~BBW, stuffing, contest - A rivalry at a dinner party escalates.
[Note: Hi, everyone. I won't pretend there's anything too groundbreaking here, but I enjoyed putting it together and thought I'd share. I'll update with subsequent chapters as I finish revising.
Resemblance of any characters to actual folks is coincidental and so forth, and all the named locations are blatantly and shamelessly fictional.]
Part One: wherein are gathered for a genteel dinner several graduates of Thalia University at an apartment near the downtown campus of that illustrious and storied Midwestern institution.
Chapter 1
Leslie felt out of place. She hadn’t expected to be so uncomfortable, as it wasn’t any new or extraordinary situation, but there were enough bothersome little details to lend the young evening an air of dread. It was to be a harmless social gathering, but Leslie felt disaster looming.
Blythe had invited her, lauding the joyous potential of the festivities, and had politely introduced her to the other guests, but had then promptly abandoned her. This was a habit of Blythe’s, apparently believing that once someone’s name had been announced to a group the newcomer would be able to participate as satisfactorily as any lifelong member. She was a caring friend, Leslie couldn’t deny that, but Blythe was the sort of extrovert who believed that introversion was a disease she was ethically obligated to cure.
So Leslie had retreated to a corner of the apartment’s lavish common room. Nestling furtively into the softest armchair she had ever encountered, she quietly studied the small party.
Blythe’s handsome boyfriend, Myron, who owned the apartment, Leslie knew already. He was standing over everyone in the center of the room, telling a well-received story, master of his domain. There was also Hollis, whom Leslie recognized from the university library, apparently who apparently lived in the apartment next door. Hollis wasn’t part of Myron’s audience—he was across the room in the kitchenette, cutting vegetables with a curious determination.
As for the other guests, Leslie had already largely forgotten their names. She felt no obligation to remember them. They were Myron’s friends, a separate social circle, and Leslie already suspected that she herself had only been invited to give an otherwise ordinary dinner party a sense of occasion—the event had been made significant enough to reach beyond existing circles.
Leslie felt out of place visually, as well. This was a gathering of the beautiful people; they were all fit and well-composed, ready at all times for a publicity shot. Leslie hadn’t realized that such people existed outside of the television and now wished they would go back inside it. They made her feel very small, for she was easily the shortest in the room and was dwarfed by both their physical and charismatic presences. But they also made her feel fat, flaunting their taut abs and toned butts the way Leslie wished she still could. Myron’s friends were all athletes—Blythe herself was a physical trainer. They had snazzy jobs and snazzy hobbies and snazzy personalities and dressed in way that said so.
Leslie felt her wardrobe said less of her. He blouse wasn’t particularly revealing, but it had tightened recently and tended to ride up, retreating from the little muffin-top she had begun to develop. She felt her skirt’s snugness wasn’t too flattering, either.
Self-conscious of her midriff, she sank as deep as possible into the chair in a vain attempt to hide. This was new. She knew she had gained weight since leaving her job a month prior, but it hadn’t particularly bothered her—rather, the lazy, beer-soaked indulgence of her idle month had been strangely satisfying and it had seemed that a minor beer belly shouldn’t warrant much worry—until now, when there were so many well-sculpted figures around, ready to judge.
She wondered about the confident aura they all exuded. She remembered that feeling of pride once, when a classmate in high school had confessed a strange obsession with her wild red hair. Although more embarrassed than anything, she had inwardly beamed then, and envied now that these people could beam so constantly.
It seemed, she admitted, shallow and immature to allow herself to feel belittled by people who had been nothing but open, friendly, and kind, but the forced socialization had put her in a sour mood and it was difficult to shake.
Myron finished his story and called over to Hollis, wondering if he would ever be done. Hollis replied in a stammer about ensuring sufficient portions, only to be interrupted by the guests’ jovial impatience. Hollis surrendered and rejoined the gathering, presenting two trays of light appetizers to the oohs and aahs of those gathered.
The reactions were warranted—the trays were piled with bruschetta, cheeses, vegetables, and several dipping selections. The group praised Hollis’ culinary achievement as he served them in turn; he firmly asserted that he had only cut up what had already come prepared. Leslie, waiting in the corner, listened to the gushing reviews and realized that she was immensely hungry. She stared at the trays as they navigated around the room, unconsciously beginning to emerge from the depths of her chair.
A paper plate landed suddenly in her lap; Blythe had tossed it across to her. Leslie held it up in acknowledgement, then looked up as Hollis reached her with the trays.
