~~WG. BBW. Sex. A diffident Englishman finds his dream girl at the movies, but will they find success at the Oscars?
The last burst of summer heat in Toronto was getting to everyone. I was there, as usual, for the September film festival: a regular jaunt for me, from England, where I earned a precarious living as a freelance journalist. I always liked coming to Toronto. They always showed a fantastic array, ranging from Hollywood’s latest to peculiarities dredged from places you never knew made films at all. Uzbekistan, anybody? And the weather too was usually pleasant.
But not last year. Though the theatres were cool, the crowded foyers, certainly the streets, were another matter. No matter how little clothing you wore, you always felt sticky. Still, people carried on - the usual suspects, distributors, critics, publicists, crowding around, plying their trade.
Among them was Nora Kim, who worked for a PR company in Los Angeles. We’d had some past dealings – interviews arranged, coffee chats, going to the same festival parties. Korean extraction; honey-coloured, slightly sallow skin; piercing brown eyes; the usual black hair; Asiatic cheekbones; very trim; 26-ish; around five foot four, with the best smile in North America. I liked her.
We soon ran into each other, after a screening. There she was, with her torchlight beam, asking me what I thought of a Japanese number called "25 Hammers Hit My Skull". She was handling it for the distributor, and was panting to fix up an interview with the director. I had clear opinions about the film, yet I had difficulty focussing on what I was saying. The reason? Nora’s midriff.
I had neither seen nor thought about her midriff before - she had always been slender enough never to attract my attention that way. Ever since I had feelings to feel, my ideal woman had always been someone carrying that “little bit extra”, especially if the extra arrived gradually, before my eyes. Quite out of the blue Nora had made a start. There it was, out in full view, a small but noticeable curve of fat, bared beneath her t-shirt, trembling over the top of her slacks.
No sooner had I absorbed that when other sights struck my eyes and derailed my mind. Above her midriff, her breasts. These too I’d never noticed before. Hard to miss them now, though: medium round, pushing tight against the t-shirt’s lettering, “I’M CRAZY FOR YOU” (the title of a film, I assumed, not a statement of fact.) Then I took in her arms: slenderly constructed as before, but still a little softer where they disappeared into her t-shirt’s sleeves. And the more she talked, the more I realised subtle changes in her face. How could I follow what she was saying when my mind was feasting on the extra flesh padding her cheekbones, blurring her jaw? Since the festival last year little Nora had clearly put on weight.
I was enthralled. Here she was, a very attractive young woman, previously slender, but now suddenly looking maybe ten, up to fifteen pounds heavier, with the sheen of a ripened peach. I longed to know how she had gained, and why. More than that I wouldn’t have dreamed - except perhaps for a privileged view of that fat forming a roll as she sat down.
Despite these distractions, I managed to keep a few wits about me. I said I felt after about the twelfth hammer the film disintegrated, and I wouldn’t be keen on an interview, sorry. I also said maybe there’d be time to talk later in the week over a coffee or ice cream – I slipped in the ice cream deliberately.
“Fine,” she said, smiling broadly. “You have my mobile number?”
Then the swarm of people swept us apart. She had other critics to collar; I had another film to see. Sloping off, I caught her in profile, talking animatedly, with her midriff fat bubbling out and a sweetly rounded derriere. Over ten pounds, definitely.
The next few days were packed. Into the theatres by nine in the morning; endless queuing to get a good seat; guzzling water to avoid dehydration. Up on the screen I’d seen Meryl Streep adopt her 54th accent. I’d seen Natalie Portman naked in the shower (not enough meat in my view). I’d seen Heath Ledger’s chest, not appealing either, engaged in glory for the British Empire. Sheep, goats and three peasants had spent 130 minutes clambering round a mountain in Greece. After that it was high time for Nora Kim.
On the day we met - Thursday, 3.30pm, after the Latvian film "The Potato Soup Mystery" – the weather had cooled. Nora was wearing a longish shirt that hung down right to the waist: smart, nice, but it covered up her middle. Disappointing. And at first sight I thought she looked thinner. Maybe I’d been exaggerating before. Maybe it had been a trick of the light, or - my constant companion - wishful thinking.
