As my coworker Bill and I walked into the Houston hotel we were rendered speechless by what we saw: The lobby was filled with thousands, if not millions, of pink balloons. “This ain’t good,” I said at the same time that Bill said, “Buckle your seatbelt, dude.”
Bill and I were there for a training session and as we checked into our respective rooms the desk clerk filled us in. “It’s a convention for Large, Lovely Ladies,” he said. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “It’s like an orgy for fat chicks,” he said confidentially, handing us our keys. “I put your rooms next to the stairs,” he said confidentially. “It’ll be quieter there. You’ll thank me later.”
As Bill and I walked to the elevator he marveled at the size of the attendees.“Damn,” he said, staring at a woman who was easily six feet tall and well over three hundred pounds. “That’s an awful lot of woman.”
I was amazed at the men who were there. “My god,” I said, “these guys are all really skinny.”
“I guess they like their ladies large,” said Bill, eyes shining.
Bill and I met for dinner at 8 and as we got off the elevator we met Darla and Kathleen, two plus-sized gals who were clearly there to party. “Hi boys,” said Darla suggestively, as Kathleen put a hand on her ample hip and regarded us appraisingly. “You two look like a good time,” she said.
Darla and Kathleen were wearing little black cocktail dresses that left little to the imagination and Bill was enchanted. “And you two look like trouble,” he said, clearly forgetting his wife and kids in Denver. Kathleen actually leered at us. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” she said.
But our new friends soon lost interest in us because they were approached by a pint sized cowboy who clearly loved the big ladies. He had a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate and I doubt that he weighed 130 pounds dripping wet. “How about if you gals make me a sandwich?” he slurred, and without hesitation Darla and Kathleen each grabbed one of his arms and headed for the elevator.
After dinner I was ready to head to my room but Bill wanted to explore the convention. “I’m not going in there,” I said, but of course I did.
We were surrounded by enormous women who were dressed to the nines. Sporting skimpy dresses and stiletto heels these women were not like the heavy women I know in real life; women who wear oversized sweatshirts and try to make themselves invisible.
We passed a hair salon with a sign that said, “The bigger the hair, the closer to god,” and a jewelry display that proclaimed, “ A big lady deserves a bigger diamond.”
Bill had a plan: He dragged me to a display that I thought was devoted to home décor, and I was surprised to discover that Frederick of Hollywood designed slipcovers. “No,” said Bill. “This is lingerie.” He held up a voluminous nightie, clearly mesmerized. “These women have curves,” he said approvingly, and I remembered that his wife is a tri-athlete, as lean and hard as a bedboard and almost as flat.
By now I needed a drink so we went to the bar where a huge fountain was spewing pink champagne; this fountain was primarily responsible for the feeling of well-being in the room, but before I could take a sip a Texas-sized woman grabbed me by both hands. She dragged me onto the dance floor and spun me around with such force that for one horrible moment I thought my feet were going to come off the floor and she was going to give me an airplane ride.
Her name was Kara and as the music slowed she asked if I wanted to take the party upstairs. I decided to play my trump card: “Sorry,” I said, “I don’t think my partner would approve.”
Kara winked. “Then don’t tell him,” she said.
Just then I saw Bill approaching “Let me introduce you to my friend!” I said wildly, and as I headed for the exit I saw Bill hand Kara a pink balloon and then they were doing a spirited two-step. I doubt that they even noticed I was gone.