September 06, 2008

Fatty McLiarson

Fatty McLiarson

By Bob Respert © 2008

"I used to be a competitive skier," she said, "until I blew out my knee and had to stop racing. And I absolutely love yoga."

Good, I thought, athletic.

Emily and I had been talking for quite some time over an instant messenger on the computer. Her in ski-country and me in the suck-belt. Ugh, the Midwest. What a fucking dump. Nice job basing almost your entire future existence on the American factory worker and his union. Well played, Midwest. I can see the abandoned factories now.

Literally. They're everywhere already. While Mexicans, Asians, and pretty much everyone else in the world laughs at our fat, bowling-crazy factory workers as they crank out better quality goods for less. Anyways...

It's amazing what the whiz kids of the world have done for my quality of life and the general laziness with which I enjoy coasting along. I can instruct the pizza artists at the local Papa John's on how many garlic butters to place on the side of my order. On my computer. Right from the couch! I can order presents and have them shipped to where I'll be showing up to give them. I can find any kind of porn that I want. (Lord, don't get me started on porn.) But one of the more important technological breakthroughs of my generation is the ability to converse with people in other parts of the world in real time from the luxury of my well appointed bachelor pad.

"Great, because I'm all about keeping in great shape." Not really, I silently mused, I just don't want you thinking you can half-ass your down dogs over the next month before we have a chance to meet in person.

Everything had started with her sudden interest in my totally gay online diary. Not gay in the sense that I'm gay. Cause, I'm not. (Hear that ladies?) But a blog is a nothing more than an online diary and diaries are gay.

I'm not sure how she found it, but I always welcome new readers. Anyone who can read my insane ramblings and find them entertaining is automatically good in my book. At least until they prove themselves otherwise. Boy did she enjoy my site. Comments all the time turned into the occasional email. The occasional email turned into more persistent emailings and eventually she dropped a proposal on my lap.

She thought I'd be really fun to do a podcast with. And of course she was right because I'm really fun to do just about anything with. The persistence paid off for her as I eventually hemmed and hawed enough to feel like I had to.

So we began having phone conversations.

Her voice was velvety with notes of coriander and spice. (Fuck, I drink too much wine. Sorry about that.) I mean to say that she had a sultry voice that lent itself to the eventual flirting that took place.

While there was plenty of getting to know each other there were equal parts flirtation and fantasy. She talked freely of her past jobs and the occasional relationship while I, per usual, talked about everything and anything. It was fun. I was starting to like her.

She lived in a really nice home, had a vacation home in a ski-town, and was running an online boutique clothing store. She seemed to be doing really well for herself, which is great and all but I cared not for what she did or how much money she made. No, I was more interested in what she looked like.

There are certain things a guy can put up with and they all can be suffered through for certain periods of time. Here are some examples:

A beached whale worth ten million is an absolute no-go.

An ugly face with a killer body gets a couple drunken tussles in the sack.

An ugly woman with a bad body gets nothing.

A hot chick living the Jerry Springer lifestyle (trailer, kids, abusive ex) is an absolute go for between 2-3 months or until she starts trying to get her kids around you, whichever comes first.

A mediocre looking woman with tremendous sex appeal rates 2-3 months of behind the scenes relations with friends never meeting her in person and an additional 1 full year of late night booty calls.

A hot chick with money gets as long as she wants.

So, needless to say, I was interested in what she looked like. She was really hesitant about sending me a picture. Now, I know any sane person in this situation would assume she's a fatty, but there was a reason I didn't. She was really hesitant with other things as well. She only called from a cell phone and wouldn't call from, or give me, the home phone. She mentioned some past things that gave her caution in this arena, as well. So I wasn't shocked when she didn't want to send a picture. It seemed par for the course with her overall caution towards strange guys.

But really, what bad can come of a picture? If she's all hot and fit like she claims she is then where's the issue? I guess I was blinded by the light (Potential booty call light) and wrapped up like a douche.

So I eventually convinced her to send a picture and she sent along what appeared to be a picture taken by her, on her bed, and from above her face angled to catch her body. It worked. No head, but nice body. Oh, and it was in lingerie. Excellent.

With flirtation going on for quite some time it seemed appropriate to meet. At least that's what my penis thought, and I have come to trust his sound judgment and sense of timing. We began to discuss getting together to meet, and I'll be honest here, that totally meant we'd be hooking up. The conversations had clearly gone down this path by now and I had a couple grainy, faceless pictures that looked good enough for me and my penis.