After a moment’s consideration, Leslie organized a sampler for herself, as everything looked too good not too try. She paused, trying to measure her hunger and decide on appropriate social graces. Hollis was looking away now, listening to someone behind him. Leslie picked up a few more bites, filling her plate, then hesitated with her hand over the last slice of bruschetta.
“Oh, go for it,” said Hollis, smiling.
Leslie started, embarrassed. “Well, it doesn’t seem fair to anyone else that wants one, I—“
“Nah, you’re the last, so everyone’s got some. And if they want more, I’ll cut more. Take it. You know you want to.”
“Maybe when I’ve cleared some room on the plate,” she mused, setting to work on doing so. “And you’re right, I do love it.”
“Haha, thanks.” He squatted down on the floor by her chair and nibbled on a baby carrot. “Leslie, right? I used to see you in the library all the time.”
"Uh, that’s me, yeah. And I remember you from the circulation desk, I think.”
“Yes, I am that lame guy behind the desk. But, it helps pay for grad school, so I can’t complain too much.”
“And you live next door to Blythe and Myron. Who knew?” The food was warming Leslie’s mood. She curled around her plate, trying some of everything.
“Small world. But mine is a far tinier and far less impressive apartment. Now that their roommates have moved out, I can’t imagine what they’ll do with all this space.”
“Oh gosh, yeah. Jealous. If I didn’t have a place I’d beg to move into, I dunno, a closet or something here.” She pondered her plate for a moment, deciding what to taste next. “Of course, then I’d have to live on the east side, and I may not be cut out for that.”
“You’re a westie?”
“Shh, don’t tell, or they’ll think I’m a barbarian. My job was out there, so it was just easier.”
“Was?”
“I left about a month ago. Time for new things.”
“New things like what?”
She took a large bite to buy time to compose an answer, chewing slowly. “Uh, don’t quite know yet for certain. But it was time for a change. I mean, I’ll miss the money—it definitely paid well—but the stress and the need to maintain an image and just all of it, well, I guess it didn’t really fit my, uh, my identity, or something like that.”
“I feel that. This last piece of bruschetta is still calling your name, by the way. So you’re on the job hunt?”
“This is gonna sound horrible, but not really, not yet. I had some savings, so I’ve kind of taken some time to relax and wander a bit before jumping in again.”
“Actually, that sounds fantastic. I’m jealous.”
“Yeah, it’s been a good month. Let’s see that tray.” She leaned over the side of the chair, careful not to tilt her plate, and reached down to snatch the bruschetta.
“So what have you been doing, then?”
She smiled, her mouth half full. “Drinking beer and eating junk food, mostly.”
Hollis laughed, then turned to look at something. Leslie followed his gaze—everyone’s gaze, now—to the front door, where Myron was greeting and ushering in a new guest.
“Hey, everyone, this is our new neighbor from upstairs,” Myron announced. “Volla, meet everyone; everyone, meet Volla.”
“Hello!” said the new arrival, “it is very nice to meet you all.” There were traces of a curious European accent in her voice. It lilted with an icy confidence.
Leslie marveled, her envy rising again. Volla was an amazon, a stunning specimen, tall and commanding. She wasn’t lean like the others and was certainly heavier than Leslie, but had somehow quite unfairly molded her curves into a classic hourglass. The group collectively stared at that golden hair, those proud shoulders, that smooth midsection, those astonishing hips… She had poured herself into a tight white cocktail dress that caressed her statuesque form. She beamed brighter than everyone.
“Sorry I’m so late.” She looked across to Hollis. “Are there appetizers left? I am absolutely starving.”
Leslie paled and sank back into the chair as eyes turned to the nearly empty trays. Hollis apologized, stammering again, and offered to cut up some more. He trotted after Volla back to the kitchenette, leaving Leslie deep in the chair.
“Good thing you brought an appetite,” laughed Blythe. “After all, we brought you all here to get rid of all this food.”
“Aha!” cried one of the guys from the couch, grinning, “I knew you didn’t just invite me for my company. There’s always an ulterior motive.”
“They’ve found us out, babe,” Blythe lamented.
Myron feigned remorse. “Look, can you blame us? Our food-obsessed roommates moved out in kind of a rush and they left behind a kitchen full of half-prepared meals.”
“They were kind of weird,” added Blythe, “but boy could they cook.”
“You’re so right!” exclaimed Volla, leaning over the counter with a slice of bruschetta, “it’s incredible!”
“I’m sure it’s more than even you folks can put away in one night,” Myron sneered, “but I bet we can make a good dent.”
