When my excess fat mounds reach new limits, pushing for new boundaries, new countries borders to invade, new jeans, and a new appetite, I can’t stop thinking about tuna sandwiches with unnecessary squirts and splurts of mayonaise inserted, of the new ‘extra-fat’ kind, you know, for ‘men-only’. Is the privilege of superfluous fat unjustly bound by gender? Anyhow, dollops of extra-fat factory-made mayo with no expiration date, all of that nor-liquid-nor-solid grease coming out of the sides of my sandwich, just so it can drop down on my belly. Now is when fats meet fats, from animal fats to vegetable fats, separated by a stretched layer of skin. I don’t mind, an understanding I get from certain people when I am rubbing the mayo with bits of tuna over my bare belly peaking out of my too-tight pants. My living I make this way, with people watching for their pleasure my reality, as their senses are stimulated and they reach a climax.


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