Love at Large Part 1

LOVE AT LARGE.

Elizabeth Angus.

Judy Bagshaw.

Jennifer Harrington.

Sue Ann Jaffarian.

FOREWORD.

Danger - Large Love At Work!

by Sue Ann Jaffarian.

I have a dream...

a That one day the lingerie billboard I pa.s.s on my way to work will feature a size 22 model in a fire-engine red teddy; a That one day a plus size actress will put an imprint of her big fat behind in the cement in front of Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood; a That one day interviews with talented and accomplished women, who also happen to be large, will not include questions and comments about weight; a That one day books with full-figured heroines will be the norm, not specialty fiction shunned by major publis.h.i.+ng houses.

Love at Large is part of that dream; at least it's a healthy foot in the right direction.

Plump, fat, plus size, zaftig, full-figured, chubby...no matter what the word, it is no secret that in our weight obsessed society women who are defined by these and similar adjectives are treated as though they are invisible or seen as merely cardboard cutouts with stereotypical personalities.

Generally, in media, whether it is film, television, books, or even magazines, full-figured women are given the roles of good sport, helpful neighbor and/or gal pal. Seldom, if ever, is seen a fleshy vamp or a s.e.xy and desirable woman who just happens to shop at the plus-size stores. They sell laundry soap and laxatives, not perfume, cars or beer; always a bridesmaid, never the bride. Sometimes, they don't even make the cut as a bridesmaid. After all, what fas.h.i.+on conscious bride would want a double helping of lime green taffeta in her wedding photos? Right?

But the reality is that plump (fat, plus size, zaftig, full-figured, chubby, etc., etc.) women are brides and bridesmaids, as well as girl friends and significant others. They are as capable of being s.e.xy sirens and exciting lovers as they are of being best friends and dependable employees. If not, then who is buying all that plus size lingerie? And please don't say it's that quiet man who lives on the next block with his mother.

Love at Large is a courageous book of charming romantic stories; each one a celebration of the lives and loves of full-figured women. It is a book of fiction featuring real women searching for real love and finding that men do indeed send long-stemmed red roses to women with double digit dress sizes.

Within the pages of Love at Large, you will find s.p.u.n.ky, attractive, s.e.xy, and smart heroines. These are women who love, are loved, and make love. They are all that and a bag of chips; and they make no apologies for not being the fat-free variety.

SUE ANN JAFFARIAN is the author of the award-winning Odelia Grey mystery series which features a plus-size paralegal as an amateur sleuth.

WITH MANY THANKS.

To Judi McCoy, for her endless editing and her constant support. Judi is the author of the upcoming release, "Wanted: One Special Kiss"

To Heather Donovan, for her creation and leaders.h.i.+p of the BBW Romance Writing Group.

Heather is the author of the upcoming release, "Love and Kilts: Book One of the SpiritBadge Series"

To Jennfier Harrington, for all her time and effort in getting this anthology organized and ready for publis.h.i.+ng!

You can see Jennifer's first release right here in Love at Large!

CONTENTS.

"Ill.u.s.trated Woman" by Elizabeth Angus.

"A Work of Art" by Judy Bagshaw.

"Dirty Laundry" by Jennifer Harrington.

"Love Bytes" by Sue Ann Jaffarian.

"A Change in Direction" by Nancy Trausch.

"An Unforgettable Kiss" by Eileen Wilson.

"Pa.s.sion Unmasked" by BBW Romance Writing Group.

THE ILl.u.s.tRATED WOMAN.

Elizabeth Angus.

CHAPTER ONE.

I'D BEEN THINKING about getting a tattoo for the longest time. It was far from a whim. I'd decided at last that acquiring one was a good way to celebrate turning thirty.

So there I was, in a tattoo place named Rip's Parlour. It was little more than a shopfront, consisting of a minute waiting room with walls plastered with sheets of potential skin art, ranging from the ubiquitous roses and hearts and skulls to dramatic Native American pieces that would decorate an entire torso.

At the rear was a tinier backroom almost filled with a sink topped with a cupboard and an adjustable chair that looked like a dentist's instrument of torture. The back wall boasted a huge mirror, presumably to watch the action as parts of one's body were adorned, parts not visible unless one was a contortionist.

"Go to Rip's," my friend, Jim, had said. "My sister-in-law Sharon knows him, and I hear he's good. Keeps a clean place."

No one else of my acquaintance had ventured into a tattoo parlour, and this at least was a little better than playing eeny-meeny-miney-mo with the phonebook. A little.