We hadn’t the energy to be adventurous, so we went to Starbucks. I had iced tea; she had a kind of coffee so complicated I couldn’t begin to describe it. I buckled down to renewing our acquaintance. Nora was bright, pleasant, often funny, an all-round nice person. She asked about the Latvian film. I’d little interest in potato soup before, I said, and I had even less now.
“What was the mystery?” she said.
"Why they made it; that was the mystery," I replied.
“Oh well, you can’t win them all.”
As we talked face to face, I soon realised I’d been worrying for nothing. There was the same flesh on her cheekbones and jaw, beautifying the landscape like a coating of winter snow. There were the breasts, definitely bigger than before. I noticed too – just a minor thing - a couple of light crease marks in the skin across her wrists. Had they always been there?
We talked about how the year had gone for us so far. Kind of OK, I said.
“My”, she cried, “you’re so enthusiastic!”
I told her I was repressed and English, and enthusiasm came hard. All good fun; but I ached to bring the topic around to food.
“You don’t want a snack, do you, a muffin, or something?”
“Oh yes!” Her eyes lit up. “I was forgetting I was hungry.”
She wanted a chocolate muffin. I wanted desperately to say, “Ah, chocolate! I notice you’ve put on some weight. . .” But timidity buttoned my lip.
Back with the muffins from the counter (I had a blueberry, as if you cared), we got round to talking about life styles. She talked about California, and how everyone in La-la Land was obsessed with money, possessions and their looks. It had always been like that, she said, but it was getting much worse.
Then, poised to eat, she started in on the subject herself. “A couple of years ago I wouldn’t be seen dead with a chocolate muffin. I was so obsessed with calories.”
My heart was beating faster.
“I’m trying to be more relaxed about food now. Maybe you’ve noticed I’ve gained a little weight. . .”
She’d said it. She’d said the magic words. I tried not to blush or stammer:
“Just a little. And it looks good on you.” Part of me wanted to ask how many pounds exactly. But I’d have needed to be American or one of her women friends to be comfortable about that, and I was neither.
“That’s what I try to tell myself too.” She sounded rueful and not very convinced, as she glanced down at her chest with an “oh well” kind of look.
Even with Nora’s openness it seemed ungentlemanly of me to pursue this further. Besides, I felt nervous. So I manoeuvred the talk back to the festival. She urged me to catch Atom Egoyan’s latest, featuring Richard Dreyfuss, about the stunted life of a funeral director in Brooklyn - "Dissecting Morrie Kershowitz".
Dreyfuss was up for interviews. With a heavy heart I said I would look out for it. But all the time, my mind was turning over the thought of trim little Nora in LA over the past year, eating away and watching with mixed feelings as her body started to soften.
I longed, too, to see more of the evidence: that tummy, that midriff roll. But both stayed out of sight, hidden by the shirt and the table top - a maddening combination.
Suddenly she was convulsed by a big yawn. Was that a double chin? A suspicion of one, at any rate, just for a second. Even better was the view of her waist, briefly revealed as she stretched her arms wide, causing her shirt to ride upward. There was her roll of fat, jutting over her slacks, belly button sunk some way inside. Then the arms came down and the curtain closed. Spectacle over.
But not quite. For as she settled her shirt back into place she shot me a glance that appeared to say, “Is my fat sexy? Please say yes!”
Something, at any rate, was being indicated.
I was overcome. I’d always known that extra flesh made a woman more desirable. But the new allure Nora evoked was still beyond my experience. She looked so beautiful with her little tummy. And I envied her – how I envied her. To be an attractive woman and to be putting on some visible weight: that seemed like heaven on earth to me.
On the spur of the moment I asked if she ever had time in Toronto for lunch or dinner.
“Afraid not,” she said, and her regret seemed genuine. “But if you’re ever in LA, look me up.”
Then she winked. What did that mean?
There wasn’t much more to our talk; we both had to hurry. She offered a cheek for a light kiss, and we went our separate ways.
