The Asylum (16 page)

ONE SWEATY SUMMER
EVENING
not too long ago, I attended a lecture at New York University titled “Fat Porn.” A combination of curiosity seekers, chubby chasers and fresh-faced students packed the lecture hall. The anticipation was palpable. You could have heard a pin drop.

The talk was delivered by a lady who described herself as a BBW, a big beautiful woman. A three-hundred-pounder, this broad was a proud and evangelical member of the online community of fat-porn entrepreneurs who tantalize vast numbers of fat fetishizers on a daily basis.

I am not sure what the point of her lecture was, or why parents pay good money to send their kids to fancy colleges to hear this kind of stuff, but I can tell you this much: It was a riveting and unforgettable experience.

The slide show was undoubtedly my favorite part of the evening. Each genre of fat porn—there are many and they are shockingly specific—was illustrated with disarmingly explicit photography. For example: The fat-fetish category known as “Not Fitting” was accompanied by a shot of a huge lingerie-clad chick who was stuck—physically, irrevocably, massively—in the doorway of a hotel room. Her face was a magical combo of lascivious delight and discomfort. According to our BBW lecturess, there are large groups of men who find the notion of not fitting, as vividly depicted in this image, to be the apex of erotic fantasia. To my eyes, it seemed more like a scene from an old episode of
The Benny Hill
Show
, or
The Honeymoon Killers
starring Shirley Stoler, or a still from a John Waters movie starring Edith Massey, or all of the above.

There was also a category called “Squashing.” The accompanying photograph showed a middle-aged businessman wearing thick black spectacles à la Martin Scorsese, lying on a bed, fully clothed and still clutching his briefcase. No duvet for him! In lieu of bedding, he was covered by a scantily clad BBW of gargantuan proportions. She was gleefully squishing the life out of him. The squashee was gleeful too.

There were other categories, like “Messy Eating” and “Growing.” I won't elaborate upon those in particular, but will let your imaginations fill in the blanks. Besides, we need to get to more pressing stuff. We need to address the plus-size, garter-belt-wearing elephant in the room: What the hell was I doing at this lecture?

I feel confident that the answer to this question will surprise you. Here goes.

I am fascinated by fat. Having worked in the fat-fascistic world of style for forty years, I am always struggling to shine a light on the fatorexic paradoxes and fat-phobic blind spots which haunt the fashion universe. My goal is to pry open the cellulite closet and let the sunshine in.

My profound interest in the psychology of large women and in plus-size clothing has taken me places where a 140-pound dude ought not to go. I have attended sordid and terrifying lectures at NYU, and I have seen things a bloke ought not to see. I have prowled the “hefty hideaways” of Manhattan. I have seen muumuus the size of circus tents, and I've seen halter tops the size of . . .

The mid 2000s.

My friend Anne had recently become the designer for legendary plus-size mega–chain store Lane Bryant
.
She scored me a front-row seat at the showing of her first LB collection, where I found myself next to one of my all-time favorite style icons, Mr. Isaac Hayes. Yes, I'm talking about Mr. Shaft, Mr. Hot Buttered Soul, Mr. Chef from
South Park
.

On this occasion, Mr. Hayes was wearing a vivid metallic-orange-lamé-embellished caftan with matching pants. He had the air of a visiting dignitary. As the show unfurled, Isaac became quite vocal. Every time a new plus-size diva sallied forth, he would purr and growl appreciatively into my ear.

“These young ladies are . . . deliciously endowed . . . deeeliciously endowed . . . deliciously endooowed!”

Anne was excited about her first collection and wanted to show me the new season's deliveries in situ. At the time, there was only one Lane Bryant store in Manhattan. It was in Harlem. A schlep, but Anne assured me it would be worth it. She lured me onto the A train with the following exotic promise: “I bet you've never fondled a criss-cross halter top in a size twenty-eight before, have you?”

I had not.

Before you could say “badonka-donk-donk,” or even plain old “badonk,” we were winging our way north. Upon arrival, Anne dragged me through the front door of the store and straight to a very focused offering of leopard-print merchandise. Yes, leopard print. We're talking pants, shirts, even a baby-doll party dress with an underwire bra built in. The message was clear: Just because you are gigantic, it does not mean that you have to hide your light under a beige bushel. Au contraire! Swathe yourself in predatory, glamorous animal print and get massively feline on their asses. The only thing small about these saucy, hedonistic garments was the price tag; a kicky leopard slip dress with lace-up sides was twenty-five dollars. Wildly affordable clothing for the deliciously endowed.

