and it’s with some relief when I get to the door of the tavern and push it open. Ireland is walking inside as Lyle lowers his voice and mutters to Caleb, “She must be something else in bed, huh?”

  “Excuse me?” Caleb asks coldly.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Lyle says in a winky-nudgy kind of tone, which is still loud enough to carry easily through the threshold of the open tavern door. I try to shut it, but I’m not quick enough. Lyle’s stupid voice still reaches us. “The chunky ones are always better in the sack. More grateful, you see? Makes them try harder.”

  Next to me, Ireland goes completely still, and I’m torn between the need to comfort her and shield her from every shitty thing in this world and my rage. I want to go out there and beat the teeth out of Lyle Parry’s head. I want to wring him like a towel and hang him up to dry.

  But one look at Ireland’s face reminds me what my priorities are.

  I gather her into my arms and hold her to my chest. “Fuck him,” I murmur.

  Caleb outside growls, “You’ll talk about Ireland with some fucking respect, Lyle, or face the consequences.” And then Caleb storms inside amid Lyle’s shocked sputters, slamming the tavern door shut behind him.

  “God, Ireland, I’m so fucking sorry he said that,” Caleb says with misery painted all over his expression. He comes to stand next to us, putting his hand on Ireland’s shoulder, but she shakes her head and takes a step away from us.

  “It’s fine,” she says in a falsely bright voice. “I’ve been one of the ‘chunky ones’ for a long time. I’m used to it.”

  Everything about her is armored right now—her forced smile and her tense stance—and when I reach for her again, she moves out of range.

  “Ireland,” I say, and my voice is lower and sharper than I want it to be, but seeing her upset like this has me on edge. “He’s a fucking idiot. You’re beautiful and perfect.”

  If my words were arrows, they’d be bouncing hopelessly off her armor now and dropping uselessly to the floor.

  “Of course I am,” she says with more of that false, hard brightness. “I know that. Well, I think I’m going to head back to the farmhouse now—I should probably get some work done before dinner, and I thought I could make dinner tonight since you guys usually make it, so I should also head out to the store…”

  She’s babbling, talking fast and lively, as if worried that if she doesn’t, we’ll try to comfort her again. She gets her things, and I grab my things too, deciding to call it a day at the tavern. I don’t want to be apart from her even in the best of situations, but especially not when some shitbag has said something awful about her.

  We all head outside together, Ireland still chattering until the moment we get into separate cars and drive home. And once we’re in the kitchen—Caleb and I taking over dinner preparation by unspoken agreement—with her working at the table, Caleb tries to bring it up once again.

  “I don’t like that he said those things,” he says while stabbing his fingers through his hair. “I hate even more that they’ve upset you. Tell me how to fix it, peach. Tell me how to make you feel better.”

  She looks up from her laptop, and when she does, her eyes are hard and her mouth is set in a mulish line. “You can make me feel better by not talking about it.”

  Caleb opens his mouth, and she holds up a hand. “I mean it, Carpenter.” Her voice is truly serious, absent any fake cheeriness or falsely casual confidence now. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  A limit is a limit is a limit. An entire adult lifetime of polyamory has taught us that. Caleb gives me a helpless look, and I give him a small nod, telling him I understand his frustration, his need to protect our woman from any and all pain, but also that we can’t do that if she doesn’t want us to. And hell, maybe it would be impossible anyway, because I’m not sure how to comfort her. How can she not see how fucking beautiful she is? How devastatingly sexy that body is? How much we want to love and cherish it and her?

  We make dinner, and then we make love, shower, and make love again. As I watch her pretend her way through a normal evening, I see the waves of hurt and anger flicker through her like electric currents. I see her swing between the unfocused and unconscious real confidence I’ve grown used to from her and the almost-harsh forced confidence she had in the tavern after we heard Lyle. I see her move from happy and sexy to insecure and worried and then back to happy and sexy again.

  And I realize something about myself as I watch her. Something not even years of therapy could teach me—something that seems painfully obvious now that I see it.

  People aren’t just one thing.

  People aren’t just confident and then that’s it, there’s nothing that can dent that confidence. People aren’t just brave and then free from fear their entire lives. We exist in tangles of virtue and weakness simultaneously—we are the best and worst of ourselves all at the same time.

  A soldier who faced bullets and bombs but is now afraid of the dark.

  A scared, sensitive boy who made himself so tough he’s forgotten how to be vulnerable.

  A man who is fierce possession and cold reserve all at once.

  And maybe all that is okay—maybe words like best and worst or virtue and weakness are misleading. Maybe they incorrectly assign value to things that aren’t good or bad in and of themselves; they’re simply human.

  And it’s with this epiphany that I climb into bed with the people I love. I wrap my arms around Ireland, one of my hands finding Caleb’s and lacing with his fingers, and I close my eyes against the darkness. For the first time, I don’t fight the fear. I don’t struggle with it. I allow it just to be, bobbing on the surface of my mind along with all the other things I’m thinking and feeling. Like that I love Ireland and Caleb, that I want this to be for the rest of our lives, that I want them inside every wall or gate I’ve ever erected. That Greta-dog is almost out of dog treats, and that once I get the next insurance check, I should be able to order stuff for the new tavern kitchen.

