Authors: Katya Starkey
My Big Fat Low-Fat Wedding
Copyright © Katya Starkey 2013
All rights reserved.
This book is dedicated to my fat. Thanks for giving me some curves, dear fat. And thanks for padding my sore bum while I sat on you day after day as I penned this novel.
Someone has placed two ten pin bowling balls upon my chest. The life is being squeezed out of me. I can barely breathe and my ribs are about to crack from pressure! I’m pretty sure the only way to stop this agony is to sit up, because I’m lying down right now for some unknown reason.
So I do sit up and the bowling balls cling to my chest.
The balls are stuck under my skin! The massive weight is pulling me forward. I tip over and fall out of bed. When I crash onto the floor I realise that it’s not bowling balls on my chest but the weight of my own breasts that’s sucked me down.
I’ve crashed boob first onto the floor and I can’t get up.
Seriously, my knockers are stuck onto the carpet. And what’s this? They’re growing! My breasts are enlarging and elongating like nothing I’ve ever seen! I try to cry out for help but my throat feels like it’s under water.
Slowly but surely my boob size increases until I’m leaning onto a new pair of legs shaped like breasts.
This is utter madness. Clearly I’ve lost my mind. I especially know I’ve gone bonkers when one of my newly massified boobs takes a step forward.
How can this be happening?
My other breast follows the first, taking a step forward that causes a strange sound to emanate from my chestal region.
And here we go…
My boobs are walking me out of my bedroom.
Stomp. Bloomp. Slide. Squish, go my breastoid walking movements. I can’t reach the floor with my hands to stop myself and my legs drag behind, utterly useless.
I’m forced into the kitchen. Suddenly, one of my boobs opens the refrigerator. My mouth drops open in horror. Somehow my breast reaches into the fridge, pulls out a left over tub of trifle and stuffs the lot straight into my open gob.
“Mmmmmmaahhh!” I cry out through a smothered throat. “Someone help me!”
Now both my tits have started grabbing food from the fridge. I can’t stop the pair of leg/hand boobs. They’re in control of my every move. Even my own mouth won’t cooperate and shut like I want it to. I’m gagging on all the food that’s being stuffed down my throat.
“Noooooo!” I cry out. “You stupid boobs! You’re ruining my diet!”
“Emily, babe wake up.”
I can hear my fiancé’s muffled voice. I think he’s shaking me.
“Whu… what?” I mumble, still half asleep but slowly waking.
“You’re having a bad dream, honey. Wake up.”
“Callum?” Visions of walking boobs dissipate the more coherent I become. “I just had the worst nightmare.” Blinking my eyes open I discover my fiancé has turned on the bedside table lamp. He’s leaning over me in bed. His dishevelled brown hair looks cute and I’m wondering why I can’t look that good upon waking.
“You kept calling out about your breasts ruining your diet.” Callum smiles sleepily.
“I talked in my sleep again?”
He nods. “You know you’ve been doing that since we got engaged, sweet cheeks. I think you should really think about taking it easy.”
Take it easy? These words do not compute in a soon-to-be-bride’s mind. I’ve got wedding plans to consider!
Sitting up, I’m aghast when I get a look at myself in the nearby wardrobe mirror. Callum might be right. My blonde hair is a tangled heap on the side of my head. I’ve probably been tossing and turning all night thanks to boob walking dreams. I poke the underneath of one of my eyes. For someone with a complexion as light as mine, I certainly do have some very dark under eye circles.
“It’s just this new diet.” I croak tiredly. “I don’t think low-carb is the way forward for me. My boobs are already too big and for some reason all that high protein hurts my chest even more.”
“Mmmmm, your chest.” Beside me, I hear a rustling of sheets. “Your big, soft lovely chest.” As per usual Callum’s grope is already upon me. “Tits are so great,” he says, not very romantically. “And your breasts are the biggest and the bestest babe.”
I despair. My ever aroused fiancé wouldn’t think my boobs were so great if they were attached to his own chest. Not with how heavy they are. I shouldn’t be surprised at the crazy nightmare I just had. My breasts have always been such an encumbrance. In secondary school alone I was nicknamed Emily Everest for the fact that my breasts seemed to emerge first out of any other girls in my class. And boy did they ever emerge. One day I was twelve years old, skipping rope with joy, unaware of the pulling pressure to my chest that was yet to come. The next thing I know…
It’s two years later and I’m wearing a size 32D bra. My days of skipping rope with my friends were officially over.
“Enjoy them while you can.” I giggle. “I’m going to shrink these babies by our wedding day if it kills me.”
Callum doesn’t answer straight away, he just continues to grope and squeeze my bosoms. “I think there should be a law against large busted women dieting.”
The giggling is gone and so is the smile from my face. “What on earth are you banging on about?”
“If exercising shrinks boobs I’m whole heartedly against it.”
Shaking my head I’m tempted to slap my fiancé’s roaming hands away. “You’re insane, you know that?”
“I’m insane?” Callum looks up at me. There’s obviously lust in his gorgeous dark eyes, but there’s mischief there too. “I’m not the one having nightmares about your boobs, now am I?” Grope, squeeze. “As far as I’m concerned your breasts are perfect. I really think you should stop dieting and just relax.”