STARRING NORA KIM
by Swordfish
by Swordfish
The last burst of summer heat in Toronto was getting to everyone. I was there, as usual, for the September film festival: a regular jaunt for me, from England, where I earned a precarious living as a freelance journalist. I always liked coming to Toronto. They always showed a fantastic array, ranging from Hollywood’s latest to peculiarities dredged from places you never knew made films at all. Uzbekistan, anybody? And the weather too was usually pleasant.
But not last year. Though the theatres were cool, the crowded foyers, certainly the streets, were another matter. No matter how little clothing you wore, you always felt sticky. Still, people carried on - the usual suspects, distributors, critics, publicists, crowding around, plying their trade.
Among them was Nora Kim, who worked for a PR company in Los Angeles. We’d had some past dealings – interviews arranged, coffee chats, going to the same festival parties. Korean extraction; honey-coloured, slightly sallow skin; piercing brown eyes; the usual black hair; Asiatic cheekbones; very trim; 26-ish; around five foot four, with the best smile in North America. I liked her.
We soon ran into each other, after a screening. There she was, with her torchlight beam, asking me what I thought of a Japanese number called "25 Hammers Hit My Skull". She was handling it for the distributor, and was panting to fix up an interview with the director. I had clear opinions about the film, yet I had difficulty focussing on what I was saying. The reason? Nora’s midriff.
I had neither seen nor thought about her midriff before - she had always been slender enough never to attract my attention that way. Ever since I had feelings to feel, my ideal woman had always been someone carrying that “little bit extra”, especially if the extra arrived gradually, before my eyes. Quite out of the blue Nora had made a start. There it was, out in full view, a small but noticeable curve of fat, bared beneath her t-shirt, trembling over the top of her slacks.
No sooner had I absorbed that when other sights struck my eyes and derailed my mind. Above her midriff, her breasts. These too I’d never noticed before. Hard to miss them now, though: medium round, pushing tight against the t-shirt’s lettering, “I’M CRAZY FOR YOU” (the title of a film, I assumed, not a statement of fact.) Then I took in her arms: slenderly constructed as before, but still a little softer where they disappeared into her t-shirt’s sleeves. And the more she talked, the more I realised subtle changes in her face. How could I follow what she was saying when my mind was feasting on the extra flesh padding her cheekbones, blurring her jaw? Since the festival last year little Nora had clearly put on weight.
I was enthralled. Here she was, a very attractive young woman, previously slender, but now suddenly looking maybe ten, up to fifteen pounds heavier, with the sheen of a ripened peach. I longed to know how she had gained, and why. More than that I wouldn’t have dreamed - except perhaps for a privileged view of that fat forming a roll as she sat down.
Despite these distractions, I managed to keep a few wits about me. I said I felt after about the twelfth hammer the film disintegrated, and I wouldn’t be keen on an interview, sorry. I also said maybe there’d be time to talk later in the week over a coffee or ice cream – I slipped in the ice cream deliberately.
“Fine,” she said, smiling broadly. “You have my mobile number?”
Then the swarm of people swept us apart. She had other critics to collar; I had another film to see. Sloping off, I caught her in profile, talking animatedly, with her midriff fat bubbling out and a sweetly rounded derriere. Over ten pounds, definitely.
The next few days were packed. Into the theatres by nine in the morning; endless queuing to get a good seat; guzzling water to avoid dehydration. Up on the screen I’d seen Meryl Streep adopt her 54th accent. I’d seen Natalie Portman naked in the shower (not enough meat in my view). I’d seen Heath Ledger’s chest, not appealing either, engaged in glory for the British Empire. Sheep, goats and three peasants had spent 130 minutes clambering round a mountain in Greece. After that it was high time for Nora Kim.
On the day we met - Thursday, 3.30pm, after the Latvian film "The Potato Soup Mystery" – the weather had cooled. Nora was wearing a longish shirt that hung down right to the waist: smart, nice, but it covered up her middle. Disappointing. And at first sight I thought she looked thinner. Maybe I’d been exaggerating before. Maybe it had been a trick of the light, or - my constant companion - wishful thinking.