  That actually it’s okay to be afraid, okay to be anxious, and it would be okay no matter what, but it’s especially okay with the woman I love nestled against my chest and the man I love snoring gently beside her.

  Somehow, by some magic, as I trace the oval glow and shadow of the nightlight on the ceiling, I manage to fall asleep.

  And I sleep the whole night through.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ireland

  He did it.

  I wake up wrapped in the world’s warmest, best-smelling blanket, and when I open my eyes to see Ben’s face all open and young-looking as he sleeps, a spike of joy goes right through my chest.

  He did it.

  He did it for me—for all of us—and suddenly, with a crest of dizzying happiness, I can see the future ahead for the three of us. Me moving in, us sharing sex and sleep every night. Maybe someday we could share even more…weddings and babies and all the things everyone else gets to have. Why not us? It may look different, it may take figuring out, but to share forever and more with these men would be worth it. So fucking worth it.

  I slide out of bed and take a quick shower as they doze on. Dawn is breaking and they’ll be up soon, and I want to have a big breakfast waiting when they are. I’m already smiling to myself as I imagine giving them the news. I’ll tell them I’m going to move in, and then they’ll grin—even my broody soldier will be smiling—and then they’ll start thanking me with their mouths and their fingers and their cocks…

  With a full-body shiver of anticipation, I gr
ab my phone to go downstairs and the screen goes bright. Notification after notification are stacked—some from social media, some from email—but what strikes me first is a text from my boss, looking like it came in right after my three-hour fuckfest with Ben and Caleb began last night.

  Great interview! We’ve already had two potential clients contact Typeset wanting your photography as part of a campaign!!!!

  So the interview did go live last night…and presumably the picture along with it. But before I can properly process my panic, I see a text from a contact I should have deleted a long time ago: Brian.

  Still look like a cow. Guess you’re a slut now too.

  I nearly drop the phone.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  I look over at Ben and Caleb—both of them still stretched and sprawled like teenage boys across the bed—and for one painfully acute moment, I want to wake them up. I want them to pull me back into bed, where it’s warm and cozy and where I’m loved without reserve. I know if I tell them what Brian said, they’ll be furious. They’ll scowl and make angry bear noises and threaten to kill him. And then they’ll fuck me with all that pent-up anger—not directed at me but for me—anger stemming from the need to protect me. And I’ll feel better.

  Except maybe I won’t. Not until I figure out exactly what’s going on, at least.

  And maybe, a cold, slimy voice whispers, they wouldn’t do that at all. Maybe after what Lyle said yesterday, they’ll start to realize you’re not worth protecting. You’re not worth the effort. Why would you be? It’s not like there are men lining up to take their place.

  “Shut up,” I whisper back to the voice. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.”

  But it doesn’t shut up as I creep down the stairs in the near-dawn darkness. The voice keeps going. And the longer it talks, the more sense it starts to make. Especially as I open up my laptop at the kitchen table and see an email from the reporter in my inbox, with the subject line Here it is!!!

  I open the email and click the link.

  I immediately wish I hadn’t.

  The picture of me with Caleb and Ben is at the very top, and right away I can see it’s not a flattering picture. The skirt I bought in a fit of bravery after breaking up with Brian—the same skirt Caleb and Ben beg me to wear all the time—does nothing to hide thighs that are too wide and too pale and too dimpled. My cropped blouse that felt so cute when Caleb kept trying to yank it off me so he could nuzzle my breasts looks embarrassingly small now. The little strip of belly that seemed spunky and adorable looks sad and not a little oblivious on the screen. Even the long wavy hair and colorful lipstick—a look I’m normally so proud of, a look I’ve shown off on Instagram more times than I can count—seem pathetically desperate. When I went into town that day, I felt bold and sexy and fun, but looking at the picture now, it’s like every single element that makes Ireland Mills interesting or pretty or anything has been flattened into an image that screams trying too hard.

  Not for the first time, I wish I weren’t so goddamned short. I wish I were five foot nine or ten, like the famous plus-size models on the covers of magazines, and not five foot two. I wish my curves were spread out instead of all squished together, I wish I carried my weight differently.

  The cold, slimy voice chants wishes along with me—wishes that pass through my mind in less than a minute but get darker and darker as they go. I wish my breasts were smaller. I wish my belly were too. I wish I looked thin…I wish I were thin. I wish I were born that way.

  I wish I wasn’t born at all.

  A pulse of jagged, ruthless satisfaction follows the thought; it’s like pressing down on a bruise.

  It’s starkly comforting to acknowledge the truth at last.

  I wish I wasn’t born at all, not into this body. I hate this body.

  I run my hands through my hair, tugging at it. How can this be me thinking these thoughts? Me, who just a month ago was a newly confident woman with tons of body-positive bloggers in her Instagram feed and a wardrobe full of clothes she actually wanted to wear? I thought I was over feeling bad about my body, that I’d solved my insecurity, and all it takes is one picture to make me wish I’d never been born? How weak am I?

