There's a sort of running joke among my friends about how clueless I can be with women, with being able to tell whether they're interested in me. Usually when a friend is busting my chops about this, they are referring to what you might call my "false negatives"—the situations in which a woman has to "hit me over the head" to make me aware of her interest in me. My friends all say I can't take a hint. What they don't realize is that I've had my share of false positives as well, and that these experiences have left me a tad gun-shy. I can't tell you how many times I've been a half-hour into what I thought was a mutually flirtatious conversation at a cocktail party only to have the woman finally mention a husband, boyfriend, or fiancée. I evidently just have trouble reading women in general.
Teresa was a classic example of one of my false negatives. Actually, it isn't that I didn't think she was interested; it's just that I didn't trust myself to make a move. I met her a few summers ago when I was in Thunder Bay for the wedding of an old friend from college. I was invited to be a groomsman and she a bridesmaid, so we both arrived on Thursday night in order to be there for Friday's rehearsals; the ceremony was late Saturday. And although I took an instant liking to her, and suspected that she reciprocated, I felt the stakes were too high to try anything overt: we had friends and friends-of-friends in common through Brad and Liz (the happy couple), and I didn't want to embarrass myself or get a reputation for being "that guy," the one who shows up stag and has smarm enough to try to get laid at the wedding. And there didn't seem to be much to gain either—we practically lived on opposite sides of the United States and so were unlikely to start having any kind of relationship. So I just flirted miserably, but refrained from saying anything that would constitute an actual "pass."
I was in my early thirties, white, slim, medium height, short dirty-blonde hair. Teresa was a positively gorgeous BBW brunette in her mid to late 20s, her mostly creamy white skin slightly reddened in places from the late summer sun, and her lustrous black hair in a lopsided, boyish bob. I don't really have a "type" when it comes to women, except that I do love the larger ladies. I have dated all shapes, sizes, and colors but, below a certain dress size it takes something very special to turn my head. Teresa did
not
have that problem. At 5'6" or 5'7", she was probably carrying 220 pounds, gathered voluptuously in a high, broad bottom, a pronounced endearing belly that ringed her middle and protruded beyond her beltline, and big gorgeous boobs that flopped freely and lazily over her midriff. The first time I saw her she was in a sky blue half-cami, a pair of cutoff jean shorts, and flip flops—an enchanting ensemble that displayed the whole package, exposing milky thighs, thick meaty arms, a deep valley of cleavage and a protuberant bare belly.
My only complaint was the hair. She had the kind of hair that I'm sure would have cascaded luminously down those broad pink shoulders had she let it grow long. But even worn short, her hair sexily framed a cute round face with high round cheeks and a sharp, v-shaped chin softened by a slight packet of double-chin fat beneath. She wore a sort of permanent smirk that made her appear forever on the verge of making a smart-ass comment—which, by the way, turned out not to be very far from the truth; she definitely had the kind of sharp, quick wit you often see with sexy, intelligent fat chicks, as though their street-smarts have been honed by the conflicting experiences of having been ridiculed in their youth for their weight, only to find themselves very attractive to most men in adulthood (whether the men admit it or not), even as women with similar builds remain bewilderingly absent from fashion magazine covers or marquee roles in Hollywood blockbusters. She seemed like the sort of person who was fully capable of enjoying her life, but who had learned how to use words as a weapons when she had to.
That first Thursday night, the only guests to have arrived were the members of the wedding party—family members were supposed to start rolling into town Friday afternoon and other guests Saturday morning—so it was a mostly twenty-something set in a holiday mood and game for a late-ish night. Brad and Liz took the whole wedding party out for pizza and beers at a small patio café near the lake.
There were ten of us in the party, and I clearly remember Liz introducing the groomsmen to the bridesmaids they'd be paired with during the procession. I remember how the lone fat chick in the party of skinny girls immediately caught my eye. I recall mentally reciting, as though in mock prayer:
Please let me get her, please let me get her.
"And this," Liz was saying, "is Teresa." The fat chick—Teresa—waved to all of us. "And Teresa, you'll be accompanied by..."
Pick me! Pick me!
"Bart Waylon."
YES!
"Pleased to meet you," I said.