We hadn’t the energy to be adventurous, so we went to Starbucks. I had iced tea; she had a kind of coffee so complicated I couldn’t begin to describe it. I buckled down to renewing our acquaintance. Nora was bright, pleasant, often funny, an all-round nice person. She asked about the Latvian film. I’d little interest in potato soup before, I said, and I had even less now.
“What was the mystery?” she said.
"Why they made it; that was the mystery," I replied.
“Oh well, you can’t win them all.”
As we talked face to face, I soon realised I’d been worrying for nothing. There was the same flesh on her cheekbones and jaw, beautifying the landscape like a coating of winter snow. There were the breasts, definitely bigger than before. I noticed too – just a minor thing - a couple of light crease marks in the skin across her wrists. Had they always been there?
We talked about how the year had gone for us so far. Kind of OK, I said.
“My”, she cried, “you’re so enthusiastic!”
I told her I was repressed and English, and enthusiasm came hard. All good fun; but I ached to bring the topic around to food.
“You don’t want a snack, do you, a muffin, or something?”
“Oh yes!” Her eyes lit up. “I was forgetting I was hungry.”
She wanted a chocolate muffin. I wanted desperately to say, “Ah, chocolate! I notice you’ve put on some weight. . .” But timidity buttoned my lip.
Back with the muffins from the counter (I had a blueberry, as if you cared), we got round to talking about life styles. She talked about California, and how everyone in La-la Land was obsessed with money, possessions and their looks. It had always been like that, she said, but it was getting much worse.
Then, poised to eat, she started in on the subject herself. “A couple of years ago I wouldn’t be seen dead with a chocolate muffin. I was so obsessed with calories.”
My heart was beating faster.
“I’m trying to be more relaxed about food now. Maybe you’ve noticed I’ve gained a little weight. . .”
She’d said it. She’d said the magic words. I tried not to blush or stammer:
“Just a little. And it looks good on you.” Part of me wanted to ask how many pounds exactly. But I’d have needed to be American or one of her women friends to be comfortable about that, and I was neither.
“That’s what I try to tell myself too.” She sounded rueful and not very convinced, as she glanced down at her chest with an “oh well” kind of look.
Even with Nora’s openness it seemed ungentlemanly of me to pursue this further. Besides, I felt nervous. So I manoeuvred the talk back to the festival. She urged me to catch Atom Egoyan’s latest, featuring Richard Dreyfuss, about the stunted life of a funeral director in Brooklyn - "Dissecting Morrie Kershowitz".
Dreyfuss was up for interviews. With a heavy heart I said I would look out for it. But all the time, my mind was turning over the thought of trim little Nora in LA over the past year, eating away and watching with mixed feelings as her body started to soften.
I longed, too, to see more of the evidence: that tummy, that midriff roll. But both stayed out of sight, hidden by the shirt and the table top - a maddening combination.
Suddenly she was convulsed by a big yawn. Was that a double chin? A suspicion of one, at any rate, just for a second. Even better was the view of her waist, briefly revealed as she stretched her arms wide, causing her shirt to ride upward. There was her roll of fat, jutting over her slacks, belly button sunk some way inside. Then the arms came down and the curtain closed. Spectacle over.
But not quite. For as she settled her shirt back into place she shot me a glance that appeared to say, “Is my fat sexy? Please say yes!”
Something, at any rate, was being indicated.
I was overcome. I’d always known that extra flesh made a woman more desirable. But the new allure Nora evoked was still beyond my experience. She looked so beautiful with her little tummy. And I envied her – how I envied her. To be an attractive woman and to be putting on some visible weight: that seemed like heaven on earth to me.
On the spur of the moment I asked if she ever had time in Toronto for lunch or dinner.
“Afraid not,” she said, and her regret seemed genuine. “But if you’re ever in LA, look me up.”
Then she winked. What did that mean?
There wasn’t much more to our talk; we both had to hurry. She offered a cheek for a light kiss, and we went our separate ways.