Relax? He’s telling a plus size bride-to-be to relax?
Men. They really haven’t got a clue about what it means to walk down that aisle with all those eyes upon you. I shudder at the thought. “There’s no way I’m going to let friends and family watch me waddle down the aisle.”
“Don’t be silly, Emily.” Callum’s voice sounds a little testy now. “You’re not fat enough to waddle. And even if you were it would mean your boobs would be bigger, so…”
“Oh! You punk!” I grab a pillow and hit Callum gently with it. “You’re obsessed with breasts! You know that?”
“I’m obsessed with you, Em. And I can’t wait to marry you at any dress size.” He rolls me over and smothers me in loving kisses.
I was going to mentally plan which new diet to start in the morning, but it can wait. Right now I’ll revel in the moment of being bed tumbled by a lunatic. Because let’s face it, if my adorable fiancé thinks I’m going to stop panicking about our upcoming nuptials, he’s a crazy man indeed!
I’m on my way to Zumba class. Or as Callum likes to call it by saying the word twice: Zumba Zumba. Whenever I tell him it’s just plain Zumba he says he knows that. I’m okay with him calling it Zumba Zumba though because it makes him laugh hysterically, to my enjoyment.
Thinking about my fiancé’s silly laugh-face with crinkled eyes, I’m giggling to myself as I make my way into the gym.
I stop short, the smile wiped immediately off my face. The Zumba instructor is grinning widely at me. She’s a bleached blonde nineteen year old American girl with overly tanned skin that looks as orange as the ripest clementine. Her huge straight teeth are bleached so white I always feel as though she’s beaming a torch at me whenever she smiles. And she’s always smiling. Kirsten —or Kirsten Zumba Zumba as Callum likes to refer to her, causing even more fits of hysterical laughter— is an exchange student studying abroad here in Malvern. She teaches the Zumba class on a part time basis and she’s the skinniest, most flat chested (lucky girl) and energetic person I’ve ever met in my entire life. If I had half her energy levels magically transported into my fat cells I’d lose a stone in a week.
“Um…” I mumble now, shifting my gym bag higher on my shoulder. “I was just remembering something is all.”
“Ooh! Was it a joke?” Kirsten squeals. So far we’re the only two in the workout room so her voice echoes, piercing my eardrums unpleasantly. “Tell me the joke please, Emily!” Kirsten claps her twiggy fingered hands together excitedly, making me aware of the fact that it’s close to my time of the month. My fingers are a bit bloated and I can’t currently wear my engagement ring due to slightly chubby finger syndrome. “I love British jokes!” Kirsten squeals again. “You cynical Europeans are so funny!”
I nearly shake my head in frustration. Why do bloody Americans always lump us English in with the entire European species? I’ve never even been to France, by choice, even though my cousin Nicola begs me to holiday with her in Paris every time she feels her fashion wardrobe needs updating, which is often, I might add.
“No, no.” Dropping my gym bag on the hard floor, I kick it into the corner. “I wasn’t laughing at a joke, Kirsten, trust me. You don’t want me to tell you a joke. I can never remember them right and I always make a horrible mess of the punch line.”
“Ooh my gaaaaawwd.” Kirsten drawls. “So do I. I’m awful at telling jokes. I’m so bad at it that it’s embarrassing!”
I’m wondering why she’s insisting so vehemently about her inability to tell jokes, when a man walks into the workout room. For some reason the presence of this newcomer shuts Kirsten right up. I’d say I was grateful to him for that if it weren’t for the fact that I know this man and there’s always been something about him I just don’t like.
“Emily.” Oliver nods briefly at me, but even his tiny head movement is long enough to cause the harsh gym lights to glint off his completely bald head. When he glances at me again I’m put off by the strange look in his overly bulging eyes that are placed way too far apart on his face. Oliver sniffs his super slender and pointy nose, causing his stiff upper lip to curl into a brief snarl that reveals brownish buck teeth that stick out further due to his receding chin.
I’m not usually put off by a person’s appearance, apart from my own fat when I grab at it in disgust while peering into the mirror. There’s just something about Oliver’s personality that’s always made his outward features appear enhanced, as though something inside him has etched the permanent sneer upon his face.
When he barks at Kirsten sharply, I snap out of my judgmental state. Bad, Emily. I mentally berate myself. Oliver is a perfectly upstanding resident of this town. He works with Callum at CoTechnic and he’s contributed so much to the community with his devices. I really need to stop being such a judgemental bitch sometimes, but I just can’t seem to help feeling strangely defensive whenever Oliver is present.
“A word, Kirsten.” Oliver grunts and the girl peeps a quiet response that’s so unlike her personality when he’s not around.
The two of them go off to the far side of the room as more Zumba class members arrive. When Oliver finally leaves I notice Kirsten’s spirits lift immediately. “Okay everybody!” She starts squeal talking again. “Let’s get started!”
About fifteen women have turned up for tonight’s Zumba lesson. We all spread out lined up in three rows of five. I’m at the back because I don’t want anyone in front of me to go psychologically blind when they see my fat giggling everywhere as I dancersize. I absolutely despise it when we do turning moves, because then I end up in the front row for at least five Zumba moves.