Doing Lunch

She worked until late, sleeping only briefly, fitfully—arranging and rearranging platters and plates, filling her fridge with strange delights. It began to look more like dinner for fifty. Still, as the following noon approached, she was pleased. The variety and presentation were fabulous. Strangely awake and alert, despite little sleep, Claudia finally went for a quick shower.

Struck with a moment of doubt, as she stood naked in the bathroom, Claudia worried. Would he actually show up? Would he leave early—or late? Would he like it? Would he like her? Claudia willed the warm spray to cleanse her confidence. "Of course he'll come," she reassured herself, "And he'll enjoy the meal and my company."

Despite her size, Claudia knew that she was not ugly. Beneath the rolls of fat she was pretty; her face, like that of a Raphaelite cherub, was almost beatific. She chose, from the limited selection of her wardrobe, a colourful muumuu, bright but not garish, which flattered her size. With a feeling of lightness and adventure, she 'put on her face', applying make-up with a subtle sophistication due, not to experience, but to artistry. Cosmetics were not in her usual idiom; nonetheless, she was pleased with the result.

Claudia checked her watch. It was exactly noon. She checked herself in the mirror and looked over her preparations to ensure all was ready, then she moved toward a chair to begin the part she most dreaded—the wait. As if by divine providence, before she had fully lowered herself to the seat, the doorbell rang. She rose with a start, catching herself wondering, as a matter of course, "Who could that be?" Who else could it be? She smiled; things were, perhaps, off to a good start.

"Uh, hi. I hope I'm not too early." Arnold said meekly from the doorway.

"Not at all," Claudia effused, "Come on in." She bade him welcome with a histrionic flair that even impressed herself.

As she closed the door behind him, he clumsily proffered a bouquet of roses, which he had held behind his back. "For you," he stammered. "I hope you like roses."

Claudia's breath caught in her throat momentarily before she answered, "Why, they're lovely! Sit down while I get a vase." Claudia took them and waved him toward the living room, then she whirled into the kitchen, ostensibly to arrange the flowers. No one, she realized, had ever, until that very moment, given her flowers. The kitchen and vase were merely ruses to conceal her burning face and teary eyes. She dabbed at the tears before they did irreparable damage to her make-up, struggled to regain her composure, then found a vase.

Scurrying about, she emerged briefly with the flower arrangement, and two large wineglasses. "So how are you?" she asked as she slipped past to the buffet to deftly pour the already breathing wine.

Arnold's head was spinning with excitement, relief and the frenzy of his arrival. "Uh, just fine—thanks. How 'bout yourself?"

Like a whirlwind, Claudia handed one glass to Arnold, set the other on the table and spun back into the kitchen leaving him a dreamy "Wonderful!" in reply. In a moment she appeared again; this time wheeling a teacart covered with all manner of plates and platters. She moved them rather ceremoniously to the coffee table in front of Arnold. "Ta-Daa!" she fanfared, taking a seat next to him. They both admired the attractive arrangement of appetizers for a moment before Claudia announced, "Whore's ovaries!" Seeing Arnold's perplexed look, she chuckled embarrassedly, and translated, "Hors d'ouevres. Dig in."

The dishes before him were covered with a variety of canapés and delicacies such as Arnold thought only existed in the movies and magazines. He stared in awe until Claudia reached in and popped a rich looking tidbit into her mouth. "Mmm," she crooned, "even if I do say so myself." She closed her eyes and licked her lips in a sort of culinary ecstasy. "Help yourself. Don't be shy."

With an almost savage voraciousness, they descended upon the abundance of appetizers. Savouring each flavour and texture they nodded and moaned their appreciation through stuffed mouths. They continued eating, as much as anything, to avoid having to speak. Nonetheless, there was a comfortableness between them that was undeniable. Claudia marveled that she felt entirely at ease, sitting there devouring the copious canapés with a near stranger. Their self-awareness was not burdened by their consumption. A shared twinkling of eyes, sly smiles, almost obscured by the dabbing napkins surreptitiously communicated unabashed pride and admiration—unfamiliarly pleasant feelings to them both. Slowly their gluttony began to take on a metaphysical aspect—an amour-propre, a sort of spiritual intensity that dazzled their psyches and released them from their respective repressions.