[Note: Hi, everyone. I won't pretend there's anything too groundbreaking here, but I enjoyed putting it together and thought I'd share. I'll update with subsequent chapters as I finish revising.
Resemblance of any characters to actual folks is coincidental and so forth, and all the named locations are blatantly and shamelessly fictional.]
Beaming
by Marlow
by Marlow
Part One: wherein are gathered for a genteel dinner several graduates of Thalia University at an apartment near the downtown campus of that illustrious and storied Midwestern institution.
Chapter 1
Leslie felt out of place. She hadn’t expected to be so uncomfortable, as it wasn’t any new or extraordinary situation, but there were enough bothersome little details to lend the young evening an air of dread. It was to be a harmless social gathering, but Leslie felt disaster looming.
Blythe had invited her, lauding the joyous potential of the festivities, and had politely introduced her to the other guests, but had then promptly abandoned her. This was a habit of Blythe’s, apparently believing that once someone’s name had been announced to a group the newcomer would be able to participate as satisfactorily as any lifelong member. She was a caring friend, Leslie couldn’t deny that, but Blythe was the sort of extrovert who believed that introversion was a disease she was ethically obligated to cure.
So Leslie had retreated to a corner of the apartment’s lavish common room. Nestling furtively into the softest armchair she had ever encountered, she quietly studied the small party.
Blythe’s handsome boyfriend, Myron, who owned the apartment, Leslie knew already. He was standing over everyone in the center of the room, telling a well-received story, master of his domain. There was also Hollis, whom Leslie recognized from the university library, apparently who apparently lived in the apartment next door. Hollis wasn’t part of Myron’s audience—he was across the room in the kitchenette, cutting vegetables with a curious determination.
As for the other guests, Leslie had already largely forgotten their names. She felt no obligation to remember them. They were Myron’s friends, a separate social circle, and Leslie already suspected that she herself had only been invited to give an otherwise ordinary dinner party a sense of occasion—the event had been made significant enough to reach beyond existing circles.
Leslie felt out of place visually, as well. This was a gathering of the beautiful people; they were all fit and well-composed, ready at all times for a publicity shot. Leslie hadn’t realized that such people existed outside of the television and now wished they would go back inside it. They made her feel very small, for she was easily the shortest in the room and was dwarfed by both their physical and charismatic presences. But they also made her feel fat, flaunting their taut abs and toned butts the way Leslie wished she still could. Myron’s friends were all athletes—Blythe herself was a physical trainer. They had snazzy jobs and snazzy hobbies and snazzy personalities and dressed in way that said so.
Leslie felt her wardrobe said less of her. He blouse wasn’t particularly revealing, but it had tightened recently and tended to ride up, retreating from the little muffin-top she had begun to develop. She felt her skirt’s snugness wasn’t too flattering, either.
Self-conscious of her midriff, she sank as deep as possible into the chair in a vain attempt to hide. This was new. She knew she had gained weight since leaving her job a month prior, but it hadn’t particularly bothered her—rather, the lazy, beer-soaked indulgence of her idle month had been strangely satisfying and it had seemed that a minor beer belly shouldn’t warrant much worry—until now, when there were so many well-sculpted figures around, ready to judge.
She wondered about the confident aura they all exuded. She remembered that feeling of pride once, when a classmate in high school had confessed a strange obsession with her wild red hair. Although more embarrassed than anything, she had inwardly beamed then, and envied now that these people could beam so constantly.
It seemed, she admitted, shallow and immature to allow herself to feel belittled by people who had been nothing but open, friendly, and kind, but the forced socialization had put her in a sour mood and it was difficult to shake.
Myron finished his story and called over to Hollis, wondering if he would ever be done. Hollis replied in a stammer about ensuring sufficient portions, only to be interrupted by the guests’ jovial impatience. Hollis surrendered and rejoined the gathering, presenting two trays of light appetizers to the oohs and aahs of those gathered.
The reactions were warranted—the trays were piled with bruschetta, cheeses, vegetables, and several dipping selections. The group praised Hollis’ culinary achievement as he served them in turn; he firmly asserted that he had only cut up what had already come prepared. Leslie, waiting in the corner, listened to the gushing reviews and realized that she was immensely hungry. She stared at the trays as they navigated around the room, unconsciously beginning to emerge from the depths of her chair.
A paper plate landed suddenly in her lap; Blythe had tossed it across to her. Leslie held it up in acknowledgement, then looked up as Hollis reached her with the trays.