There is something profoundly joyful and supersassy about the whole idea of large confident ladies bouncing around in leopard separates. Plus-size clothing is often so dismal and self-effacing, the ugly stepsister of her anorexic high-fashion sister. Not here.

I told Anne that if I had been mayor of Harlem, I would have mandated the wearing of leopard. Any large chick not rocking a leopard
quelque chose
would be forced to explain herself. My enthusiasm for the leopard offerings caught the attention of the manager, who guided me over to a rack of what looked like beach hammocks on hangers. As I examined the draped and gathered yards of white canvas, I saw myself swinging back and forth between a couple of palm trees and enjoying a Tommy Bahama Margaritaville moment.

“Voilà!” interjected Anne. “Up to size twenty-eight. A great seller.”

These were the legendary criss-cross boulder holders which had lured me on this expedition. Magnificently huge, they came in a dizzying range of colors, fabrications and permutations: acid-green fake-croc ciré, crisp nautical navy and white cotton, luxe maroon Ultrasuede, etc. My favorite was definitely the fake-croc ciré.

While I came to terms with the total lack of hanger appeal in these immense garments, Anne elaborated upon the upsides of a plus-size halter: “If a big chick wears a muumuu, she invariably looks like a mountain. A halter top, on the other hand, actually bisects and minimizes her upper torso, and it shows off her arms . . . and we plumper girls have gorgeous arms.”

On cue, a zaftig young shopper runwayed out of the fitting room in a white halter looking deliciously endowed and gorgeously empowered. She received a well-deserved ripple of applause. Her arms did indeed appear succulent and appealing.

What about the bottoms?

Anne tossed me a pair of fifty-dollar snakeskin-print jeans—this plus-size missile nearly knocked me over, such was the weight and volume of fabric—and a forty-dollar Capri pant in black stretch cotton.

(Yes, Capri pant, singular. We fashion asylum inhabitants reserve the right to randomly singularize and pluralize. In this regard, there are no rules. Sometimes it's a “jean” and sometimes it's a “pair of jeans.” It might be a “pair of Manolos,” but it could just as easily be a “Manolo.” As in: “I'm rocking my new Celine tunic with a hoop [earring] and a Manolo.” Wearing a “Manolo” in no way suggests that an amputation has occurred.)

While more bodacious, deliciously endowed shoppers poured in through the front door, Anne spewed plus-size wisdom for the benefit of anyone within earshot.

“Narrow the upper torso, girls, and draw attention to everything below the knee with strappy shoes and a damn good pedicure.”

I glanced at Anne's toes. They glowed with vermillion perfection.

“If you are procrastinating about purchasing a particular garment,” continued Anne, “then visualize it in a size six, and then ask yourself, ‘Would a skinny fashion addict like Madonna or Kate go bat-shit over this item?' If the answer is no, then close your handbag.”

Buzzing with the clarity of Anne's advice, we bid farewell to the staff and customers and staggered out into the broiling heat of 125th Street.

The sidewalk was packed with proud, chunky African-American goddesses of all ages, strutting their stuff and basking in the admiring gazes and compliments of every man on the street. Needless to say, the playful and nondiscriminatory badinage was invariably directed at the ladies with magnificently pronounced derrières.

As we rattled back downtown on the A train, I reflected upon the key points of Anne's fat-fashion lecture. One thing seemed clear: If you are a larger lady, then maybe you should move to Harlem or at the very least shop there. African-American chicks never seem to let a few excess pounds come between them and their desire for some fashion flamboyance. The same cannot be said of “whitey.”

February 2007, Fashion Week.

Victoria Beckham shocks the fashion monde by announcing that she will be eschewing size-zero gals in favor of one Daniella Sarahyba. The 35-26-36 Brazilian would, according to VB, represent the image of her upcoming collection.

Was this a visionary flesh-positive gesture or one of calculated cunning?