Claudia watched Arnold, fascinated with the way he smiled, the way he ate, the way he licked his fingers—all the time watching her. There was something electric, something mystic gripping their parrying gazes. As they finished the hors d'ourves, leaving surprisingly few remnants on the plates, it took a conscious and deliberate effort for Claudia to break away. "Would you like to move to the table?" she whispered before she fled with the teacart into the kitchen. Arnold rolled in a cloud, to the little table set for two. His mind was swimming in a depth of confusion such as he had never before encountered. He stood beside the table and looked helplessly, until Claudia chirped from the other room, "Either seat—it doesn't matter."

Arnold settled himself just as she entered pushing the next course before her—tureens of a thick, aromatic, seafood bisque, and a large wooden bowl of Caesar salad laden with dressing and croutons. "Next!" she proclaimed, hardly able to get the word past the fractious grin that played with her lips. She set the dishes reverently before her guest. Her cheeks burned, and she knew it was not only from the wine, which she hastily refilled.

Seating herself opposite Arnold, Claudia momentarily met his gaze. A palpable energy arced across the table. Claudia felt compelled to lower her eyes—unable to meet Arnold's intensely quizzical and comically confused stare. With red cheeks crowding her full lips, squeezing and restraining an unruly smile, Claudia struggled to regain control over her own features before daring to look up again.

Suddenly, strangely, an uncomfortable, self-conscious silence reared up between them for a long moment, threatening to smother the charged field, until Arnold sniffed and said, with simple innocence, "Mmm, smells good."

Instantly released from the cold grip, Claudia fell back into her relaxed hostess mode. "Then let's dig in," she invited, as she raised a spoonful of soup to her lips. The soup was delicious, more so than Claudia, herself, would ever have expected. They finished their bowls quickly, with little said.

There was a touch of awe in Arnold's voice as, dabbing his lips, he complimented the cook, "That was—well, I don't know—indescribably fabulous!"

Claudia beamed. She had thought so, too; so, throwing modesty aside she added in a dreamy voice, as, in unison, they moved their bowls aside, "It was almost—orgasmic! Eh?" She stared trance-like at Arnold as she piled his plate high with salad and passed it to him.

Accepting the salad, very aware of Claudia's stare, Arnold caught himself by surprise by muttering, "Actually, I wouldn't know. I'm still a virgin." He was so shocked at his own forthrightness that he dropped his eyes to gaze suspiciously at his salad, before raising them again.

Claudia's penetrating look was unwavering. There was no trace of embarrassment, no trace of surprise, but, as she replied, "So am I," something flickered behind her eyes. Arnold held the gaze. Had he seen mere commiseration or was there something else—some sort of invitation—or challenge? They pondered one another silently, grappling with the unfamiliar and exciting sensations being ignited.

Once again, the tension was only released with renewed eating. And, as they tucked into their salads, between mouthfuls, Claudia began to reminisce—quietly—almost, Arnold thought, to herself; yet somehow she seemed to have tacitly invited him to share her most private recollections. "During high school," she began, "I remember being asked out a few times, by a few different guys. They were basically just sniffing around. I suppose they thought I would welcome the attention—and I did, up to a point—but they were just in rut. It was amazing how quickly they lost interest when I made it clear from the outset that I wouldn't put out for them." There was a wistfulness in her voice, in her eyes. "In the end, I never actually dated anyone. Later, I began to think that I had passed up the only chances I would ever get." Her eyes came clear once more, as she studied the face across the table, then shrugged her shoulders. With a light, "But what the hell...," she smiled and, rose to clear off the remains of the salad course.

"Can I help..."

"You stay just where you are. I'll be right back."

Arnold thought about what Claudia had said—and what she hadn't quite said. He knew what she meant. He, too, had been ostracized—discriminated against. "Yeah," he concurred, as Claudia returned from the kitchen with the entrées, "What the hell, eh?" She gave him a slightly puzzled look, until he elaborated. "That's the only way to survive, eh? I mean, you can't let them get you down."

"Nihil carborundum illegitimi," Claudia intoned, almost as if it were a mantra.

"Uh, what was that?"

"It's pidgin Latin for, 'Don't let the bastards grind you down.' It's been, more or less, my motto for years."

The plates set before them, the hostess seated, the silence slowly filling with the tantalizing redolence of roast lamb, they stared at each other. They had so much in common, shared so many intangibles, there was almost a palpable spiritual connection taking place. At once, shy and brazen, they—at last—suddenly—laid into the food like it was their last meal, keeping, always, a watchful eye on one another. And their consumption became unrestrained.

