jomar
chillin
- Joined
- Nov 7, 2006
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I'm not sure if this is the right way to do this, but don't know how to get story feedback on unpublished stories other than this. My apologies if this is not the way to do it.
Anyway, I wrote this story about a husband who is not sexually attracted to obese women and whose wife becomes obese over the years. He likes and loves her but cannot change his feelings.
The story is in no way meant to offend anyone, but could see how it might. I would appreciate feedback about the "offensive quotient." Also about the writing itself, mechanics, flow, etc. I'm still in the process of editing it, by the way (I'm zeroed in on the fantasizing paragraph right now).
Story:
They were eating dinner at the new restaurant in town. Sitting across the table from each other the talk was easy, made easier by the wine. They liked each other, enjoyed one another’s company, and made each other laugh. They loved each other.
After living together for several years, they were 28 when they married. He proposed at midnight on the bow of a cruise ship off the coast of Aruba, under a brilliant canopy of stars. The kids were in college now and it was just the two of them as they closed in on 50.
He had always been more adventuresome and she was willing to be led. Early on they made love often and everywhere. They made love in an alley in New York City, running away laughing afterwards when they noticed the short “alley” opened to obscure ground floor apartments. In centerfield at a little league park, very late on a cloudy night. On an isolated beach under a full moon. In an empty apartment they were looking at to maybe rent. When they moved into their first apartment they christened each room and did the same thing when they bought their first home.
But he had been in denial. He remembered how he fell in love with his slim, beautiful wife and was a goner before he even met her mother, and later, her grandmother. Remembered his deep anger on the trip to Maine to move his obese mother-in-law.
He told himself that his tall, slim wife, with a flat stomach, a stomach with muscles clearly defined, would never end up like the other women in the family. That she favored her slender father.
She put on some weight after they had moved into the apartment. But she exercised and shed it. Sometime later they had both put on a few pounds, so set a goal and gave themselves an incentive. They lost the weight and took a trip to Jamaica, where their first planned child was conceived after too many Mai Tais. They laughed that someday it would be a romantic story to tell.
She gained fifty pounds with that pregnancy and lost thirty-five or forty of it. Two years later she didn’t gain as much with her second pregnancy, but couldn’t rid herself of ten or fifteen stubborn pounds.
Even after the first child he was silently proud, pleased that she was the fittest of the four moms in the neighborhood playgroup. And she stayed that way for many years. Though over the past few years she gradually became the largest at the playgroup Christmas dinners.
Out in public he noticed other men’s slender wives and was jealous. Felt sad that he would never make love to a slender woman again. Sad for what had been and now was not. It was so unfair.
Simply put, it was about sexual attraction. That’s all. He was just not sexually attracted to obese women, or extremely thin women, for that matter. He never had been. And he felt helpless in the face of it.
She’d had Hepatitis C and had been on a year long regimen of strong medication. The medication was almost worse than the disease, like having a bad flu for a year, though she had it better than others she knew, who curled up in bed in agony after the shots. Even so, the medication caused some physical pain and depression and she was put on an antidepressant that typically resulted in weight loss.
Fingers crossed, he had been hopeful, then a mounting anger when she didn’t lose weight. Angry. At her for letting it happen. At his denial so many years ago. At the situation. At his guilt.
The Hepatitis was no longer detectable and he was truly grateful, but during the treatment, on that long trip to Maine, he couldn’t help thinking about what would happen if she were to die. He thought about the kids and how he would help them cope with the loss of their mother. He thought about himself and how he would cope. And how he would, when he was ready, start over.
Maybe he would see a pretty, slender woman at a bookstore, or eating with a friend in a restaurant. He would try to catch her on the way out or on the way back from the bathroom. He would say hello to her and tell her that he couldn’t help noticing her, that he would like to know her better, and would she be interested in getting coffee one morning, or lunch. That at the lunch, where they were both nervous, but hopeful, he would tell this pretty, slender woman that he had been doing a lot of reflecting and decided to not let opportunities for happiness and fulfillment pass by. He would tell his story. Not to scare her, not to overstate, not to rush or put undue pressure on her, tell her he was ready now for a relationship, that he was patient, didn’t want to hurry. She would appreciate his telling her. And one of the pretty, slender women he had lunch with would turn out to be his next soul mate. In his heart believed she would recover.
They got along well. She was a great mother and placed few demands on him. And they were friends. He was blessed in so many ways. But the weight continued to haunt him. Though he loved her and was affectionate, he could not get past the weight. She never said anything. He felt guilty.
They didn’t make love with any frequency now, and when they did they usually had been drinking too much. Sometimes when she had been drinking she would whisper in his ear, “Let’s go upstairs and fuck.” But even that happened less often now.
Magical thinking. Wishful solutions. If they won the lottery they could afford personal trainers, dietician’s, surgery. He recalled letting out a bitter laugh once when reading a novel. One character was talking to another about wishing a thing was something else. The character responded, “Well, I tell you what then. You wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up faster. Same thing goes for prayer now that I think about it.” He thought it amusing at the time.
They ate dinner at the new restaurant in town. They shared another bottle of wine, talked of nothing, laughed easily, enjoyed each other’s company. He furtively noticed the slender women in passing. He always did. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like with them. With a slender woman again.
They finished dinner, paid and as they left the restaurant she hooked her arm in his, said, “Hey honey, let’s crack open a couple more bottles of wine when we get home.”
Holding the door open for her, she passed through first. A pretty, slender 50-something woman arrived then and he held the door for her as she smiled at him, maintaining her eye contact as she passed until momentum carried her away.
