One Size Fits All -part One

ONE SIZE FITS ALL

Most stories will have a beginning, middle and an end, and most of them will start at the beginning, move to the middle and finish up at the end. Mine however starts at the middle, for at the age of fifty-eight I am hoping that I have a long way to go before I reach the end.
Let me introduce myself.
My name is Rhapsody Caine, although this is not who I started out as, but moreover it is the name of the person who set me free.
The person that, two years ago helped me to discover sex.
To explain; I have been sexually active since the age of twenty-three, and although I was legally allowed to have sex at eighteen the word 'allowed' did not mean that anyone wanted to have sex with me.
You see, I was the fat girl in high school, the girl that was popular only by association. I had many friends, but as time went by I began to realise that I was the 'fat friend' - the group necessity. A comparison to be drawn against what you were getting, to what you could end up with.
The clown.
The outcast.
The last resort.

Looking around me now at the young groups of girls of today I can still see my echo within the crowd. The overweight girl trying to squeeze into societies expectations as hard as she tried to squeeze into the dress she was now wearing.
Fitting in with the crowd as well as she fitted her wardrobe. The irony always being that as they were a size to small for her, she was a size too big for the crowd.
Unaware that she was bigger than all of them - in so many other ways.
As all of my 'friends' paired off with various boyfriends, (that later became husbands), I was left to make my way alone in the world, and to be fair I did okay.
I trained as a nurse, and later went on to leave the wards and transfer to the private sector, and it was around this time that I first met my husband.
He was not my first, but he was the first to treat me with any kind of respect and to look past my failings. I feel I need to point out that one of these 'failings' mentioned was not that of being overweight. He loved me because I made him laugh, made him see the world differently and more importantly - made him dinner.
No, my failings come in the shape of another 'darker' side to my persona.
The exploration of which forms the basis of this story.

My first was a drunken fumble that turned into something more when, at a graduation party, I found myself in a corner with a very drunk young doctor - or doctor to be.
To be honest he could have been the janitor for all I cared, as the only real fact I knew about him then, and still know now, was that he was close to passing out and very horny. I had been drinking too, but not enough to stop me taking advantage of a situation that rarely, if at all, had presented itself before then.
At this time I feel that I should describe myself in a little more detail.
As you would have gathered by now, I am fat.
I'm not going to sugar coat it and use words like 'Big Boned' or 'Plus Sized' for I feel that this is hiding the fact that what other people call 'Water Retention' I call
'Lard Retention', or even 'Cake Retention'.
I make no excuse for this, because I don't feel I have to.
I am perfectly healthy, but I like my food.
Now, I do not comfort eat, nor do I have some condition, psychological or physical, that causes any sort of depression. I have no issue with my size, but what I do have an issue with is that society refuses to fit me in, for with this access of body matter comes a large butt and a very large pair of breasts, which is great - isn't it?
Well no.
Case in point: It seems to be an unwritten rule that making a bra that is in anyway flattering or sexy, is just a waste of everyone's time. And so we, and by 'we' I mean all the women that are at the larger end of the scale, (and in this day and age this seems to include anyone over and above their birth-weight), have to make do with the ever so flattering style of 'Parachute' that come in black, white, brown or flesh tone, (although I have never seen or met a woman with skin that colour).
So, finding a bra that fits, whilst being comfortable and sexy is akin to finding the Holy Grail. Or any garment that buttons up at the front - which is near impossible to find if you have to stuff a healthy sized bosom in there, for the force exerted from the other side threatens to launch any loose button with such ferocity that anyone who stood within a four foot radius took a very real chance of loosing an eye. I took to corsetry for a while, in an attempt to reduce parts of me whilst enhancing certain other bits, but the creaking caused by the fight this torturous article of clothing had to make, in order to keep in the very things it was designed to show off, made me sound like a paper bag being scrunched up every time I moved. Plus they are very uncomfortable and pushed my boobs up so far that I felt like I was wearing earmuffs. I will touch on this subject again a little later, for I feel the roar from this woman's issue should be heard - in the meantime, I will return your attention away from my breasts, and back to the party - where it had become apparent that the attention they drew was not something that was easily avoided.

The drunken young student, janitor or whatever he was, had noticed through his newly fitted beer goggles that the woman he was sitting next to was largely made up of tits, which, to him, had seemed to enter the room a good few seconds before she did. The only thing that stopped him falling into an alcohol induced coma was that he somehow found that he was now snogging the owner of this incredible bosom, and now had his hand firmly inside her blouse, having gained a remarkably easy access.
This was more as a result of my encouragement, for if I had left it for him to take the initiative then we would still be sitting there now.

