Model Husband (chapter 2)

Chapter 2

The next morning I wake up next to you and remind myself I’m not dreaming. You look as flawless hungover in the morning as you do at night.

How do you do that?

I will not mess this up. I will not let you get away.

I’ve already called up my buddy and he has set us up with a romantic champagne and cheese pairing cruise that will give you a tour of the city you won’t forget.

I let you sleep in, and I go home quickly to shower and change and then we get brunch at Clinton St. Baking Company, then depart from the Chelsea piers and drift down the Hudson in a 1920’s style yacht, circle around Battery Park while you gawk over lady liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge as they tower beneath the misty March sky.

I’ve done my homework. You love champagne and you love cheese and you are having a good time.

People are looking at us. They are as in awe of your beauty as I am. They envy us. They envy me. You tell me I look like Clark Kent and I liken you to Marilyn Monroe and you tell me you get that a lot.

When the cruise is over you’re as tipsy as you are gorgeous and I take you to my apartment and we make love on my sofa.

We fuck in the kitchen and we fuck in the shower, palms pressed into steamy glass and everything.

The day goes by in the blink of an eye and so does the next, and we’re like a couple of sex crazed teenagers, but now you have to leave me.

We’ve been glued to each other for 48 hours. I’ve never felt love like this before. This is too easy and feels natural and perfect.

You are smitten with me and I am so enamored with you it’s scary.

You are unphased by my nearly 40 years of age and you don’t seem to mind that I have a 4 year old daughter. You like that I’m responsible.

I drive you to JFK in my beemer and take your luggage out of my trunk.

“Omigod my sister is freaking out,” you say, looking at your phone.

“Why?”

“She’s not used to me taking so long to respond to her stupid texts.”

I step forward and pull you close. “Tell her you were busy having fun.”

“She knows.” You smile and shift your weight to one hip, your black leggings lower and expose a hint of your sexy flat stomach above your designer hoodie. “She’s already on to me. She knows I’m with you, and she thinks that me not responding to her means I’m in love.”

“Is she right?”

Your eyes beam up at me. “I think you’ll have to fly out to LA and meet her, and we’ll see.”

I kiss your soft lips then look into your eyes, in certain lighting they are more hazel than brown. “I think I might have to.”

I watch you walk away and you turn and give me a flirty wave of your fingers. Your heart-shaped ass looks so good in those tights, so round and pert and kind of big if you don’t mind me saying. I hope to god I’ll be seeing a lot more of that ass in the future.

I do come meet your sister and younger brother. I meet your parents and they seem as pleased with me as I am with you.

Your last boyfriend was a bad boy dick-head wasn’t he. Compared to him your mom thinks I’m Mr. Rogers in the body of Michael Phelps. Forget Clark Kent, to her I’m superman.

We can’t stand living on opposite coasts, we can’t stand being so far apart. You've been getting more gigs or whatever in New York anyway and I can’t move because of my daughter and my job in Soho.

You get an apartment on the south end of the park near Columbus circle and you move in with your little lap dog Stella. You’ve got modern elevators and a doorman. You’re a rich girl and you come from money, but you're starting to earn a lot on your own now too.

I come to your place after work and sleep there during the weeks that I don’t have my daughter.

I take you out to dinner almost every night. I wine and dine you and treat you like you’re the princess of Midtown, and as the months pass I can’t help but notice that you’re starting to put on weight.

“Creme brulee?” I say, remembering you told me it’s one of your favorite treats.

Sitting across from me at Patsy’s restaurant you make a face. “I shouldn’t. My agent keeps telling me she could get me more work if I drop back down to a 14.”

Oh how interesting. So you’ve outgrown your pant size? See I knew I wasn’t crazy. You’re wearing a skintight Rolling Stones t-shirt and your boobs look ready to pop out at any moment. They’ve gotten bigger recently haven't they.

Fuck me your tits are so fucking perfect and your face is so beautiful it puts me in a trance.

I shake my head. “That is so lame. They want to call you a plus size model but they want you to stay small?”