“Sounds good,” he said catching up to his wife as a cold rain fell gently on them.
Anyway, I wrote this story about a husband who is not sexually attracted to obese women and whose wife becomes obese over the years. He likes and loves her but cannot change his feelings.
The story is in no way meant to offend anyone, but could see how it might. I would appreciate feedback about the "offensive quotient." Also about the writing itself, mechanics, flow, etc. I'm still in the process of editing it, by the way (I'm zeroed in on the fantasizing paragraph right now).
Story:
They were eating dinner at the new restaurant in town. Sitting across the table from each other the talk was easy, made easier by the wine. They liked each other, enjoyed one another’s company, and made each other laugh. They loved each other.
After living together for several years, they were 28 when they married. He proposed at midnight on the bow of a cruise ship off the coast of Aruba, under a brilliant canopy of stars. The kids were in college now and it was just the two of them as they closed in on 50.
He had always been more adventuresome and she was willing to be led. Early on they made love often and everywhere. They made love in an alley in New York City, running away laughing afterwards when they noticed the short “alley” opened to obscure ground floor apartments. In centerfield at a little league park, very late on a cloudy night. On an isolated beach under a full moon. In an empty apartment they were looking at to maybe rent. When they moved into their first apartment they christened each room and did the same thing when they bought their first home.
But he had been in denial. He remembered how he fell in love with his slim, beautiful wife and was a goner before he even met her mother, and later, her grandmother. Remembered his deep anger on the trip to Maine to move his obese mother-in-law.
He told himself that his tall, slim wife, with a flat stomach, a stomach with muscles clearly defined, would never end up like the other women in the family. That she favored her slender father.
She put on some weight after they had moved into the apartment. But she exercised and shed it. Sometime later they had both put on a few pounds, so set a goal and gave themselves an incentive. They lost the weight and took a trip to Jamaica, where their first planned child was conceived after too many Mai Tais. They laughed that someday it would be a romantic story to tell.
She gained fifty pounds with that pregnancy and lost thirty-five or forty of it. Two years later she didn’t gain as much with her second pregnancy, but couldn’t rid herself of ten or fifteen stubborn pounds.
Even after the first child he was silently proud, pleased that she was the fittest of the four moms in the neighborhood playgroup. And she stayed that way for many years. Though over the past few years she gradually became the largest at the playgroup Christmas dinners.
Out in public he noticed other men’s slender wives and was jealous. Felt sad that he would never make love to a slender woman again. Sad for what had been and now was not. It was so unfair.
Simply put, it was about sexual attraction. That’s all. He was just not sexually attracted to obese women, or extremely thin women, for that matter. He never had been. And he felt helpless in the face of it.
She’d had Hepatitis C and had been on a year long regimen of strong medication. The medication was almost worse than the disease, like having a bad flu for a year, though she had it better than others she knew, who curled up in bed in agony after the shots. Even so, the medication caused some physical pain and depression and she was put on an antidepressant that typically resulted in weight loss.
Fingers crossed, he had been hopeful, then a mounting anger when she didn’t lose weight. Angry. At her for letting it happen. At his denial so many years ago. At the situation. At his guilt.
The Hepatitis was no longer detectable and he was truly grateful, but during the treatment, on that long trip to Maine, he couldn’t help thinking about what would happen if she were to die. He thought about the kids and how he would help them cope with the loss of their mother. He thought about himself and how he would cope. And how he would, when he was ready, start over.
Maybe he would see a pretty, slender woman at a bookstore, or eating with a friend in a restaurant. He would try to catch her on the way out or on the way back from the bathroom. He would say hello to her and tell her that he couldn’t help noticing her, that he would like to know her better, and would she be interested in getting coffee one morning, or lunch. That at the lunch, where they were both nervous, but hopeful, he would tell this pretty, slender woman that he had been doing a lot of reflecting and decided to not let opportunities for happiness and fulfillment pass by. He would tell his story. Not to scare her, not to overstate, not to rush or put undue pressure on her, tell her he was ready now for a relationship, that he was patient, didn’t want to hurry. She would appreciate his telling her. And one of the pretty, slender women he had lunch with would turn out to be his next soul mate. In his heart believed she would recover.
They got along well. She was a great mother and placed few demands on him. And they were friends. He was blessed in so many ways. But the weight continued to haunt him. Though he loved her and was affectionate, he could not get past the weight. She never said anything. He felt guilty.
They didn’t make love with any frequency now, and when they did they usually had been drinking too much. Sometimes when she had been drinking she would whisper in his ear, “Let’s go upstairs and fuck.” But even that happened less often now.
Magical thinking. Wishful solutions. If they won the lottery they could afford personal trainers, dietician’s, surgery. He recalled letting out a bitter laugh once when reading a novel. One character was talking to another about wishing a thing was something else. The character responded, “Well, I tell you what then. You wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up faster. Same thing goes for prayer now that I think about it.” He thought it amusing at the time.
They ate dinner at the new restaurant in town. They shared another bottle of wine, talked of nothing, laughed easily, enjoyed each other’s company. He furtively noticed the slender women in passing. He always did. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like with them. With a slender woman again.
They finished dinner, paid and as they left the restaurant she hooked her arm in his, said, “Hey honey, let’s crack open a couple more bottles of wine when we get home.”
Holding the door open for her, she passed through first. A pretty, slender 50-something woman arrived then and he held the door for her as she smiled at him, maintaining her eye contact as she passed until momentum carried her away.
“Sounds good,” he said catching up to his wife as a cold rain fell gently on them.
