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Curvy
Girls Need Love
     
    I hate to admit it, but there are two things that
are always on my mind: food and sex. If prompted to choose between
cheeseburgers and a good roll in the hay, I would be hard pressed to decide. My
friends always asked me which I liked better. I joked back that there is no
reason why I can’t have both, although perhaps not at the same time.
    My hearty appetite displayed itself prominently in
my thick thighs and heavy breasts, my tight size 18 jeans and the nearly
endless stream of chubby chasers anxious to get their hands on me.
    There was only one problem with the men I typically
attracted. That’s a lie. There were many things wrong with them. Principal
among their faults was their propensity to screw me once and then disappear.
    I was experienced enough, but I lacked skill. The
men whom I’d bedded never seemed to be interested in more than a one-night
stand. I have to admit that my occupation created some of the problem.
    Working as a burlesque dancer had its charms. No
other job afforded me the opportunity to don skimpy clothes and shake my ample
assets for a stream of admirers with an endless supply of dollar bills. I wasn’t
a stripper. Let me make that clear. We burlesque dancers prefer to leave some
things to the imagination. Unfortunately, too many men had trouble
differentiating between my job and my personality. The two were very different.
    I liked to think of myself as the full-figured Dita
Von Teese while I was working. I often wondered whether the brunette beauty who
served as my inspiration ever enjoyed the pleasures of a greasy cheeseburger
smothered in fried onions and ketchup. When I was off-duty, I was actually
quite shy and insecure about my body. It was a dichotomy that I didn’t even
understand myself.
    One night after I finished my shift, I squeezed into
my jeans and headed to my favorite 24-hour diner. I don’t drink, so I was stone
cold sober as I sat there amid the drunks who had filtered out of the nearby
bars. I ordered the usual.
    By the time my waitress delivered a burger and fries
to my spot at the counter, I had attracted an admirer. Don’t get me wrong. I’m
not conceited. I know that my softer body and plentiful curves don’t appeal to
everyone. However, contrary to what some people may think, there are plenty of
men willing to sleep with a woman who is pleasingly plump, especially if they
have seen my act.
    The man to my right was achingly handsome. I could
see his face out of the corner of my eye. For good measure, I checked out his
reflection in the shining surface of the polished metal napkin holder. Even
distorted, the man was a thing of beauty.
    I felt somewhat guilty for looking at him as a sex
object. If being a burlesque dancer had taught me one thing, it was what it
felt like to be objectified. It was a good feeling when the money was flowing.
It was considerably less pleasant when some stranger tried to grope my ass
onstage. I wasn’t that kind of dancer.
    He caught me staring. “Hello,” he said with his
perfectly shaped mouth. “My name is Stone Street.”
    “Your name is Stone Street,” I repeated dumbly while
congratulating myself on being such a brilliant conversationalist. It’s a good
thing I wasn’t drunk. I would have been completely incoherent. It was also too
bad he wasn’t drunk. I might have appeared more intelligent.
    Stone smiled at me and waited expectantly.
    “My name is Tessa Snow,” I said. Brilliant, I
thought. Keep this up, and you’ll be married in no time.
    “That’s a beautiful name,” he murmured from his
perch on the stool next to mine.
    I continued to bite and chew and swallow as he gazed
at me from less than a foot away. I’m used to people staring as I eat. It doesn’t
really get any easier. “Were you at my show tonight?” I asked, trying to
determine the real reason for his rapt attention.
    “Are you a performer?” he asked.
    “I’m a dancer,” I said. I waited for him to laugh or
express