You take a sip of your diet coke. “I know it’s ridiculous.”

“Well, what do you always say?” I clasp my hand over your wrist. You’re softer than you were when I met you. “If you want dessert, you should have dessert and enjoy it right? You’re getting plenty of work as it is.”

You smile and draw your hand back. “Okay twist my arm why don’t ya.”

You’re not exactly a health-nut are you. You say that you like going to the gym but I’m beginning to think you go more for the instagram photos than for real workouts. You’ve been embracing being a plus model more and more and you’re really getting into body positivity and the whole sexy at any size movement.

As the weeks pass you seem to prefer holding iced venti vanilla lattes rather than the handles of an elliptical.

“I think I’ve gained some weight bae,” you say as the late summer sun shines through your bedroom window and bounces over your radiant skin.

It’s early September and we’ve been together for 6 months now.

I put my electric razor on the bathroom counter and step into the doorway looking at you in your naked glory. You’ve lost some of that tone in your stomach and your belly button looks deeper than I remember.  “Really? You look amazing.”

You stand up straight and flick your wet hair over your shoulders. You arch your back and place your hands on your sides. “I think I’m actually getting like slight love handles and they finally had to update my stats, I’m officially a 14/16 now.” You frown, then stare at me for a moment and your lips flip into a smirk. Your eyes draw down to the obvious erection in my jeans. “Omigod you couldn’t give a shit about weight gain, am I right?”

I come closer and smile. “All I know is that you are extremely attractive.”

“It's amazing how wrong society has it,” you say. “Guys really don’t care if girls gain weight and yet we’re all brought up to think that they do. Did you know that 67 percent of American women are above a size 14 and yet they only have 2 percent representation in the media?”

Damn, we’re turning into a nation of fatass women aren't we.

I hold you by the hips and gently press my forehead into your hair. “That’s just dumb, bad marketing, bad advertising.”

“Yeah, and you would know too.”

I tilt back and look you in the eyes. “Why don’t you try and change that.”

You smile then kiss me. “Oh my goodness, you are so perfect, I love you so much.”

Goddamn. I may be a late bloomer but now I’m starting to think I might be the luckiest man on earth.

In October you’re part of a campaign for Treats Magazine and a photo of you goes viral. It’s black and white and meant to be artsy. You’re wearing some sort of skimpy one piece swimsuit and with bare feet on a wooden stool, you’re propping yourself up off the floor with your hands. You’re gazing at the camera with sexy parted lips and your blown-out hair cascades well past your shoulders.

But the picture is not creating a stir across the internet because of your perfect face or hair but instead because of your so-called imperfections. It’s because you look as soft as I’ve ever seen you and it’s because your thighs are surprisingly thick and there is an obvious roll of belly fat forming at your side in your provocative bent position. It’s going viral because the photo is shattering the mold of beauty standards and because you are the first plus model to be showcased in the magazine.

You are breaking new ground.

You are proving to the world that curves are sexy.

Your confidence begins to soar along with your online popularity and I notice that you're not as anal about making sure you get to the health club 4 times a week. Now it’s more like twice a week and sometimes you skip a week altogether.

The holiday season comes and there’s lots of traveling and coast to coast flights. Things get busy and hectic and your formerly somewhat careful diet morphs into whatever is easy and convenient, lots of Starbucks and increasingly more takeout.

During the week of Christmas you lounge around in your pajamas for days at a time and indulge in fudge, cake and cookies without a second thought.

This is your natural state isn’t it. You’re a homebody and a Netflix and chill kind of girl at heart. You like curling up on the couch and being comfy. It seems to be one of your favorite things to do.

By January of 2017 you're bigger than ever and you're finally starting to notice.

I enter your apartment after my workout and put the paper bag from Murray’s on the kitchen counter. I go into the bathroom and find you standing in front of the mirror, naked, curling your eyelashes. You like being naked.

“There’s an everything bagel breakfast sandwich with your name on it,” I say.

“Thank you baby, but I think I need to chill out on all the eating for a while, maybe go back to just smoothies again soon.”

“Why is that?”