"Fabulous!" Arnold's attention was divided. He looked up from his plate catching, momentarily, Claudia's dreamy gaze. He caught himself frozen mid-chew, before self-consciously returning his eyes to his dinner. "Really," he paused, in an unsuccessful search for other words, "fabulous!"

"You're—It's—uh," Claudia stumbled over her tongue, finally, simply stuffing another forkful of seasoned squash into her mouth to save herself.

"It was so nice—I mean..." Reverting to autopilot, Arnold's fork was in his mouth before he could complete his thought. Still, he forced himself to say something—anything, between swallows, amidst his chewing. "You are—This is—er—wonderful!" he mumbled. His sincerity was obvious, even through his stuffed mouth.

Claudia felt almost overwhelmed. Only the continuous shoveling of food into her mouth kept her anchored to reality. "Thank you," she slurped, "It's really my pleasure..." Their eyes clattered together once again, in an unconscious yet self-conscious toast. "...Really, having you for lunch—to lunch, and..." A large gulp of wine prevented her from saying whatever it was she might have said next. She was thankful that she could at least mask her confusion in gluttony. Something was happening here, and she wasn't at all sure what it was, but she was determined to continue.

Casting conventional manners aside, Claudia smacked her lips as she took another mouthful, "No, it's not too bad, is it?"

"Really," Arnold hastily wiped a dribble from his chin, "it's better than—well..." He sloshed down wine as he considered. "You know, this," he gestured with his fork at the whole table punctuating the gesture by popping another forkful of walnut buttered brussel sprouts into his mouth, "is better than any restaurant I've ever been to."

"Oh, come on," Claudia beamed, past the potatoes au gratin that slipped between her lips.

"Really! I mean it! You're great." A brief, surprised silence reared up between, but this time they held onto one another's glazed gaze. Their chewing fell easily into a shared rhythm until simultaneous, exaggerated swallows broke the spell. They laughed together, each relishing a growing confidence. Feeling the reining effect of decorum dropped at last, they opened up. They began talking—incessantly—mouths full, drinks sloshed. And while they ate, they spoke of food and meals, of experiences and regrets, of fantasies and desires, with accelerating intensity, until they had devoured the whole of the main course.

Breathlessly, they surveyed the table between them, and as the eating stopped, so did their speaking. A void rose from the empty plates and threatened to inundate the room, until Claudia impatiently snatched up the plates, and steered her cart into the kitchen. Only moments later she returned wheeling a large tray of desserts up to the table. Although he didn't exactly understand it, Arnold thought that he recognized, maybe even shared, the amorphous apprehension that glimmered deep in Claudia's eyes. This was not, they both innately understood, a chance that would visit either again.

Seizing the opportunity in the only way they confidently could, they dove together into the desserts. Mutual crapulence filled the air with smiles and "Mmmms," and "Oooohs" and "Aaaahs." Following the initial frenzy, they slowed down to savour the sweet stickiness of pastries and creams, and the companionship for which they provided a medium. Relaxing back in her chair, licking her fingers, Claudia carelessly dropped a gob of frosting off her lip onto her bosom. Arnold stared in awe as it dribbled into her deep cleavage, and for a moment they were both still. Suddenly embarrassed, Arnold attempted to cover his unease by offering, laughingly, "Shall I recover that errant icing for you, milady?"

"Okay," Claudia demurred; a touch of challenge tinged her voice as she added, "Let's see you." She lounged back, suddenly open and at ease, indeed, sultry. The intoxication of the afternoon's events finally overcame Arnold's propriety, and after an endlessly long, mercifully brief hesitation, he shuffled around the table. Staring at the offending spill, he slowly reached with the shaky uncertainty of virginal adolescence. In the moment before he actually touched her, a small voice, somewhere deep in his hidden desires must have murmured, "Unh-uh. No fingers." for his hands fell to his sides.

Claudia had heard her own challenge and couldn't believe she'd actually said it. As Arnold had moved around the table, his eyes fastened to her bosom, she'd become paralyzed. Her pulse rose, her breathing became rapid and shallow, and she couldn't move; she could only watch as Arnold's pudgy, sticky hands slowly approached. She felt giddy with fear and anticipation and delight. Her agitation rose to a silent shriek as his hands stopped, and dropped away. "No!" she screamed, within her unmoving head, "For Christ's sake, don't stop!"

