March 17-23, 2005

cover story

by Shari Lee Goode

Ah, romance. Great to experience, even better to write about. It sounds like the women of Philadelphia have been getting a lot of action lately, and thankfully for the rest of us, they're not afraid to write about it. (I say women, but the truth is I don't know by the time the submissions make it to me, no names or identifying information are attached. But I did read about a few fictional ladies enjoying the wonders of "ebony shafts" and the sensation of men's hands on their "heaving breasts," so I'm guessing.)

Writing about sex is difficult. It can sound corny, embarrassing, disturbing, or just plain weird. And it takes a lot of courage. It's hard to write a sex scene without romance novel cliches or words you might hear during a gynecological exam. Human beings have been doing more or less the same thing, in more or less the same way, with the same predictable, um, conclusion, since the beginning of time. Which makes it tough to make it all sound fresh.

I had a hard time determining the criteria to judge these submissions. There was some beautiful writing that lacked story, a few interesting stories that kept me hooked but felt in the end like dime store novels, and some submissions that seemed like they belonged in Penthouse letters. In the end, I went with what stuck with me.

Shari Lee Goode's story felt fresh, interesting, and compelling. The central character, Bria, is memorable and unique. She felt like a real person, and one I'd never met on the page before. A lot of writing comes down to one secret: Keep the reader reading. Shari Lee Goode does just that.
—Sarah Dunn

Sarah Dunn is a former columnist for City Paper. She wrote on the sitcoms Murphy Brown, Spin City and Veronica's Closet before quitting to write The Big Love, her first novel, which came out last summer. She is currently at work on her second novel. The Big Love will be released in paperback in June. She appears at the Free Library of Philadelphia on Wed., June 15.

Bria moved slowly across the bed toward her lover's hand as he continually inched back. He forced her to crawl to him. Her aching for him was more than penetrable. It seared her soul.

"Why do you do this to me?" she asked in a breathy staccatolike voice. Matt, looking at her mouth, wet and pouty before him, forced a sudden lunge, startling her. He deliberately, but gently, took hold of that plump lip between his very white teeth. He began to slowly nibble, and she instantly felt her sex catch a flame from the chaotic burst of fervid heat. Just like the humid and sticky Philadelphia heat in late August that she was actually experiencing. Not that moment with Matt, the handsome lanky swimmer. His lip biting often ran through her head at moments she least expected.

She was furious that she had no control over that relationship. She seldom had control in any of her relationships, for that matter. But Matt was different. His late-night visits up West River Drive and over the Falls Bridge, up winding roads to her house in Germantown were times she anticipated with great yearning. She would often leave the door unlocked for him so he would just slip into bed beside her. She relished the thrill of being awakened by her paramour, feeling his long slender legs wrap themselves around her thick thighs as his manhood greeted her joyously. She hated these thoughts, but they came so randomly, and her desperation was manifesting itself again with longing for the touch of a man. That special someone to remind her that she was indeed a human and in great need of affection. She accepted Matt's inconsistent bidding on her because she was needy, and she didn't want to cause trouble. Therefore, she pushed her true feelings aside and chose to have it his way. She thought it was much easier to accept these substandard lovers, for it was better to have some attention rather than none at all. At least that is how she rationalized it. She tried to play it brave. Unfortunately, it was all such a horrible front.

The truth was she was hypersensitive, and to pretend to be emboldened was much easier to pull off. Although some people thought that she had some nerve in being picky, she felt that it was justified considering all that she had been through. She always asked herself why sensitive people are the pickiest people. She thought it was quite peculiar, considering she would not by any means be thought of as a standard American beauty. She was just a Philly girl. A smart girl, but a fat girl. And one that had been through such a god-awful divorce that she knew there was an entire population of men she would never date again. In her quest for a newfound glory, she tried to immerse herself in pop-cultural indulgences such as cafe mochas, designer shoes, handbags and fragrances since she couldn't quite fit into clothes she longed to be in. She was jealous of pale yet fashionable mannequins that stood chicly in the shops on South Street. She passed those stores by with great contempt and stopped in Soho, the gift shop. Here, she could get that pink wig she promised herself she would wear to the Diabolique fetish ball this November if she got the nerve. She knew that if she only tried a bit to mingle in the scene, she would find someone again. She simply had to, but it was her pickiness that kept her at bay. What was she supposed to do? Bria was 32 and without any prospects whatsoever. Although she had recently lost some weight, she was still a "biggun," as her ex would tease. She learned to get around this by being thankful she never grew a second or third chin, and that her breasts were prominent enough to give an illusion of a waistline. One that had gone from a 29 to god-knows-what. She had always been a curvy girl but had been burgeoning on the edge of morbid obesity in all her sorrow. As she moved about in Soho, looking for silver rings that would style rather nicely on her chubby, soft fingers, she told people who aren't really that close to her, "excuse me" so she had enough room to fit down the narrow path leading to the glass case that houses all the steal-worthy items.

"I'll take that one," she told the petite woman who looked at her suspiciously. Bria, feeling paranoid as usual, was not sure she was getting this look from the woman because she's black, or if it's because she's fat. It made her uneasy as she watched the rings in the display case. The clerk reached for a snakelike ring that had a black jewel for an eye instead of the ring Bria pointed out. "No, not that one," she said, "that one. Yeah. That's it."

