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Tuesday, November 23, 2004

I can be remarkably lazy sometimes.

I do have an excuse at the moment, my rampant workload this month. All I've really done with my time off is sleep, excessively. I’ve even been dozing off on the sofa. And I've hardly been out the door. I haven't done anything constructive or useful. I haven't even written anything here, until now.

I'm not really going to write much now either. Instead I'm going to cut and paste something I wrote almost exactly one year ago, long before I started this blog.

I had an idea for a novel, which was going to be improvised (without an outline) around a group of unrelated characters. The idea was to bring them together through the narrative and tie their stories up around each other.

Naturally, I didn't finish it. Hands up if you find this surprising.

Since I am feeling especially lazy and unmotivated this evening, I thought I would bring you the first chapter, which I hope you will enjoy. If you do, let me know and maybe it will re-inspire me to complete it. Probably not, but who knows, anything can happen.

Anyway, here goes...
by the northlondonhippy

They didn’t think I overheard them. Matter of fact, I’m sure they didn’t realize I was in earshot. They wouldn’t have said it if they knew I was listening.

It didn’t upset me, not really. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, but it has been a while. Maybe I just forgot what it was like to be talked about like that. If only they knew the truth.

I work in the accounting department for a large company. It doesn’t really matter which one, an accountant is an accountant is an accountant, no matter what the real business is. If we sold cars, or books, or widgets or whatever, it would not make a difference from where I sit. All I really do is keep track of numbers. The numbers may represent monetary amounts, but they are just numerals on a page to me, or a PC screen.

I work Monday through Friday, nine-thirty to five-thirty. I never do overtime, I can’t. Not with my work at night as well. No one in the office knows about my other job.

I suppose a description is in order, since what I look like seems to define me no matter where I am. I'm a BBW, if you surf the net or read personal ads, you might know what that means. If not, I’ll explain: BBW means big, beautiful woman.

My dress size is twenty-two, my bust is a hefty 44GG. I weigh, well I won’t actually tell you that. I won’t tell you my age either. My mum always said it’s not polite for a lady to discuss her weight or her age. To complete the picture, I have dark brown hair cut into a bob and dark eyes and I am in my “thirties”.

I’ve been working as an accountant since I left school. I started out as an office junior and in the last six years, I’ve moved up to my current level and title as “payroll supervisor”. I’m still just an accountant. It pays the bills, as they say.

No one’s really ever made an issue of my size at work before, until today. I won’t lie to you, it’s not easy being a big girl out in the world. Open any magazine, turn on any television and you won’t see anyone that looks like me. Unless it is a news report on obesity, then you’ll see lots of us. Thin is in, you can never be too rich or too thin, I’m sure you’ve heard them too.

I’m not uncomfortable with my size, quite the contrary. I’ve always been “big boned”, even as a girl. And I won’t deny that I enjoy eating, I love my food I do. Sometimes, I can’t decide between my two favourite flavours of ice cream, Pralines and Cream or Double Chocolate Chip. Then I remember, I don’t have to choose and I get both! And yes, I know what you want to ask, I eat both as well, in one sitting.

I think they caught me off guard, when I over-heard what I heard. Sometimes I forget that I am who I am. Sometimes I think I let myself believe that I am like everyone else, that I am normal. But I know that I’m not.

Like last year, at the Christmas party, watching every cop off with everyone else. For the briefest instant, while watching my colleagues drunken fumblings, I thought maybe, just maybe someone would want to take me home. But then the realisation of who I am returned to me and I knew no one would be seen to be even chatting me up.

There’s an old joke someone told me once. It was a guy that had just had sex with me that told me this one, we were still in bed and naked. He was re-telling it actually, as someone had told him. Having sex with a fat girl is like riding a moped, he said. Do you know why? Because both can be a lot of fun until your mates see you.

He’s right.

So it didn’t completely surprise me when I was outside waiting for my minicab, after the Christmas party that Ian approached me. His opening was innocent enough, he suggested we share the cab, since he lived near me. I knew he was frustrated, I saw him get turned down by that secretary, a pretty skinny blonde girl by the name of Jacqui. I just didn’t realize how frustrated, not then.

The cab turned up and we got in. He didn’t notice me noticing him glancing over his shoulder, to see if anyone witnessed our departure together as he got into the cab. But I saw, I didn't miss this telling little gesture.

It wasn’t a long drive to my flat, maybe fifteen minutes. In that time, Ian was fishing for an invite to mine for a drink. I entertained the idea, briefly, of doing just that, but I keep my private life very separate from my work. But that wasn’t the only reason, it wasn’t even the main reason.

Ian is a good-looking guy, fit as they say. So why did I turn him down? It was the glance over the shoulder. If he didn’t do that, or I didn’t catch him doing it, I might have invited him in.

When it sank in to Ian that I was not accepting his offer, that I was turning him down, we had just pulled up outside my place. As I got out of the car, he snapped. He shouted “Do you really think I wanted to come inside with you? I was only teasing.” Yeah, right.

But he wasn’t. I knew that, and he knew that. I knew that he thought a fat girl would never say “no” to him. He thought I'd be an easy lay.

And it wasn’t just my rejection that was pissing him off, he was turned down by more than just me that night. He found this more humiliating that the skinny blonde secretary's rejection. He was angry because a fat girl shot him down.