Hell, she constantly talked about yoga and skiing, the gym, and keeping in shape. At this point I was thinking she'd be pretty darn doable. Plus, as embarrassed as I feel mentioning this, I was really enjoying talking with her. If her body was what the picture showed, and the conversation flowed the way it did on the internet/phone, and as long as her face didn't look like Rocky Dennis from Mask, It'd be all systems go.

Back and forth we went, me trying to get her to meet up and her shying away and pushing for a certain weekend when I'd be away at training and she could fly in to see me. Eventually we settled on the training weekend.

I hit the exercise bike and pseudo diet hard, hoping to look my best when she walked in. I researched, and found, a nice hotel to book so that I wouldn't have to risk anything with the Nazi regime that runs our training sessions. (No visitors. No leaving on weekends. No expensing porn.)

Leading in the phone conversations got more and more sexual. It wasn't a question of were we going to do it any longer. It was how and where now.

Then I got a nasty sinus cold. It was really bad. I had a really painful headache and my face was in pain from the pressure in my sinuses. I was doped up on numerous medications and I almost called it off. But I figured I could dope up and hit the booze. Booze always helps with the pain.

I got to the place early and set things up. I had purchased some wines and wine glasses. I got a haircut, ate dinner because she'd be arriving late, and downed close to a bottle of wine to make my face stop hurting. It mostly worked. Along the way she called from the airport. Her flight was delayed a bit and she was in the bar waiting. She told me how a guy had asked to buy her a drink, which she explained as something that happens to her all the time. Nice. That's a good sign. Ugly women don't get consistent offers for free drinks.

The call came in that she had finally landed and was on her way over. I was set. I had booze in my system and booze ready for her. I had jimmy hats. I looked good. I didn't feel the greatest, but it was manageable at that moment.

The knock on the door sent my heart racing. How hot was she going to be? Would she be wearing a trench coat with nothing on underneath? Would she really want to lick bourbon off my chiseled abs?

In a word, ohmygodwhatthefuckIthoughyouwerehotthisblows.

She was as tall as me and a good deal thicker than she purported to be, a combination that wins no awards with me. Her hair was thick and almost mangy in a few spots, which can be attributed to the plane ride, I guess. When we hugged hello and I got my hands around her midsection it felt like I was squeezing my hands into soft dough. I even got scared for a moment, worried that her stomach might confuse my hands for food and try to eat them. She looked like a 15-20lb heavier version of what she said she was, and not in a good way. You know how some people put on a couple pounds and it distributes well and doesn't look that bad, right? But then some people put on a few pounds and it goes bad fast, like how ugly Charlize Theron became when she put on weight to play that serial killer.

Chubby Jennifer Tilly = Good.

Chubby Charlize Theron = Bad.

(By the way... Jennifer Tilly + Gina Gershon + Lesbianism = Excellent movie called Bound.)

This was not the package I was sold. A total bait and switch.

Her own phrases kept darting through my mind...

"Guys are always buying me drinks."
"I absolutely love yoga."
"I'm athletic."
"I ski all the time."

...And all I could think was, "Are you fucking kidding me? Does she understand what the words 'fit' and 'athletic' even mean?"

I couldn't (And still can't) get over how badly she set herself up for failure. You can't send pictures of when you were years younger, and tremendously more fit, to someone and not expect them to assume you look like that, can you? You can't talk constantly about how fit you are and the hours and hours of yoga you do without someone assuming you'll be in shape. Honestly, there's no way she actually does yoga with any sort of consistency. Nor does she have an athletic body. She might have had an athletic body hiding under a solid layer of once uneaten tubs of cookie dough ice-cream-turned-fat, but you don't tout yourself as the underneath layer and expect people to buy it when they meet you.

Here's the main thing. I felt hoodwinked.

Sure, she wasn't hot and fit, but she wasn't ugly and she wasn't so fat that I couldn't get my arms around her. She was just clearly not what she claimed to be, which turned out to be a major disappointment. One that, I might add, was perpetuated by her. She didn't need to lie. She didn't need to send pictures of what now looked like her younger, hotter sister. I probably would have still met up with her at that point if she had sold herself correctly. As a moderately attractive woman with the need to hit the gym to take a few pounds off, who was up for a good time. But no, she had to go and ruin it with the old bait and switch. And my dumb ass fell for it.

But I fucked Fatty McLiarson anyways.

I'll slot it under Slump Busting in my repertoire.

A 14 year old black Caucasian from Beijing, Bob Respert has traveled the world in search of answers and so far has only found three: Yes, not unless you want Chlamydia, and when all else fails just flop it out and see what happens.

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