There were a lot of people at the party, but quite frankly no one was looking at what was going on in our little corner of the room. It was safe to say that, at that late stage of the evening, what was happening to me was pretty commonplace throughout the house. Most of the action was taking place upstairs, and some within the hot-tub outside. The rest had just got on with whatever they were doing and everyone was minding their own business.
My new friend found after some time that he needed some assistance, for after unbuttoning the rest of my blouse he had unsuccessfully tried to unclasp my bra.
This would have required a better man that he, and one with a greater spatial awareness than his addled senses were now providing.
My bras have to work for their living and have a tensile strength that are equalled only by the Hoover Dam, and therefore presented him with a problem simular to that of a Rubik Cube. He tried to solve this problem by inserting his hand inside the actual cup, but the pressure exerted by its contents proved to be a serious force and leverage challenge that, without trained supervision, could have resulted in the loss of a finger. My answer was much simpler than his, being that I reached around and undid the clasp myself.
Now as has been mentioned, I am a big girl and the sudden release of several pounds of mammary gland is a sight to see.
My friend thought so too.
This was the first time I had ever exposed myself to a man, or woman - well, anyone really, and so I was not sure what the reaction would be, or should be.
So the words,
'Jesus - you're huge', was not the romantic line I had been expecting on their public debut, and the sudden, if a little eager undoing of his pants showed me that I should have not have read so many 'romantic stories', for what was being presented to me was less than huge. This to be fair was more to do with the alcohol surging through his bloodstream, a sergeancy that was preventing any, or little normal service.
But here's the thing.
I was a twenty-three year old, fat little Indian girl - did I mention I was Indian?
No?
Not that it matters of course, but it will explain a few things later on if you know this.
I will simplify that last sentence - I was a twenty-three year old virgin, and so the image of a real, if flaccid appendage, being offered to me as part of the nighttime entertainment was a major thrill for me - and a rare one at that.
And so while our kissing continued I concentrated on bringing back to life that what seemed to have died, and in religious terms I was successful in raising Lazarus.
A little too successful it seems for, after an impressive release, I had to wait for the second coming - so to speak.
So this, without the obvious ensuing detail, was my first time.
And although my description of these events seems to suggest an utter catastrophe filled with clumsy intent, to me it was absolutely wonderful.
For this was my introduction to the world of men.

There were many times like this in the years that followed - about four or five times a month to be honest. Nothing ever evolved into any sort of relationship, but it all followed the same pattern of a drunken fondle, followed by hurried sex.
Perverse, dirty and empty sex.
It seemed after a while that I had gained a reputation as an experimental playground for men to express their darker desires - desires that they would not want to expose to their loved ones, through fear of rejection and judgment thereof as a pervert, and to be honest I cannot say with my hand on my heart that I didn't enjoy it.
In fact - I loved it.
Now, it is important to note that, during a rare 'after coitus' conversation with one of the more sober of my gentlemen friends, I discovered something very interesting.
You may remember earlier that I mentioned that I was Indian? well it seemed that this was some sort of barrier to men asking me out.
Not for any racist reason, although I cannot speak for everyone - no, it appeared that the view of my nationality was that from a young age we were betrothed to another, and we were therefore unobtainable. The fact that I was so willing to put out just served as the catalyst for having a taste of the 'forbidden fruit'.
I found this absolutely wonderful news, as I assumed it was my size that had prevented men from approaching me.
I told him that, in some cases this was perfectly true, but not for me. I was completely free do what I want, and with whom I please.
I asked him if he would like to go out sometime.
He said no as his girlfriend might object.
Sais la vie.

So to my husband.
We met in a bar, which had turned into some sort of hunting ground for me over the years, but far from being part of the drunken crowd, of which I had seemed to become a fringe member of, he was the guy serving behind the bar. I had wobbled my way on heels that were way too high for me, (but something I felt I needed to add a little height), and expressed to him that I would like something 'exotic'.
'I'm half Italian' he replied, 'does that count'
Such was the infrequency of being chatted up, (for infrequency read never), that I almost missed it. He asked if I would meet him for a drink sometime, and with an incredulous nod I agreed to a date.
An actual date.

The drink date turned into a lunch date, which in turn led to a walk in the park.
We talked - proper talking, like a conversation and everything.
In truth it was him that did most of the talking, as all I could do was nod and giggle.
And whilst walking he did something that melted the cold heart that had been frozen by years of misuse, turned to stone by the needy and the unfeeling.
He held my hand.
This simple action gave me worth.
It gave me courage, and it gave me strength.

One date turned into two, and two into three, until the days when we were not together were few and far between.
We were an item.
We were in love.
The frenzied, heated sex had made way to long nights of lovemaking, and this was a good thing.
Wasn't it?
Well. Actually, no - it wasn't.
You see, although I loved him with all my heart - and still do, I missed the passion, the urgency and the feeling of pure selfish gratification.
With my other partners I didn't have to care about their feelings, because they sure didn't care about mine. That was the point you see - it was all about me.
I had stopped being the little fat Indian girl with the big tits.
The forbidden fruit.
The surprising event.
With my husband, as he became not two years after we met, I couldn't give instruction as I had done to the others. I couldn't tell him what I wanted done to me, or in the heat of passion refer to myself in the third person as a 'slut' or a 'whore' from fear of exposing some hidden perverse nature that he had not been aware of - or wanted in a wife.
Sex became less dirty, and more safe.
Predictable - Dull.
My body changed too.
Not in a physical sense, but in its description.
I became cuddly, instead of fat.
I gained breasts instead of tits.
I was of 'ethnic origin' instead of being Pakistani, or Indian.
But I settled for this life of love and security, for with it came three children, and from one - a grandson. And slowly over the years I became less and less - me.



