Itty Bitty Fat Boy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man in a deeply dysfunctional relationship has a desperately needed intimate moment in an airport terminal...with an itty bitty fat boy.

Submitted: January 08, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 08, 2012




“You know what? I've never really understood how children don't die more often, I mean, considering all those fucking germs they carry around. It's fucking gross. If you get me pregnant, I'll cut off your dick and burn it in your parent's fireplace,” Lena said in a surprisingly loud voice considering a wee, senile old lady was stooped into the faux velvet airport seat next to her. My first thought was not regarding the future peril of my penis should I ever impregnate my girlfriend, but more on how the lady hadn't reacted. Did she hear it? Is she listening to anyone? Can she even hear? I'd been planning on breaking up with Lena for a while. Pretty much since I started dating her a year ago, but Mary Mother of God, she is GOOD in bed. She has the gift of total deception with her charming, wavy blond hair. That's an understatement of titanic proportions. Yes. I'm pathetic. I get orgasms without affection. Don't judge me.

I then naturally began to wonder how it's even possible that Lena hasn't been slapped more by strangers. Hmm. Perhaps I'm supposed to correct her as her boyfriend. Perhaps a verbal slap will suffice. Lord knows her screaming makes my ears bleed, though I know it will eventually lead to painful but outstanding sex. I raised an eyebrow – and more subtly my elbow – in preparation for my role as the corrector and said as matter-of-factly as one can, “Lena, sweetie, shut the fuck up.”

After the wickedly painful throbbing subsided following a Lena-style high five to the face, I noticed a pudgy, little boy in my peripheral vision. I noticed just as quickly that he was running straight toward me. Yes. Straight fucking at me. As if he knew me. His short, dark brown hair flopped harmoniously with the tidal wave of the fat on his not-so-bitty body as it tried – and failed – to fight gravity, somehow complementing the hand-me-down clothing and a spiderman tee shirt that was just short enough to ride the tidal waves and shimmy upward, exposing his creamy, white, wiggling, jolly, belly. It's amazing how an unbridled smile can be so contagious. Christ. Lena was right. The questions continued.

So, seriously, what the fuck? Do I know this kid? Is it me? Seriously? His feet patted so loudly on the linoleum floor that I was sure they rumbled through the rest of the terminal. Or was he running toward someone behind me? I would've shot a quick glance behind me to find the reflected enthusiasm on another person's face, but the God damn kid was running at me so fast that I hardly had time to react. I slid forward off the chair onto my knees and pumped my arms out with fingers spread in anticipation of the awesomeness that was surely encased in this oncoming love train. It seemed as though I became impermeable to Lena's ceaseless protests because I finally summoned the courage to filter them to the trash can of my brain. I couldn't help but smile and whispered through my teeth, “!!” I rocketed him into the air as if our giggles were the fuel propelling the engines and quickly brought him down into a close embrace, albeit making every effort to ignore the intense cramp in my right shoulder from doing such heavy lifting. I didn't care. I spun in a circle like in the movies, succumbing to the bubbling happiness between two totally naïve human beings.

Knowing damn well I had no idea whose fucking child this was, I decided the damage was already done and I should do well to squeeze all the good energy out of this little ball of excitement. I needed that hug though I knew I had to sober myself out of this, for master butterball was not my child. In the midst of the love nest dancing in the terminal, I sniped a look at the, or rather who I assume to be, little pudgy boy's mother covered head to toe with the phrase “what the fuck?!”

Maybe she thought any stranger who would so warmly accept a running dive hug from a fat, little boy and cry afterward probably truly needed it. Yep. You heard me. I didn't even know I was tearing up until the mother offered me a tissue upon reclaiming her son from 'the land of awkward PDA with children that aren't yours.' How fucking lucky am I to find the one chick who totally overlooks the serious issues surrounding what just happened? I fell in love with Annabelle Jones right then and there.

Jesus, of course I still had to go to LA with Lena. I wasn't going to subject myself to the potential lacerations from her giant nylon nails in a god damn airport, now was I? Little does she know, I swiped the mother's phone number which she had hastily written down on the back of a crumbled receipt and passed it to me while shaking hands after my “apology.” It was magical. Like teenagers passing love notes in class.  

© Copyright 2018 Aveline Chaw. All rights reserved.

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