  Desperate for any new input to shake me away from my thoughts, I look back at the picture. The boys look amazing, of course, even though they’d both been working outside and sweating that day. They look like models for some kind of country boy calendar, T-shirts clinging to tight stomachs and belted jeans showing off narrow hips and distinct bulges behind their zippers. They look like the epitome of alpha males, like they should have a willowy, all-American blonde between them, not a dumpy brunette who looks like an art school dropout.

  Although I’m not even an art school dropout. I’m something much worse: a girl who was too chicken even to go in the first place.

  The caption for the picture is journalistically spare: Mills, 24, and her two boyfriends, Caleb Carpenter, 33, and Ben Weber, 33, both of Holm, Kansas. They met the weekend of the tornado.

  The article itself is fantastic—I can recognize that in a distant part of my brain. The reporter paints a picture of me as smart and vibrant and creative, all of my quotes sound insightful and intelligent, and all the photographs of mine they feature are strikingly composed and emotional.

  But I of all people know it doesn’t matter how smart I am, or how talented. When you’re fat, all of those qualities are erased. All that exists to represent you as a three-dimensional and nuanced human is your fatness, and your fatness is translated in a kind of visual shorthand for all sorts of moral failings. Laziness. Gluttony. Uncleanliness. An unholy lack of self-control and self-discipline.

  The very sight of you is almost like an affront; your existence is almost offensive.

  I could have invented CRISPR or fed thousands in the streets of Calcutta and it wouldn’t have mattered so long as my picture was at the top of the article. It’s why I’ve hidden behind the camera for so long—because to be in front of the lens is to acknowledge that I exist in this body. To be smiling is to not participate in the expectation that I should be ashamed.

  I should close the tab. I should, I should, but the rational part of me is gone, cowering and crying somewhere, and all that’s left is the part of me that can’t resist pressing on the bruise some more.

  Which is why I scroll down to the comments section.

  It’s a mistake.

  Even the awful part of me that whispers about how much I hate my own body sees that it’s a mistake, because it turns out that even the worst cruelty I can muster toward myself is nothing compared to what strangers can say on the internet.

  Why are *they* with *her*? one anonymous commenter says. Two hot guys with an overweight girl just doesn’t add up.

  Another anonymous commenter adds below, I bet there’s not even room in the bed for all of them.

  Why is the Star glorifying this unnatural sex cult? SoonerInTheKitchen replies. This is clearly a relationship built on sin.

  xfitwarrior says, Shame on this paper for promoting disease and glorifying overweight ppl when being overweight is the number one cause of death in America and costs billions of dollars to taxpayers every year. Obesity IS UNHEALTHY. Obesity KILLS. Shame on you!

  A reply to that comment by ketogoddess87 says, You don’t know where she is in her journey! She might have already lost a hundred pounds and be on the way to getting healthier! You can’t judge someone’s health by just one picture!

  QueenSizeGirlsDoItBetter replies to that comment, saying, Wherever she is on her journey, she shouldn’t be wearing clothes like that. I’m a plus-sized girl myself, and even I know that nobody wants to see alllllll that body hanging out everywhere!

  I guess there’s no accounting for taste, KSUBetcha says. ‘Caleb’ and ‘Ben’ here prove that. Chubby chasing much?

  CalebAndBenLovePiggies replies to that comment with oink oink.

  My fingers are trembling as I scroll down, but I can’t stop myself, can’t look
away. It’s some kind of sick impulse, forcing me to read every nasty comment, every judgmental observation about my size, every reply that seems well-intentioned but is actually still incredibly hurtful.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t think. At some point, my brain begins sending out panic hormones, flooding my veins with the need to run, to fight, to scream.

  Danger, my nervous system blares at me. Danger.

  It doesn’t matter that it’s “just” the internet, that I can’t see the faces or hear the voices of the people who’ve written these things, because it’s still real. Real people still said these things in a place where I, a real person, could see them. Where I could see myself talked about with—at best—condescension, and—at worst—hostile disgust.

  This is what you get, the awful voice whispers. For thinking you could have more. Wanting to be a famous photographer. Dating two men way out of your league.

  The voice is right. I was stupid and foolish to ever believe otherwise.

  And I’m not really sure what to do with that epiphany, or with the nauseous, panicked urges roiling through me, until I see the last comment and feel like my heart is going to explode from beating so fast.

  An anonymous commenter has posted a link to Ben’s tavern on Yelp, and when I follow the link, I see the page has been spammed with one-star reviews. They’re predictably pointless and crude—mostly rehashing the same kinds of awful things said in the comments section of the article—but they hurt me in an entirely new place. It’s one thing to be insulted and dehumanized, to have my potential photography career burned down before my eyes. Those things stab at places that have been stabbed at before.

  But to have Ben and Caleb insulted and dehumanized—and to have Ben’s livelihood threatened—all for the sin of loving me, well…