'I have Prostate cancer'
These were the four words that sent and ice shard through my heart, for they were words that threatened to take away everything. For a few months my husband had complained that his hand become a little numb when he clenched it into a fist.
'It's as though I'm wearing a glove' he told me.
I had sent him to the doctor to get his blood pressure checked out and to make sure this was nothing to do with his heart, as this was a problem within his family. His father had died of a heart attack and so I was always making sure that he attended regular checks in that department. Tests were done and all was fine, until the results of his PSA levels came back showing it to be way too high. I won't give you the full medical terminology, but if your PSA level is high, there is a good chance you have Prostate issues.
On hearing the diagnosis from the ensuing biopsy, I felt my world fall apart.
I was going to loose the only man I had ever loved, and who had ever loved me.
Prostate cancer is a slow burner, and if caught early enough can be treated and eventually cured. Most men, when being diagnosed, opt for treatment, and most die with it as opposed to of it. The trick is getting checked out on a regular basis.
Such was the case for us.
'Cut it out' my husband had said, 'I don't want a time-bomb inside me ready to go off - why treat something that can be cured' he had reasoned.
And so it was.
Three months after finding out what was happening to him, he was in hospital and having the prostate gland removed - along with some other things too.
You see - the doctors, in an attempt to remove the gland and the outer areas, (to make sure they had got everything), had to remove one of the nerves that controlled his erections.
This was of no matter to either of us, for we had our children and he had his life.
Sex wasn't that important to us at our age - was it?
Well, as it happens - yes it was.
I was Fifty-four and not ready to live a life of half celibacy.
I was not ready to give in to what fate had decreed should be.
I wasn't prepared to just bend over and take it - well, actually I was, but that was the whole point you see. The option pertaining to any position I may take, sexual or otherwise, had been taken away from me, and no one seemed to be interested in how I would be affected.
Now you may think that this account seems a little unsympathetic to my husband's plight, but I have to point out that there are two sides to a marriage, and therefore two stories to be told. If I were to write this story from his point of view I would be able to explain the angst and depression he felt. I would tell you of the lonely tears he shed during the night, having been woken by nightmares caused by the feeling of having his masculinity torn from him, and of the fear that his wife would go in search of satisfaction with another man.
A real man.
A whole man.
Such as he had once been.
But this other point of view, the wife's point of view, is a side that is very rarely told.
A lonely, unsaid tale.
Quiet.
Ignored.
Selfish.
It is a side of the story that, if left untold, is subject to misinterpretation.
A non-telling of which can, and often does, lead to resentment.

For the first few months after his surgery, we made do with oral gratification as
penetrative sex was out of the question, and although we both pretended that it didn't matter - for both of us it really did. As time went on it became clear that he was not going to regain full function in that department.
This drove an unseen and unspoken wedge between us.
We attended sex therapy sessions, of all things, which basically told us that we had to 'explore each other's bodies' and 'bring our lovemaking to a new and spiritual level' - Yuk!
Did I look elsewhere?
Of course I did - to my shame.
But my husband had come to terms with what life had thrown his way, and had resigned himself to never having 'normal' sex again.
He was at peace with his fate - I was not.
I felt cheated.
I had settled for a love life without passion, and now I was expected have no sexual outlet at all - ever.
I had never been one for self-gratification - other than to please a partner, but there came a time where I was in very real danger of going blind.
Now the needs of the selfish heart will argue a point beyond reason. It will find a way to justify any actions that allows its goal to be achieved, and so I made up my mind to actively search for someway to satisfy the needs that had built up within me, and to quash this lust that had raged inside for so many years. I reasoned that if I could expend this access energy I would be able to become a better wife.
A new wife for this new, asexual marriage.
One able to fix this broken man and to tend to his needs.
I would be able to devote ninety-eight percent of my time to him, whilst using the other two percent for my own selfish desires.
Just two percent.
That sounds reasonable - doesn't it?
Well, yes - it does.
The thing is.
Although I didn't find it hard to attract a man when I was younger, I now no longer had that youth to play with. I was a middle aged Indian woman with and expanding rear end and an overly large bust, and no amount of cleavage was going to attract the kind of man I needed, and what made it harder was the fact that I was not sure what sort of man I was looking for.
The type I went for all those years ago was basically anyone who wanted me.
I wasn't interested in whether or not they had a girlfriend or a wife.
If they were black or white.
Skinny or fat.
Or even if they thought I was someone else - or wished I was someone else.
As long as they had a pulse and were awake, something I often felt was more of a guideline that an actual rule, I was really not that fussy.
And although it's a cliche for a person of my ethnic background, for all those that knew me, I was the corner dairy - open all hours.
I took to the Internet in search of my two percent.


END OF PART ONE