Jesus Christ, my ex-girlfriend has gotten fat.  I ran into her last night at the bar, which is weird because I almost never go to the bar.  Mostly because I hate running into people.  Being so charming and physically attractive, people tend to remember me.  Being a four-year survivor of a major airline disaster, I don’t tend to remember them.  At least two nondescript gentlemen said hello to me and asked me how I’ve been last night, and I had no idea who they were.  There are a few tricks other forgetful people have suggested for these kinds of situations.  You can introduce the stranger to someone sitting next to you and pretend to cough where you’d normally offer the stranger’s name yourself.  This often works, but it’s condescending and deceitful.  I prefer instead to maintain at least some intellectual honesty and just refer to the strangers by some made up name.  Usually they’re the ones who are confused, but at least they know that something’s not right here.  Sometimes they just think I’m an asshole, which is fine with me.  I didn’t want to come to this bar in the first place.

I was lured out by an acute case of summertime boredom and an inexplicable craving for an appletini.  I’d never had an appletini before, but I figured there’s a first time for everything.  Or maybe I’m pregnant.  Anyway, I decided that if I was going to go all out and elbow through the crowd to purchase an appletini, I might as well look the part.  Luckily, I recently won a scratch-off game for an online shopping spree at  Some kind of Sex and the City: The Motion Picture promotion.  Suffice it to say, I now have a closet full of strappy shoes, strapless dresses, and big hats with flowers and chin straps.  In the mirror, I looked like a cross between a slutty Brazilian fruit vendor and a black woman at church.  Just the look for a night of appletinis.  I spritzed a little Sueur de Vagin on my neck and clicked out the door.

Anyway, my fat ex-girlfriend.  To protect her anonymity, I’ll call her Steve Rogers.

Actually, that’s not right.  I’ll call her The Whore.

Better yet, I’ll call her The Free Whore.

Fuck it.  Her name is [CONTENT REMOVED].

She didn’t recognize me in my appletini enthusiast disguise.  Come to think of it, those guys who thought they knew me must have been mistaken as well.  Regardless, I didn’t want to take any chances.  I couldn’t have her talking to me.  She’d ask how I’ve been doing, and I wouldn’t have the nerve to be anything other than polite since my penis remembers what her mouth felt like (a wet D&D dice pouch).  So I hid inconspicuously on a stool behind a microphone and sang a few Etta James covers while I watched her.

I noticed a couple of things.  For one, she was sitting with an awful lot of lesbians, which really made me feel like I’d missed an opportunity.  And for two, she wore her hair in braided pig tails, which was both disturbingly jail bait-y and monstrously hot.  Take that for what you will.

Oh, and she was fat.  Weirdly fat.  Don’t misunderstand me here, I like a girl with some meat on her bones.  I like some womanly curves.  I once had sex with a meth addict, and for a second there I could have sworn her head turned into David Bowie’s.  Ever since then, I’ve sworn off any woman whose ribs can be counted from afar.  And I’ve sworn off having sex with David Bowie.  So by “weirdly fat”, I don’t mean “pleasantly plump.”  I mean her weight was distributed in such a way that she looked like she was hiding three watermelons under her skin; one in each bicep and another in the gut.  She kind of looked like a pregnant Popeye.

And lest you think I’m some kind of horrible, superficial fattist, may I remind you that [CONTENT REMOVED] is well known to be a vicious, heartless whore.

I had to launch into a quick version of La Bamba just to hide my shocksgust.  Which only made things worse because she loves to dance.  Now here’s where things got interesting.  My hatred of her very being combined with my revulsion at her dada-esque shape would normally have precluded her from becoming an erotic object ever again.  But no matter how freakish she looked, I couldn’t help but feel a little stirring watching her dance with one of the lesbians.

Is this it?  Is this where my conservative Southern upbringing has led me?  Does all sexual reason go hurling out the window when the sensual taboo of girl-on-girl action enters the mix?  If I hadn’t been me, I probably would have considered myself in the appletini enthusiast’s costume to be more fuckable than that she-beast writhing on the dance floor, but the she-beast’s proximity to another vagina had my libido turned upside down.

I collapsed right there on what I now understood to be a stage, and the audience exploded.  After the management realized that my dehydrated unconsciousness was more alcohol poisoning than showmanship, and they called an ambulance.  I was a little loopy on all the pure oxygen, but I think [CONTENT REMOVED] caught sight of me when my flower hat fell off.  She may have said something, but it doesn’t really matter.  I’m never going to that bar again.