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F. Michael La Rosa
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sitonit.jpg
Art by Jeff Karnick © 2011

Sit On It

 

F. Michael LaRosa

 

 

 

          When I told her what I wanted, she laughed.

          A big, hearty laugh. All that fat jiggling.

          She couldn't stop.

          "You'll chicken out," she finally said.

          "So. You don't give in. That's the deal. No matter what I say or do, or how hard I struggle, you stay put"

          She snorted a laugh.

          "You're crazy," she said. "They'll come after me. They'll arrest me. They'll say I murdered you"

          "You wear gloves," I told her, joking. "No fingerprints. What are they going to do, take a print of your ass?"

          She laughed again. A deep, robust laugh. She did everything big.

          She lit a cigarette. Took a long draw. Exhaled.

          "You get everything I own," I said, changing my tone. Letting her know I was serious. "I leave you the condo. The cars. There are rental properties. Stocks." I handed her the list of assets.  "That's what I'm worth. Honest to God. You work fifteen minutes, you walk away with all of it."

          She scrutinized the list.

          "How do I know this is legit," she asked.

          "Come on, Karen. You know me. I'm almost a regular. Have I ever tried to short you? No. I pay what I owe and leave a big tip. Besides, you can check me out. You have my permission. Hire somebody. Investigate me."

          I handed her my business card, which she took.

          She studied it. 

          "They won't let me have it," she said abruptly. She took another drag and flicked her ash. "Your family. You got family somewhere. They'll crawl out of the woodwork. They'll want their fair share."

          "Fuck 'em," I said. "What do I care what they want? We were planning to marry. We were making love. We were trying something a little different. Before you knew it, I was dead."

          She snickered.

          "I'll make a will. We'll hire a lawyer. He'll make it iron clad. I'll make sure you get it all."

          "Just sign it over to me now," she said.

          "No. It's a tall order I'm asking for. I've got to make sure I get what I pay for. You get the money when you do the deed."

          "So why don't you hire a goddamned hit man," she asked.

          She was sincere.

          "Because I don't want to go that way," I told her.  "I want to go...the way I told you."

          She snorted a laugh and shook her head, then looked me dead in the eye.

          "You're sure," she asked.

          "I'm here, aren’t I, talking to you about it?"

          "You're punking me." She crushed the butt in the ashtray.

          "Okay, look,” I said. I stood up. “I'll find somebody else. I just thought...I mean, with your weight and the way it's distributed..."

          "My fat ass, you mean?"

          "That's right. I just thought that with your big, fat ass and your reputation, you'd be ideal for a job like this."

          "My reputation?"

          "You know...Kinky Karen. I told you that’s what they call you when I looked you up in the first place. You came highly recommended."

          She studied me again, snorted, and shook her head.

          "I don't know if I can do it," she said. "I’ve done all kinds of crazy shit, but I don't know if I can kill a man."

          "Oh, you could kill a man, alright," I said, taking an exaggerated gander at her massive backside. “But that’s not the point. The point is, I'm asking you to do it. I'm begging you. It's not like you're taking something from me. You're giving me something. You're giving me death—a thing I want. You're doing me a favor. Only it's a service, just like in bed tonight—a service that I'm paying for.”

          "I'll think about it," she said.

          "Paying a lot for," I continued, ignoring her. "The big bucks."

          "I said I'd think about it."

          "Not too long," I told her. "I'll find somebody else. Seven days. Seven days and I start looking for somebody else."

          I didn't expect her to call.

***

          She had a better idea, she told me.

          She had come to the office that Monday morning—big, sexy heifer all decked out in rhinestones and fake pearls, her massive derrière barely contained in a skirt designed for a woman half her size.

          Causing a stir.

          Bumping into shit.

          Knocking stuff over.

          Angry at all the attention, flustered, I closed the door behind her.

          She plopped that big ass down on the sofa, fanned herself with both meaty hands, her big rings flashing, and fought to catch her breath while I stared at her, obviously annoyed by her presence.

