Real Men Jiggle

it always interesting to catchup with friends at the social events. Especially since we seem to get fatter and fatter each time we meet.

At Maya’s cousin’s reception the buffet stretched the length of two long tables. You watched Lena approach first. Her black cocktail dress had been tailored for last spring; tonight the seams at her hips pulled tight enough to show the faint outline of her panties. She balanced a plate already heaped with fried chicken and macaroni, the fabric of her dress riding higher on her thighs with every step. When she reached the table she set the plate down and used both hands to tug the hem back into place, but the motion only made her belly press forward, soft and round beneath the stretched satin.

Across from her, Marcus was already on his second trip. His tux jacket had been left draped over a chair; the white dress shirt beneath it was translucent with sweat at the small of his back and clung to the new roll that had formed above his belt. He scooped another ladle of mashed potatoes onto his plate, then paused to adjust himself, the heel of his hand pressing briefly against the swell beneath his fly. He caught Lena’s eye and grinned, cheeks flushed from the heat and the food.

Jamal and Derek were stationed at the carving station. Jamal’s bow tie had been loosened; the collar of his shirt gapped where his neck had thickened. Derek’s cummerbund sat noticeably higher than it had at the last event, riding the curve of a belly that hadn’t existed two weddings ago. They took turns slicing thick slabs of prime rib, stacking them until the plates bowed. Derek licked a smear of au jus from his thumb, then reached for the horseradish without bothering to set the plate down.

By the time the four of you claimed a round table near the dance floor, the evidence was impossible to ignore. Lena’s dress had ridden up again; she kept one hand on her lap to keep the hem from flashing the lace tops of her stockings. Marcus’s shirt buttons strained at the chest; every time he laughed the gaps between them flashed pale skin. Jamal’s belt had been let out to the last notch, and Derek’s chair creaked whenever he shifted his weight.

Conversation looped from work to mutual friends to the open bar, but the real entertainment was watching each other eat. Lena cut a piece of cake with the edge of her fork and brought it to her mouth; a smear of frosting clung to her lower lip until she licked it away. Marcus reached across the table for the bread basket and his shirt pulled tight enough to show the dark line of hair that now ran from his navel upward. Jamal’s fingers were shiny with butter from the rolls he kept buttering and passing around. Derek’s second slice of cake disappeared in three bites.

When the DJ started a slow song, Lena stood first. The dress clung to every new curve, the zipper at the back visibly strained. Marcus offered his arm; his bicep brushed the side of her breast as she took it. They moved onto the floor together, bodies pressing closer with every step, the soft give of new weight meeting new weight. Jamal and Derek stayed at the table, finishing what was left on the plates, eyes following the couple while their own forks kept moving.

By the end of the night the four of you were the last ones at the table. Empty glasses and crumb-strewn plates surrounded you. Lena’s lipstick was gone, her mouth shiny from the last of the wine. Marcus’s shirt had come untucked on one side, revealing a strip of skin above his belt. Jamal’s bow tie hung loose around his neck. Derek’s jacket had been abandoned somewhere; his sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms resting on the table as he leaned forward, belly pressing against the edge.

Lena looked around at the three men and smiled, slow and knowing.

“Same time next month?” she asked.