After a moment’s consideration, Leslie organized a sampler for herself, as everything looked too good not too try. She paused, trying to measure her hunger and decide on appropriate social graces. Hollis was looking away now, listening to someone behind him. Leslie picked up a few more bites, filling her plate, then hesitated with her hand over the last slice of bruschetta.
“Oh, go for it,” said Hollis, smiling.
Leslie started, embarrassed. “Well, it doesn’t seem fair to anyone else that wants one, I—“
“Nah, you’re the last, so everyone’s got some. And if they want more, I’ll cut more. Take it. You know you want to.”
“Maybe when I’ve cleared some room on the plate,” she mused, setting to work on doing so. “And you’re right, I do love it.”
“Haha, thanks.” He squatted down on the floor by her chair and nibbled on a baby carrot. “Leslie, right? I used to see you in the library all the time.”
"Uh, that’s me, yeah. And I remember you from the circulation desk, I think.”
“Yes, I am that lame guy behind the desk. But, it helps pay for grad school, so I can’t complain too much.”
“And you live next door to Blythe and Myron. Who knew?” The food was warming Leslie’s mood. She curled around her plate, trying some of everything.
“Small world. But mine is a far tinier and far less impressive apartment. Now that their roommates have moved out, I can’t imagine what they’ll do with all this space.”
“Oh gosh, yeah. Jealous. If I didn’t have a place I’d beg to move into, I dunno, a closet or something here.” She pondered her plate for a moment, deciding what to taste next. “Of course, then I’d have to live on the east side, and I may not be cut out for that.”
“You’re a westie?”
“Shh, don’t tell, or they’ll think I’m a barbarian. My job was out there, so it was just easier.”
“Was?”
“I left about a month ago. Time for new things.”
“New things like what?”
She took a large bite to buy time to compose an answer, chewing slowly. “Uh, don’t quite know yet for certain. But it was time for a change. I mean, I’ll miss the money—it definitely paid well—but the stress and the need to maintain an image and just all of it, well, I guess it didn’t really fit my, uh, my identity, or something like that.”
“I feel that. This last piece of bruschetta is still calling your name, by the way. So you’re on the job hunt?”
“This is gonna sound horrible, but not really, not yet. I had some savings, so I’ve kind of taken some time to relax and wander a bit before jumping in again.”
“Actually, that sounds fantastic. I’m jealous.”
“Yeah, it’s been a good month. Let’s see that tray.” She leaned over the side of the chair, careful not to tilt her plate, and reached down to snatch the bruschetta.
“So what have you been doing, then?”
She smiled, her mouth half full. “Drinking beer and eating junk food, mostly.”
Hollis laughed, then turned to look at something. Leslie followed his gaze—everyone’s gaze, now—to the front door, where Myron was greeting and ushering in a new guest.
“Hey, everyone, this is our new neighbor from upstairs,” Myron announced. “Volla, meet everyone; everyone, meet Volla.”
“Hello!” said the new arrival, “it is very nice to meet you all.” There were traces of a curious European accent in her voice. It lilted with an icy confidence.
Leslie marveled, her envy rising again. Volla was an amazon, a stunning specimen, tall and commanding. She wasn’t lean like the others and was certainly heavier than Leslie, but had somehow quite unfairly molded her curves into a classic hourglass. The group collectively stared at that golden hair, those proud shoulders, that smooth midsection, those astonishing hips… She had poured herself into a tight white cocktail dress that caressed her statuesque form. She beamed brighter than everyone.
“Sorry I’m so late.” She looked across to Hollis. “Are there appetizers left? I am absolutely starving.”
Leslie paled and sank back into the chair as eyes turned to the nearly empty trays. Hollis apologized, stammering again, and offered to cut up some more. He trotted after Volla back to the kitchenette, leaving Leslie deep in the chair.
“Good thing you brought an appetite,” laughed Blythe. “After all, we brought you all here to get rid of all this food.”
“Aha!” cried one of the guys from the couch, grinning, “I knew you didn’t just invite me for my company. There’s always an ulterior motive.”
“They’ve found us out, babe,” Blythe lamented.
Myron feigned remorse. “Look, can you blame us? Our food-obsessed roommates moved out in kind of a rush and they left behind a kitchen full of half-prepared meals.”
“They were kind of weird,” added Blythe, “but boy could they cook.”
“You’re so right!” exclaimed Volla, leaning over the counter with a slice of bruschetta, “it’s incredible!”
“I’m sure it’s more than even you folks can put away in one night,” Myron sneered, “but I bet we can make a good dent.”