The clerk walked the ring to the front counter. There, Bria saw a darling little velvet-and-rhinestone collar with the word "PRINCESS" in the center.

"I'll take that, too. Plus the pink wig," she told another woman behind the cash register and then reached for her credit card. She also took out her license because she knew the clerk, who has seen her in here before, was going to ask her for her identification. Bria handed her the card only, and in what sounded to Bria like a Southeast Asian accent, the clerk said, "ID." She didn't say please, which irritated Bria. However, she obediently handed her license over to the woman and waited as she charged her card.

"Thank you," Bria said as she took her receipt and belongings and headed back to her car. She was lucky to find a spot on Fourth Street between South and Bainbridge, which is practically a miracle in the late afternoon. Now she would go back home and sink into the world she had become comfortably wrapped up in: her Internet world.

Bria kicked off her open-toed sandals as she entered her living room and dropped her bags on the floor. Sweat slithered down the sides of her face as she tried to catch her breath from walking the 14 steps to her front door. Her happenings were routine and teetering on the edge of OCD behavior. In fact, it was. She described things in her childhood that her former therapist attributed to a posttraumatic stressful event. This supposedly explained her rush to sex, specifically her oral fixation that drew her to long thick shafts that contrasted against her full, greedy mouth.

She settled in her messy dressing room that housed her PC, vanity and a shitload of clothes. Most she could no longer wear, but she held on to them anyway. It was as if her fat was unrelenting, and it was a continuous battle for her. She had a bizarre self-image. She berated herself but only wore the finest foundation of lipstick MAC could offer. Her mother always told her that she had the most beautiful face. So she believed that one positive message. Everything else managed to slip through the cracks. She settled in her swivel armchair, lit a joint and looked at the pictures on the wall and bookshelf that represented a happier time in her life. It was a time when she was energetic and involved. Now she had become an isolationist although she would never admit that fact. In her cyber world, she was safe, and here she was a princess, and to some, a real beauty.

Initially, she couldn't believe the attention that she got from the men online. There were older wealthy men from the Main Line who spoke of unhappy marriages and how they needed a "kitten to spoil." There were the braggadocio types who claimed to be at every happening party that Paperstreet held, and other popular weekly drinkfests where only the beautiful Philadelphians played. There were groups and chat rooms for every quirk, perk or syndrome one can imagine. There were men who called themselves FAs, or "Fat Admirers," who wanted to make her fatter. She immediately cast them aside and put them in the I-might-be-crazy-but-you're-a-fucking-weirdo file. Her most peculiar admirers she thought were the handsome young white men who couldn't get enough of her on Web cam, or photos of her breasts and backside. She was the reluctant whore but enjoyed what felt like a sense of control over the rosy-cheeked boys who dated much younger and whose bodies were taut and supple. Yet the young men unabashedly chased her. She knew they weren't serious, but it was fun. Though she teased the 19- and 20-year-old online fans and became more open to actually meeting 21- through 29-year-olds, she had never actually met anyone in person. Now it was about time she changed that. It was perfect that she stumbled onto Dustin. He was 26, enigmatic and a wannabe rock star from Center City Philadelphia.

"Is that really you on your Web page?" he asked in random instant message.

"Who r u?" she replied, while feeling insulted he didn't believe it was her.

"Nobody," he responded. "But you're gorgeous. What's your name? How old are you, and when can I "cum' over?! Lol."

She laughed back at his banter because it was simply ridiculous that he would suggest something like that without even knowing her name.

"What's your name?" she asked. "I am Bria."

"Wow, a lovely name for a lovely girl. I am Dustin, and I am 26."

"Oh, um, thank you."

"Why "oh'? How old are you?"

She hesitated but began to type. "I'm 32."

"Ooooh, an older woman, how nice. You certainly don't look 32. I mean, don't you like younger men?"

"Well, I can't imagine what you want with me," she said.

"Oh," he responded, "there are many things to want from a beauty like you. Your skin is supple. Do you have any more pics?"

"Maybe, but you never sent me your pic. Do you even have one?"

"I most certainly do," he responded, and typed "BRB."

As Dustin sent photos to his new potential lay, Bria sent hers, including two head-to-toe shots to show her fatness in case he had grand delusions. She opened the mail he sent, and her slow-as-hell 56K modem connection caused a heightened sense of anxiety. The first reveal of this male beauty was a thick curly mass of chestnut-colored hair. It happened to be her favorite kind to run her fingers through. Her heart quickened its pace. The strong form of his face now appeared with the most striking and bright green eyes she had ever seen. His smile was delicious and sinister, yet she immediately felt at ease. The download finally completed, and her doubts instantly set in.

He appeared tall and looked wonderfully masculine. The kind of man she would melt over. The photo was taken on a basketball court and he was shirtless in the center of two other men who were also very attractive. They were nothing like Dustin. He had a wonderful wickedness in his eye that increased her disbelief in him actually wanting her.