I didn’t think anything of it after that. I forgot about it, until today anyway.

It’s not that I don’t like sex, I actually love it. I’m a very sexual person, really. I just didn’t fancy it with him that night. A girl can say “no”.

So when I heard him talking to that jerk from the mailroom today, I was ever-so momentarily stunned. Like I said, they didn’t know I was listening. That’s the problem with open-plan offices and cubicle partitions, you never know who is listening to what.

What I heard was this, Ian was talking about me. He was making a joke, at my expense. What he said was this: “Do you know the only way you could fuck Miriam? You’d have to roll her in flour and look for the wet spot.”

It’s an old joke, I’ve even heard it before. But not about me, originally when I heard it the subject was Elizabeth Taylor. You could tell it about any fat girl. I bet they told it about Oprah when she was on the hefty side.

OK, it hurt, but not for the reason you think. It wasn’t because it was Ian and he was probably still angry I turned him down last Christmas. And it wasn’t the joke itself, which I have heard before. It was the context of hearing it at work. I thought I was safe there, protected by common courtesy and professional respect. I thought it was a haven, where I would be safe from that kind of prejudice.

It would be one thing if I was out in public and someone said something rude to me about my weight. It happens, you get used to it. Like in the supermarket, when my trolley is full of ice cream and cakes and ham, I almost expect it. But I don’t care about it, not from a stranger.

No, this comment, this joke upset me because of where I heard it, sitting at my own desk.

If only they all knew the truth about me, but I could never tell them, would never tell them. At first I worried I might get found out, but the odds are very much against that.

The truth is I have many admirers, all around the world. I have them because a couple of years ago, I became an internet camera girl on a BBW website.

Maybe I should explain that a bit in plain English, because not everyone will know what I mean. On the world wide web, you can pay money to see live women performing in front of cameras. When I say “performing”, I mean sexually. The market has been around for a while and had become saturated, and then it became specialized.

I was an early internet user, nearly seven years now. I liked the anonymity of it all, the chatrooms, even the porn. I met men that way, a lot of them. They wouldn’t have to “ride the moped” in public and I got all the sex I needed.

I learned that there were men out there who were attracted to me precisely because of my size. They’re called BBW-admirers or chubby-chasers. I found web pages that catered to this interest and listed myself in their personal ads section.

I had a great time for a while, but then I got bored with it. Not the attention, but the meetings. Most men only wanted one-night stands and that was fine. Occasionally I would meet one that I really liked, but they never wanted anything more than a few shags. That was not fine.

One of the guys I was chatting to one night, told me about a site that changed my life. “”.

It was a website dedicated to BBW’s and their admirers. They had a contacts page, user profiles, the works. I found my new home.

When they added the live webcam girls section, I thought why not. I was one of the first to sign up.

I had to get a faster connection to the ‘net, the more bandwith the better. I got a decent webcam too. I set it all up in my bedroom and did a little re-decorating as well. I made my boudoir as sexy as possible, with lace curtains, frilly bedclothes, the works.

Finding sexy lingerie in my size has never been easy, but again the internet came through for me and I ordered and ordered. I have quite a collection. Toys too.

After I get home from a day of totting up numbers I open a bottle of wine and run a hot bath. The combination relaxes me and puts me in the mood to perform. That’s what it is, a performance.

I am no more my true self in front of the camera than I am in the office. It’s all performing or one level or another.

After the bath and a glass or two of Merlot, I get dressed for the evening. I try to make an effort, wear something different. I choose a thong (yes they do come in plus sizes), a bra, perhaps a teddy, sometimes a corset. I put on make-up though I never feel I get it right.

It might sound like a cliché, but I think my face is pretty. I’ve been told that many times as well. I know that’s what people say about fat girls, along with noting that we have great personalities, but I really think my face is attractive.

Once I boot up my PC, I log onto the ‘net and go the BBW site. I log in and check for messages from the site’s operators. They’re quite nice actually, it’s run by a married couple in Pennsylvania in the states. I’m paid hourly and I usually log-on for about four hours, longer on a Friday or Saturday night when I am not working the next day.

I do it seven nights a week and I hate missing a night. I wonder sometimes if it has become a compulsion. I wonder if I have become addicted to it.

Once I am logged in, I switch on the camera and microphone. I am live and worldwide and I wait for my admirers to join me in cyber space. The users of the site see a list of all the girls available at that time. They click the link and there I am, in full colour, live audio and video, streaming onto their PC.

I can see the return video on my PC screen, I look at myself while I am performing. I can’t see the men who are watching, but they can type to me in my own chatroom, and speak to me from their PC’s microphones. It’s still early, no one’s logged in yet, but they will.

While I wait for my cyber audience, I go over to my bureau and open a drawer. Inside is my collection of toys. Tonight I choose a large black dildo, it’s got to be at least fourteen inches long. I bet Ian at work wouldn’t measure up to that!

To be continued....?
(c) November 2003 - the northlondonhippy
So there you have it, I get lazy and you get to read something from the hippy vault. At least it's something a bit different from my own usual special brand of drivel.

All I have to do is click on publish and this chapter is out there for the entire world to see. Who needs a book publisher anyway? Someone that wants to make a buck or two. Screw it, let’s give it away for free!
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