As his hands retreated Arnold's consciousness faded to the rippling, sparkling white of insensibility. Through a sort of surreal haze, almost an objective transcendent, they both watched as Arnold fell, with a stylized grace, face first into Claudia's soft, quivering cleavage. And at the first touch of his tongue to her skin, all, as they say, hell broke loose. Simultaneously, both of them lost their fear, their inhibitions, their caution. Snuzzling into the warm crevasse, chasing the sweetness with his tongue, Arnold tasted her warm, saline femininity; sensations crackled between them like electricity. Almost involuntarily, Claudia's hands clasped around the burrowing head and pulled it deeper, crushing Arnold into the centre of their shared ecstasy. And in that instant they merged into a unity that detonated—like a Big Bang.

Moaning and gasping like wounded beasts, they began tearing at one another's clothing, as they spiraled, falling to the floor, into a fevered abyss of mindless lust. Pawing and groping; huffing and panting; sweaty limbs shuddered and expanses of rippling skin quivered convulsively, mottled and glistening in the stark light of the dining room. Inexorably mounds and masses of hot, quaking flesh were exposed, bared by the obscene orgy, until, suddenly they were both naked.

Well lubricated with sweat and saliva and desire, they needed no direction—no instruction to overcome their virginities. Inflamed arousal played at their instincts as they twisted and contorted, pressing together in an urgent hunger borne of fantasy and deprivation—striving for contact and connection. Their eventual copulation had a lumbering elephantine grace. Arnold's frantic penetration, although shallow, was enough to ignite Claudia's orgasm. Claudia's fluttering violence touched off Arnold, and they fell together in a tremulous heap, their breaths rasping in a post-coital denouement.

"Well, damn," Claudia panted, "So that's it—that's sex, eh?"

As their elevated heart-rates gradually slowed and their respirations relaxed slightly, Arnold heaved himself back onto his haunches. "Wow!" A smile cleaved his face. "Was that great or what?" Despite his grin, there was a flicker of doubt in his voice, or in his eyes; still, he went on. "How does it feel to be a bona fide non-virgin?"

"Yeah," Claudia said dreamily, still panting "A lot of work, this fornication business."

Arnold's hands had migrated back to Claudia's huge breasts, and began kneading them in an action that was beyond his conscious control. He leaned forward and sucked a nipple into his mouth, just for a moment, before pulling away again. Reaching for the table he grabbed a handful of creamy dessert—the instigator of their joust—then, holding it before him, he remarked, with a tone of mild astonishment, "You know, it's funny, but I think that that—the actual screwing—intercourse was almost more trouble than it was worth. You know what I mean?"

Claudia was a little startled, but she let the idea gel in her mind and slowly replied, surprising herself as she admitted, "I think I do. I mean, it was a lot of hard work for a reward that, I don't know—don't get me wrong; it was wonderful in a way—yet it was a little disappointing." She watched his eyes for signs—agreement, approval, anything to pierce his puzzled, slightly dismayed look. "Right?"

Gradually Arnold's eyes dropped. As he stared at the handful of mousse, deflating slowly to drip between his fingers, a mischievous grin crept back onto his face. "Yeah, that's exactly right." His conclusion was punctuated with a flurried plop, as he spread the remainder of his handful onto Claudia's bosom, and dove headlong back into the creamy cleavage. Claudia squealed and bucked as his lips began, once again, to vacuum her breasts.

The afternoon raced into evening. In the end they had food everywhere, having laughed and screamed and cried out in wave upon wave of orgasmic pleasure. They spoke softly and tenderly and philosophically during the periods of respite and recovery. "I think," Arnold observed, gently holding Claudia's head in his lap, "that after so many years—so many lonely years—years of unsatisfied yearnings, we've—well, I've somehow altered my desires." Claudia rolled slightly, just enough to reach his penis with her tongue. She licked a smear of sauce or something from the wobbly little mushroom. It waggled slightly but remained flaccid. She rolled back to look at his eyes, as he went on, unperturbed. "It seems that most of my erotic feelings—most of my eroticism has been transferred to food—food and eating. I'm a consumptionist."

"So am I," Claudia concurred as she began to nibble and suck once more at the rolls of Arnold's fleshy corpulence. In a nearly inaudible whisper she added, "And I love it!" With gradually growing intensity they engaged in yet another carnal skirmish.