"You can't possibly be interested in me. Look, don't mock me," she said with rage in her heart. "Some of us don't have it like you, OK, one of the desired people in the world. You don't need the Internet to meet women! Why are you doing this?" She felt tears welling up.

"You are one of the desired people, Bria," he said.

"No, I'm not," she typed back, and paused. She was feeling picked upon. But he continued.

"Bria?"

"Yes?"

"You have the most beautiful breasts I've ever seen. Feed them to me."

Bria wasn't sure how to respond. She felt a rush of excitement.

"Stop," she said. "I don't know you. Stop talking to me like that!"

"You're right. I apologize, Bria, do forgive me."

Bria felt her mind screwed royally. She thought it was another sly ploy from some horny dude who had no regard for who she was. But then what was he to think with a girl whose screen name was BrownSugaa? So, she digressed.

"OK," she said. "Well, would you like another photo?"

To her chagrin, he said no. She wasn't expecting that.

"Why not?" she asked desperately, even though there was no way for him to gauge her urgency.

"Because I've seen enough. I know I want you."

And just like that, Bria found herself smitten.

So it began. It started with simple hellos and goodbyes. They shared more photos. They moved on to more revealing chats and discovered their uncanny commonality. He was a musician who had been in a grungy cover band specializing in Incubus (one of her favorite groups) and STP songs. He broke from the group to play his original music and was struggling to do so. She talked of her love of the ocean and hoped to find a new job after grad school. He found her sexy and alluring. She found him wonderfully dominant and sincere. They took their talks to the phone and fell deeply for the other's voice, always ending the discussions with his creamy release all about his torso. The one she envisioned licking someday. While online one day, he brought up the idea of meeting soon. She said no and refused to see him after a gig he had at Ortlieb's Jazzhaus, and he didn't understand.

"I can't do that," she said.

"Why not, Bria?"

"I just can't."

"What, are you really a guy or married or something?"

"Fuck you Dustin! CLICK!" and she blocked him. Stunned, he immediately called her mobile phone, and reluctantly she answered.

"Hello?"

"Bria. Why did you block me?"

"I can't believe you would think I was a guy," she said. "After all this time, how could you say that to me?"

"I'm sorry, baby," he pleaded. "But I don't understand why we can't meet. I mean it's been four months. It's getting cold, and I need your warmth."

"I know," she said.

"Then meet me. Come down Tuesday night and see me play. Hear me strum my guitar for you."

"I can't, D. I mean, you're not going to like me. How could you? This Internet thing is one thing. Talking on the phone is cool, too, but … "

"But what? Aren't you're the one always telling me you want a lover? You want me to be your lover. Meet me, Bria."

"Oh, Dustin," she cooed.

"Let me see that sweet mouth in person. Let me see the sway of your hips and the bounce of your bosom."

She giggled at his advances. "Dustin. Stop. You know I can't take you."

"Yes, baby," he said with great confidence. "Yes you can, and you will. Tuesday I'll be there all night. Meet me Bria. Be a good girl.

His watch said 11:49, and the smoke rising from the ashtrays burned his eyes. His break was almost up, and his third shot of Jack Daniels was beginning to take effect. Where was she?

Bria drove down Third Street past Market, then over Spring Garden heading to the blue building of the funky little jazz joint where her "D" awaited. She couldn't believe she was doing it. She smoked three bowls and was stoned out of her mind, increasing her anxiety and paranoia. She felt foolish and increasingly weirded out. Her belly was in knots as she pulled into a parking space that was only moments away from Ortlieb's doorstep. She could hear the last set starting as she checked her lipstick for the ninth time in 20 minutes. She inhaled a deep breath and stepped into the club, not knowing what to expect.

A girl on a stool greeted her and asked for $5 as Bria's eyes moved about the room hoping to find the boy she lusted after. She was impressed with the crowd. It seemed rather mixed, with a relaxed atmosphere. She found a seat at the elongated bar and looked toward the small stage and saw a figure that could only be Dustin. His hair had grown longer than the photo, and his 6-foot-2-inch frame even more commanding as his head hung low while he plucked his guitar with passion she could feel in her panties. Her nervousness got the best of her. She ordered an Absolut and cranberry and tried to focus on her fella. She sipped her drink so fast and hard that she got a brain freeze. She signaled the barmaid for another and considered moving into one of the empty tables closer to the stage. She got up to do just that when Dustin's solo ended. The audience roared with approval that made him stand tall and smile that beautiful smile around the smoky club. His glassy eyes became fixed on the brown girl at the end of the bar. Bria could feel his gaze, and she immediately turned away and headed for the door.

"Bria!" he yelled and ran offstage following her.

"Bria!" he called again as he ran toward her before she opened the car door. "Where are you going?"

"I'm sorry, Dustin," she said. "I don't know what I'm doing. I'm sorry. You are just too overwhelming. You're … you are so beautiful!"

"And so are you," he said, taking her breath away as he pinned her against the car, fondling her breasts and grabbing her round bottom. His hot tongue slithered into her parted mouth and Bria let him sink into her deeply and matter-of-factly.

"You're mine, Bria," he said.

"I know," she replied. And their love affair began.

FIN

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