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Story Notes:

There's Odor, BBW, and Watersports throughout. Not tagged unless especially present.

Enjoy!

Author's Chapter Notes:

Exposition Only Here


Tammy took a drag of her cigarette, enjoying the warmth of the sun in April. April showers, her ass. It had been the sunniest month of the year, and she’d be damned if she weren’t going to continue soaking it up for as long as possible. She hadn’t been invited to anything for Easter, so it was same old, same old. She was almost a full decade from retirement age, but she’d been retired for years. It had taken her a while, but after she’d gotten it through to the social security fucks that her ADD wouldn’t let her work, she’d had smooth sailing for the past couple decades.

She had to remind herself sometimes that she wasn’t that old or that fat. That Joan was fatter than her by at least a hundred pounds. And Dotty was thirty-something years older. Still, all the same, she got down about it sometimes. Dotty was thinner than her and Joan was younger. And they both had husbands.

She pulled her red Solo cup out from between her jugs. Her first thought was that it was empty. Her second thought was one word: jugs. She giggled. Jugs was a funny word, especially when she was drunk and feeling good. You couldn’ta called them anything else besides jugs, though. She knew it was dumb to be proud of her tits, considering she only had them on account of her belly, thighs, and upper arms matching, but she was proud all the same.

Her plastic chair nearly snapped under her weight as she leaned to the side to feel, without looking, through the long-melted ice in her cooler. She almost stood up when she realized there wasn’t a single beer left. How many was that today? Seven? Thirteen? Seventeen? She knew maybe she’d be living a little ritzier than a trailer park if she wouldn’t spend half her income on booze, but there wasn’t exactly anything else to do, living alone outside the edge of a trailer park in the middle of Bumfuck. A trap is what it was. Besides, where else would she live? A studio apartment in some ghetto?

She finished the cigarette she’d been working on. Slightly disgruntled that she didn’t have a beer to accompany it, she didn’t see the point in not making the most of it before she had to stand up and complete her Sunday evening ritual of hassling her neighbors for their spare booze.

It wasn’t like she never paid them back. Sure, it wasn’t always in cash: she’d occasionally treat some of them to her company, talking about the good old days with the guys who’d been living out in the middle of West Virginia almost longer than her.

They’d tell her to get lost real quick, of course. Nobody had any interest in fat, old Tammy. She scowled as she snuffed her cigarette underneath one of her plastic flip-flops and promptly lit another. She once caught Rick’s kids (Bryce and Jayden? Stupid fuckin’ names like that, anyways.) trying to throw quarters into her asscrack. Rick and his young, blonde wife, Trinity, had scolded them while Tammy was in sight, but after she’d turned a corner, she’d heard him joke to his kids that they’d have better luck aiming for her tits. But what did she care? At least someone noticed her tits. Plus, she’d made a couple bucks that day and every day them kids pulled the same shit since then. Enough to bum a handful of cigarettes off Greg.

She couldn’t help asking Greg first every time. Beer always got her in the mood, and it had been years since she’d gotten more than a kiss on the cheek from a daughter or two swinging by. Hell, it had been years since she’d gotten even that. Greg reminded her of her husband and he lived nearest her. She was an old widow—was it so wrong to have her fantasies? She made the excuse that he smoked the same cigarettes as her, but nearly everyone in the park did. Some of the kids smoked menthols, but it’s not like she cared enough if it came down to it. She stuffed her half empty pack where the Solo cup had been and stood up.

Tammy stood up and took the few waddling and uneven steps it took her to get to the cooler, even though it was within arm’s reach. She leaned down—asscrack popping out of her jeans, be damned; who the hell was walking out to her trailer to peek?—and dunked her hands in the cool water. She brought them up and slapped her ruddy cheeks, before lathering them across her sunburnt chest. Tammy had been sweating the whole day out in the heat-wave induced warmth. A quick rinse, however ineffective, was the least she could do if she was going door-to-door like an evangelical in the next couple minutes. If she could stand long enough to do it.

She grabbed a copy of The National Enquirer she’d been reading last month and fanned herself with it, but it was no use. She was going to be sweating late into the night tonight. It wasn’t all bad, though. At least maybe she wouldn’t get such horrible chub rub. Hell, maybe if she was lucky, she’d even sweat her fat ass off. She giggled again and almost fell over, but leaned on her RV.

The thought that maybe she was too drunk to mooch for another beer didn’t occur to her, and, frankly, it wouldn’t have occurred to anyone else. Tammy’s desperate, drunken laughter trailed around the park at least twice a week, and always, like tonight, on Sundays. The liquor stores, for who-knew-what-reason, stayed closed on the weekends out in Bumfuck. And Tammy, self-diagnosed ADD and permanent drunken stupor and all, wasn’t the type to plan ahead. Even after thirty-some years of the same thing.

So tonight was a surprise.

 

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