Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(50)

Why are they with her? one anonymous commenter says. Two hot guys with an overweight girl just doesn’t add up.

Another anonymous commenter adds below, I bet there’s not even room in the bed for all of them.

Why is the Star glorifying this unnatural sex cult? SoonerInTheKitchen replies. This is clearly a relationship built on sin.

xfitwarrior says, Shame on this paper for promoting disease and glorifying overweight ppl when being overweight is the number one cause of death in America and costs billions of dollars to taxpayers every year. Obesity IS UNHEALTHY. Obesity KILLS. Shame on you!

A reply to that comment by ketogoddess87 says, You don’t know where she is in her journey! She might have already lost a hundred pounds and be on the way to getting healthier! You can’t judge someone’s health by just one picture!

QueenSizeGirlsDoItBetter replies to that comment, saying, Wherever she is on her journey, she shouldn’t be wearing clothes like that. I’m a plus-sized girl myself, and even I know that nobody wants to see alllllll that body hanging out everywhere!

I guess there’s no accounting for taste, KSUBetcha says. ‘Caleb’ and ‘Ben’ here prove that. Chubby chasing much?

CalebAndBenLovePiggies replies to that comment with oink oink.

My fingers are trembling as I scroll down, but I can’t stop myself, can’t look away. It’s some kind of sick impulse, forcing me to read every nasty comment, every judgmental observation about my size, every reply that seems well-intentioned but is actually still incredibly hurtful.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. At some point, my brain begins sending out panic hormones, flooding my veins with the need to run, to fight, to scream.

Danger, my nervous system blares at me. Danger.

It doesn’t matter that it’s “just” the internet, that I can’t see the faces or hear the voices of the people who’ve written these things, because it’s still real. Real people still said these things in a place where I, a real person, could see them. Where I could see myself talked about with—at best—condescension, and—at worst—hostile disgust.

This is what you get, the awful voice whispers. For thinking you could have more. Wanting to be a famous photographer. Dating two men way out of your league.

The voice is right. I was stupid and foolish to ever believe otherwise.

And I’m not really sure what to do with that epiphany, or with the nauseous, panicked urges roiling through me, until I see the last comment and feel like my heart is going to explode from beating so fast.

An anonymous commenter has posted a link to Ben’s tavern on Yelp, and when I follow the link, I see the page has been spammed with one-star reviews. They’re predictably pointless and crude—mostly rehashing the same kinds of awful things said in the comments section of the article—but they hurt me in an entirely new place. It’s one thing to be insulted and dehumanized, to have my potential photography career burned down before my eyes. Those things stab at places that have been stabbed at before.

But to have Ben and Caleb insulted and dehumanized—and to have Ben’s livelihood threatened—all for the sin of loving me, well…

There’s no scar tissue there. It’s a fresh, new, terrifying pain.

I was reluctant to allow that photo for a few reasons. Because I wasn’t mentally ready for it. Because I’ve spent the last ten or so years defining myself as the person behind the camera except for carefully angled and curated social media pictures. Because I was nervous about publicly declaring myself in a poly relationship.

Never, ever, not once, had it occurred to me the picture would hurt Ben and Caleb. I never once considered the cost they would pay to love me and my body.

God. What have I done?

I’m about to close out of everything—a survival mechanism, really, not out of some admirable display of willpower—when my phone chimes again, an innocent little pling of a text message. Except it’s from Brian again. And it’s actually a voice message this time.

I know, on an instinctual level, that I shouldn’t play it. I know that nothing good can come of it, that there’s nothing helpful or insightful that he can say to me. But I’m too broken down not to crave that last strike, one last wound, and my hand is moving over the phone before I can stop myself. I hit play.

“You know”—Brian’s voice comes over the speaker, loud and brittle and mean—“if you wanted more than one dick, I could have paid a friend to fuck you. I would’ve had to pay him a lot, though.”

He’s drunk. I can tell by the wobble of his voice, a wobble I heard frequently enough, although never at—I check the clock above the stove—six thirty in the morning.

“I kept wondering,” he rambles on, “how the fuck dare you break up with me? Me, when I was being so fucking nice to you in the first place? And now I know why—it’s because you’re a whore. And I don’t know what you did to make those men pretend to like you, but I know for a fact they’re just pretending.” A hiccup. “And I’m going to prove it. I found your boyfriend’s little tavern, and I posted it on that bullshit article, and I’m going to tell everyone what a fucking pervert he is—him and his fucking farmer friend. We’ll see if they’re willing to be nice to you after you’ve ruined their lives.”

The message ends, and with it, the last, tiny thread of self-control I’d been clinging to. I shouldn’t be surprised at his hateful words, that he’s the one who outed Ben’s tavern on the article. And yet, I am. I’m exhausted by it, by the relentlessness of having a body that’s such an easy target, by the cultural certainty that anyone who loves me or my body is some kind of deviant freak. That anyone who cares for me deserves to be punished, and I do too, for not staying where we’re supposed to—in the neatly cruel categories the rest of the world decides.