When it came time to sit down I made a point of sitting across from her at the end of one of the wooden, picnic-style patio tables. "So, Teresa was it? Looks like I'm with you."
"Yep. So you just do exactly what I say and we won't have any trouble," she cracked.
"Ha. What exactly are our responsibilities in all this?" I asked, pouring the first pint from the nearby pitcher and giving it to her.
"Thanks," she said, taking a slice of pizza from the nearest pan. "I suspect all will be revealed at the rehearsal dinner."
"But you don't have some inkling?" I poured myself a pint and picked up a slice.
"Walking, mostly, I think. Just walking. I mean, best man and maid of honor have to say a few words at the reception but us, we've got a pretty cush gig. Just walk up and stand there."
"I uh. I haven't been to a lot of weddings."
"I try to avoid them generally. Like the plague actually. Especially being in wedding parties because, you know, ninth ring of hell, right? My strategy somehow failed me this time."
"Strategy?"
"I try to hover at around 150, 175 percent of my ideal BMI so people won't ask me to be a bridesmaid," she said in mock explanation, and then broke out into a cockeyed smile, shattering her deadpan. "No one like's a whale in the wedding party."
My heart leaped anxiously in my chest. I never know what to say when a woman references her own weight in a sarcastic, self-deprecating way. I've been an admirer of fat women all my life and yet I've never come up with a subtle way to communicate this fact in a way that doesn't make my appreciation sound like some sort of weird fetish. The problem was compounded in this case because, of course, I did not want to sound like I was making a pass. So instead of deflecting I just laughed at her joke and said: "Fat fail, eh? What do you suppose went wrong?"
"Liz. Known her since childhood. Wouldn't let me off the hook.... Bitch."
We both chuckled and sat for a moment in comfortable silence down at our end of the table. It was serene; there was a cool, fresh-smelling breeze off the lake and the patio was lit by strings of Christmasy lights that cast colorful shadows over her shiny round face. "So, what's your story?" she asked .
We continued like this, exchanging the usual icebreaking chit-chat, and I grew more intoxicated with her wit and charm (to say nothing of the beer!). I wanted so badly to ask her to break away from the company and go for a walk with me but I concluded that it was simply not possible. There were ten of us in total; we had to mingle; I had to avoid embarrassing myself by trying to lay a bridesmaid.
The evening wound down and I returned to the hotel room I shared with Marty, another one of Brad's groomsmen. I recall lying in the dark staring at the ceiling as Marty snored that night, unable to sleep thinking of Teresa. I thought about trying to rub one out in the bathroom but decided against it. I was unlikely to wake Marty but, if I did, it would be the basis for another story I didn't want circulating among my friends: I didn't want the title of The Guy who Couldn't Go One Day Without Spanking It. I turned over on my side and waited for sleep.
* * *
The rehearsal dinner and related events gave us yet another opportunity for flirt and banter. Friday she wore a high-waist ruffle dress, fire engine red, with thin shoulder straps that showed plenty of those beautiful arms and shoulders, a plunging scoop-neck that left the cleavage on display, and a faux sash just below the bosom. She seemed taller today, thanks to high-heeled patent leather boots ("my hooker boots" she called them), and the way the material of her dress flared down and out over her lower back and big pear-shaped bottom—which was even more pronounced today thanks to the high heels—seemed almost calculated to drive me crazy. As the day's events wore on I was powerless to stop trying to steal glances when she wasn't looking but, after a while, the chance that I was succeeding in being at all inconspicuous seemed very poor indeed. By this time the party had expanded to include about thirty more people and, even if Teresa herself didn't catch me checking her out, it is doubtful that I went entirely unobserved.
The ceremony itself was to take place outdoors in a lakefront park, and the reception would be in a small deconsecrated church that had been converted into a recreation hall. The rehearsal and the dinner both took place in the hall. The event planner (or wedding director, or whatever she was called) was a compact, Napoleonic woman with a Brooklyn accent and a shrill, strident, gym-coach's timbre; she was hustling about barking all sorts of instructions and explanations that seemed either tedious or obvious or both. "Okay, if I could have everybody line up with your partners facing the stage—pretend the stage is the lake." Teresa appeared beside me with a can of beer.