          “If you don’t like me coming here,” she said finally, still huffing from the exertion,  “you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

          I took a seat behind my desk and studied her. All of our dealings had been conducted in the shadows, so to speak—there, and under the sheets. It was the first time I’d actually seen her in the light of day.

          I was, first of all, astounded at how lovely she really was.

          God knows why we like what we like.

          She noted me staring and winked. Then, with some effort, she lifted one enormous, nylon-clad leg to cross it over the other.

          “My dogs is killing me,” she grunted. “I ain’t used to all this walkin’, 'specially in goddamned heels.”

          She worked what seemed a tiny pump off, dropped it on the carpet, and massaged her fat foot.

          "What's your great idea," I asked her, still annoyed. "The one that brought you here. To my office. In broad daylight."

          "You guys are all the same," she said. "All kisses and hard-ons in the dark, then ashamed of it in, what'd you call it... broad daylight?" She rolled her eyes, then found mine and stared into them. "Marry me," she said. "That's my guarantee. You make the will and all just like you said. But then we marry, go on our honeymoon, and then, while we’re in Jamaica or Paris or whatever other fancy-assed place you'd like to take me, I do what you said. Then I get it all, no questions asked. Because I'll be your wife. That’s the only way I’ll do it.”    

          Now it was me who was hesitating.

          "I don't see why it's necessary I marry you."

          I’d avoided marriage all my life. I’d known a lot of wives, and most of them eventually became ex-wives. In a marriage, somebody always lets somebody down. I didn’t want the drama.

          "Not just marry me," she said. "Marry me with bells on. I want the works. Engagement party. Everything. So that everybody sees how in love we are, so they don't look at me and say, 'That fat pig whore married him, then killed him for his money' and try to take it from me. Instead they'll say, 'That poor girl. He really loved her, you know."

          "What do you care what they say?"

          "Oh, I don't give a rat's ass what those hoity-toity fuckers say," she assured me. "But I care what them goddamned lawyers are gonna say. I care about whatever creepy goddamned nephews and second cousins you got slithering up from the depths and claiming I married and murdered you for money."

          We were quiet then. All the cards were on the table.

          "Okay," she said. “Put my fucking shoe on.” She seemed irritated. I got up, walked around my desk, picked her shoe up and, on one knee, squeezed her fat foot into it.  Then I helped her up. She stood a minute, catching her breath.

           "Okay,” she said again.  “Now you’ve got seven days."

          “Then what,” I asked.

          "Then," she said, "I guess the deal is off."

          I shrugged. She turned around and lumbered out of my office toward the elevator, shaking that big ass.

          “You’ve got my number,” she called loudly.

          Every eye, I promise, was upon her and then, as the elevator doors closed, upon me.

***

          Honestly, I asked around.

          I didn’t want all the attention of a wedding.

          All the gossip that my sudden engagement to a 375-pound woman who was also, if anyone cared to investigate, a well-established local whore, would generate.

          I found a recent copy of the local entertainment weekly and checked out the adult section of the classifieds. I figured some other big-assed call girl would take the bait.  I even interviewed a couple of them.

          But there was something about Karen.

          Something I liked. I mean besides her gigantic derrière.

          I thought of other options too.

          Thought of just buying a pistol and blowing my brains out.

          Thought of jumping off the roof.

          But I was afraid I’d fuck it up. I mean, have you ever Googled that shit? People who have tried to do themselves in and failed?

          Ugly.

          I thought about what Karen had said, too. About hiring a hit man. But I didn’t want to support the criminal aspects of our community. I mean, not that kind of criminal aspect. Whores I had no problem with. No. I could give everything I owned to a whore.

          I like ‘em.

          Besides, I wanted to end this so-called life, but I wanted to do it my way.