“Because the holidays weren't exactly kind to my waistline and I had to get remeasured, like again.” You turn towards me. “My hips are out of control.”

I adjust my glasses. “Remember don’t criticize yourself, bodies come in all shapes and sizes. Don’t try to conform to someone else's standard, just be you.”

“You’re sweet, and I know you're right. I just hate seeing that scolding look on Sasha’s face.”

“I don’t get it, they just sent you to Anguilla, you're already booking stuff left and right so who cares? All your clients love you.”

You smile in an understated way. “But it won’t stay that way if I keep getting bigger, I just have to be careful, that's all.”

“Do we need to do the mirror exercise again?” I stand behind you and put my hands on your shoulders as your big round ass juts out and brushes against my thighs and pelvis. “Okay what are you feeling when you look at yourself now.”

You stare at your reflection. “I’m feeling that I don’t like how chubby my arms look and I think my hips are getting too wide.”

“Okay so…”

You sigh. “I love my hips.”

“And?”

“I love my arms.”

I kiss your cheek and gently caress your sides. “Again.”

You put the eyelash curler down and take a deep breath. “I love my arms and I love my hips, exactly as they are.”

I smile. “Good job, and guess what?”

“What?”

I press my erection firmly into your butt. “I love your hips too.” I massage your shoulders again. “And I love your arms. You seriously are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“I thought that you think Heather Graham is the most beautiful woman.”

What can I say, The Spy Who Shagged Me came out when I was an impressionable college student. “That's what I thought, then I saw you.”

You smirk and push me away. “Okay okay, that’s enough. Let me finish up so I can eat my bagel. Can you cut up some avocados?”

I give your ass a gentle spank. It jiggles more than it used to. “Sure babe,” I say before bumping into the door frame, nearly breaking my glasses.

Despite your daily mirror routine of positive affirmations you learned from therapy, you do seem to be watching what you eat more than you did before.

That relationship weight kind of crept up on you didn’t it.

How much did you gain? Like maybe 15 or 20 pounds since I met you, in the time span of 10 or 11 months?

I bet you're getting close to 200 and it looks good on you but you think it’s too much don’t you.

You feel embarrassed when you need to update your measurements yet again. You now have a 36 inch bust, a 32 inch waist and 46 inch hips. You’re not used to having such a thick midsection, and I know you want to slim down but it’s now February and suddenly there is some very exciting news.

“Bae, you’re not going to believe this,” you say, standing in the living room of your apartment, holding your phone.

“What?”

You bite your lip. “I think I just booked Sports Illustrated.”

I put the grocery bag on the kitchen counter. It’s filled mostly with your favorite Valentine’s Day chocolates. “What!”

“Yeah I know!” You throw your phone on the sofa and wiggle towards me. You’re wearing a sleeveless turquoise dress that clings to your body like a second skin. You are getting so voluptuous. Your breasts are bouncing and your belly is looking a little doughy. You're smiling from ear to ear. “Because last year’s swimsuit edition was such a success with Ashley Graham, they want to showcase another plus size model and I think you might be looking at her.”

You fall into my arms. “Holy crap babe that’s amazing!”

“I know and I’m like pinching myself right now because I still can’t believe it, I’ve literally been like in tears all afternoon.” You take a step backwards. “The best part is that for once in my life, they’re not asking me to slim down or anything. They really seem to want to promote the fact that beauty comes in all shapes and sizes.”

“Oh my gosh babe this is like your dream come true.”

“I know.”

I come towards you again and give you a kiss. “I’m so proud of you. We need to go celebrate.”

“This is going to be huge, and this is going to change everything. Are you going to be able to handle having a girlfriend in Sports Illustrated?”

My eyebrows raise. “Yes baby. I think that’s every guy's dream.”

You lean into me and l find myself pinned against the fridge with my arms wrapped around you. Why do you feel so heavy all of a sudden?  “Thank you for being so supportive,” you say, pressing your boobs into my lower chest.

You smell like an angel. Sometimes I wonder if you are an angel. I clear my throat. “My pleasure.”