The always charitable British tabloids wasted no time in accusing Mrs. Beckham—they have referred to her as “Skeletal Spice” for years—of opting for larger gals in order to make herself look thin when she trots out to take her catwalk bows. You know,
that
age-old trick.

Whatever the reason, Mrs. Beckham reignited a frenzied debate about fat.

This is by no means the first time this has happened, and it certainly won't be the last. Every so often fashion has a pang of fat guilt. Once in a while somebody shines a revealing light, as La Beckham did, on the chasm between the thinness of the runway models and the fleshy abundance of real women, and fashion, God bless her little cotton socks, is forced to respond.

On these occasions, fashion goes into spin mode.

Fashion starts by very publicly castigating herself for always depicting/hiring/photographing such thin girls. Naughty fashion!

Fashion then promises to mend her ways.

Fashion vows to use bigger girls.

Fashion insists that she will henceforth check the body-mass index of those for-god's-sake-give-that-skinny-bitch-a-ham-sandwich models.

And so it was on this occasion . . .

Statements were issued. Commitments were made. A debate about thinness started to rage and threatened to turn this particular Fashion Week into a veritable fat summit. This was a good thing: it gave us fashion folk an issue, something really meaty, upon which to chew while waiting for those three-hundred-plus shows to begin.

For a fat researcher of long standing, this moment presented a sizzling opportunity. I lost no time in soliciting opinions about the Beckham-instigated fat fracas.

“I thought models were supposed to be skinny,” said a remarkably svelte Carson Kressley, when I cornered him before the John Bartlett show and asked his opinion about the latest eruptions of anorexia/fashion hysteria. He was wearing a formfitting primrose cardigan and skinny jeans tucked into riding boots.

“I myself live on a steady diet of Ex-Lax and grapefruit juice,” hissed the lovable Carson, as the first model came striding down the runway.

After the show, I headed backstage in the hopes of checking the body-mass index of the skinnier models. I also wanted to see if Mr. Bartlett had followed the CFDA's newly issued bulimia-battling guidelines, in particular the one suggesting that designers “supply healthy meals, snacks and water backstage and at shoots, and provide nutrition and fitness education.”

After scouring the backstage area for snacks and seminars—and finding none—I congratulated the beefy Mr. Bartlett on a great show and asked him for the male perspective. His response was chilling.

“I'm surrounded by girls, gorgeous models, and they all think they are fat. Guys don't get crazy about that stuff.”

Hmm. If girls are somehow predisposed to succumb to self-punitive eating disorders, maybe it really is time for intervention at a higher level? Maybe Congress should follow the example of the Spanish authorities and start calibrating limbs and counting calories for girls at risk.

“The government has bigger fish to fry. Pardon the expression,” opined Mr. Kressley.

Sunday afternoon: The DVF show.

Diane von Furstenberg knows a thing or two about fat. Her wrap dresses perform a specific lard-retaining function, to a point. If you are fat, the wrap will not make you thin. But if you are normal, i.e., you have those wobbly bits around your middle because you deem it necessary to ingest the occasional meal, a wrap dress will sharpen up your silhouette.

As we waited for the show to start, a fevered seminar raged as the fashion insiders divulged what they had eaten so far that day. (It was but four o'clock.) Some interesting patterns emerged. British fashionistas seemed to have a less neurotic relationship to food than their American counterparts.
Harper's Bazaar
editor in chief Glenda Bailey, who had already eaten a poached egg on toast and a bowl of soup, revealed all, in her signature North English lilt.

“Ooh, luv! At
Harper's Bazaar
, we looove food as much as we looove fashion.”

Fellow Brit and
Marie Claire
editor in chief Joanna Coles—she has just gone to
Cosmo
at the time of writing—proudly declared that she had just eaten a bowl of mashed potatoes “with lashings of butter.”

Of all the women I spoke to, supermodel-turned-commentator Veronica Webb had eaten the most. “Chicken satay, french fries, yogurt and this amazing stuff called Bagel French Toast.” This confirmed my suspicion that African-American fashionistas enjoy a more easygoing relationship with food than their Caucasian co-citizens.

Robin Givhan of
The Washington Post
weighed in on this issue: “We black women aren't so hung up about food,” declared the Pulitzer Prize winner, adding, “That's why I happily ate a bowl of pasta this morning. But the fashion person in me did not allow me to eat the bread which came with it.”