          So four days later I dialed Karen up and told her I’d have my secretary place an article announcing our engagement in the paper. I needed some personal information, and her permission to play with the facts of her biography a little. She could, of course, approve the announcement before publication.  And that was that. We had a lawyer draw up a will in which she became sole heir to everything I owned. Then we threw a massive engagement party during which she absolutely shocked and dismayed everyone there with her mere massive, half naked presence, then further traumatized them by devouring almost the entire buffet herself, getting piss-ass drunk, and passing out sprawled on a settee that, though meant for two, was barely wide enough to hold her.

          Nobody could move her, and I spent the night in a chair next to the settee, listening her to snore.

          The CEO called me on the carpet not long after. I’d been in the running to one day step in his shoes, but this whole thing—marrying this hugely fat woman...and who was she, anyway? Nobody could find any information on her. None of the facts we’d published were true. There were all sorts of sordid rumors. Was she some sort of prostitute? What was I trying to do?

          I couldn’t bring myself to answer any of those questions, and so when he asked for my resignation, I complied.

          I felt freer and better than I had in years.

          One of my last acts as Senior Executive Vice President was to have my secretary send out wedding invitations. We’d originally planned a three month engagement, thinking that ninety days might be at least a socially acceptable period of waiting, but since all pretense of acceptability had gone out the window, the announcement was for a wedding three weeks away.

          We'd rented a Pentecostal Church a few miles out of town. It was the first one we could find on such short notice. The preacher was congenial and very happy with the contribution I offered. He agreed to perform the ceremony. The church was too small, however, and the air conditioning poor, and there were more than a few nauseous casualties amid the standing room only crowd who attended, despite the short notice, in order to see me get hitched to the big, fat whore I chose to marry.

          Unable to find a wedding dress large enough or to have one altered in time, my bride chose a bright red sequined whore-gown, then bleached her hair for the occasion.

          She looked like some sort of gargantuan drag queen.

          Worried about the complications of shipping a dead body back from a foreign country or even another state, Karen decided on a honeymoon right here in town. We checked into the bridal suite of one of the big hotels, ordered room service, enjoyed a big meal and high-priced champagne, then began what would become several days and nights of intense lovemaking.

          And then one evening as we rolled hot and heavy in the sheets I found myself under what felt like 400 pounds of prime BBW butt. I took it as long as I felt I could, then gave the signal, a wriggle of the toes, to indicate I’d had enough and needed some air.

          Only Karen didn’t move.

          So I wriggled my toes some more, thinking maybe she hadn’t noticed. It was getting hot under there, and I really needed to breathe, but Karen only squirmed a bit, settling in, pushing even more of her weight onto my face.

          And that’s when I realized that my blushing bride was doing what I’d hired her to do.

          I’d almost forgotten.

          And, I swear to God, I could not breathe.

          I began to struggle, a little at first, but then, as panic set in, kicking and clawing in earnest.

          My efforts to scream were muffled grunts.

          Karen noted my discomfort and repositioned without lifting.

          I was going to die under there.

          Then she began a sort of slow gyration.

          Was that supposed to be for my benefit, or was she getting off on it?

          From my perspective I could make out over a massive roll of butt fat Karen’s meaty back with its rolls and folds of adipose tissue, and the ends of her long bleached hair swaying a little with her movement, and as my vision started to fade I knew that this image, certainly one of my all time favorites in life, would indeed be the one I’d take into the absolutely uncertain, perhaps eternal future.

          Shit!

          I was dying!

          I became frantic. Desperate.

          I was suffocating.

          Drowning in a ton of butt flesh.

          I tried to open my jowls. I thought maybe I could bite her ass to make her move.

          But I couldn’t do it. She was too heavy.

          I dug my unfortunately beautifully manicured nails into the flesh of her massive thighs, but Karen only pressed down harder.

          My lungs were screaming for air.

          I kicked with everything I had, and clawed, and even played possum for a second or two, thinking I could fool her into releasing me, but all to no avail.

          And that’s how it ended for me.

          Just like that.

          Just like I’d wanted.

 

                                                --- end ---

 

 

 

F. Michael LaRosa is a writer, sculptor, and jack of all trades whose work has been published in a variety of print and online magazines over the years.

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