Now that I was there, about to consign my precious and virgin skin to the hands of a stranger, my nerves were dancing a military tattoo of their own in my stomach. I clutched the piece of paper with my design and willed the nerves away. It had taken me several hours of sketching before I came up with one I'd be happy to permanently etch onto my person.

Before I could turn tail and run, the man behind the counter looked up and smiled.

"Hi," he said, proffering a paw the size of Texas. "My name's Rip."

I extricated my hand from his considerable grip with minor difficulty and returned the courtesy.

"Remy. Remy Martin." I waited a beat.

"Like the brandy?" he asked.

"Yep." I gave him full points for recognizing the derivation, which was far better than the blank incomprehension that often followed my introduction. "The one craving that my mother couldn't satisfy while pregnant with me."

I refrained from enlightening him regarding the cravings she had been able to satisfy: pickled onions and ice cream, gravy and vegemite sandwiches, choc-dipped parsnips. Grown men have been known to blanch at Mama's gastronomic fancies.

I'd long been glad to end up with the more innocuous yet rather spirited appellation of Remy. Imagine going through life as Parsnip Martin. Just the thought made me shudder.

I offered Rip my sketch, glad to see that my hand had steadied.

"Nice," he observed. "Did you draw that yourself?"

I nodded. We both gazed down at the sketch. My design depicted a delicate seahorse, about an inch and a half high, in shades of green and golden yellow. Sinuous strands of seaweed swirled around her, and her tail spiralled down a slender stem. Ripples of blue twining about both seahorse and seaweed suggested the currents of the ocean sweeping past, and the whole was outlined in black. I was pleased with the final result of my sketching.

"Couldn't find something you liked on display?" Rip tipped his chin at the sheets of ma.s.s-produced designs adorning the walls.

Surprised at the question, I hesitated. I'd expected the tattooist to just take my money and get on with it. I wasn't prepared for curiosity regarding my motives.

"Sorry, none of my business," Rip apologised, shrugging. "I just wondered..."

"No, it's okay." I gathered my thoughts. "I didn't want to permanently acquire something impersonal; something I'd chosen from a wall of ma.s.s-produced designs that anyone could have for the right price. I wanted something unique. Special."

Great, now I sounded like a prize idiot.

"Ah." He smiled, and suddenly I didn't feel quite so stupid after all. "Is that the size you wanted it?"

I nodded.

"Where are you planning to put it?"

I made a vague gesture at my upper left chest.

He grinned. It was a lovely grin, I thought, bemused.

"Okay. It'll take me a few minutes to draw it up on transfer paper and get my gear ready. We should talk price, too. How about eighty dollars? I prefer cash."

He gave me another grin, and I felt a strange tingle start somewhere in the vicinity of my knees.

I hadn't been sure what the cost would be, but eighty dollars seemed reasonable.

"Eighty's fine." I hoped I sounded like I knew what I was talking about. "Roughly, how long do you think it will take?"

"Well, maybe an hour and a half, two hours. Most people, though, find an hour is about as much pain as they can take. Some handle it well, some don't. Is this your first tattoo?"

I nodded. Maybe I was in over my head?

"Okay. How about we see how you're feeling after an hour, and if it's bothering you too much, we'll call it a day, and you can come back in a week or two and get it finished off?"

"All right." The last syllable came out in a squeak. I was about to find out the hard way just how high my pain threshold went.

Rip busied himself with his preparations, gathering ink and, gulp, instruments. I leaned against the counter and studied him at my leisure while he was otherwise occupied. He was a tall man, with a well-muscled body. s.h.i.+ny chestnut hair was gathered into a longish ponytail low on the nape of his neck. He had long legs clad in well-worn leather jeans topped with a black t-s.h.i.+rt, the sleeves ripped out leaving his arms bare. His feet sported black-strapped boots with Cuban heels. I wondered if the motorcycle parked out front belonged to him.

While he might never have been described as handsome, he had a pleasant and open face with a high forehead, deep brown eyes with lashes any woman would envy sweeping dark against his cheek, and a wide mouth with a full lower lip. There were laugh lines etched beside that mouth and matching ones crinkled the corners of his eyes.

I pondered my own reflection in the mirror stretched across the back wall. I only just reached the shoulder of the tall man I'd been watching. If short and fat were where it's at, I'd be there. My hair, a deep l.u.s.trous red that owed more to the chemical industry than nature, curled below my shoulders to brush the slopes of b.r.e.a.s.t.s that were more than generous. My hips flowed out in corresponding curves from a narrow waist a an hourgla.s.s figure, with several extra minutes of sand. I had wide-set grey eyes in a round face, tipped with a pert nose and garnished with a full mouth. It was far from meeting the narrow standards of conventional beauty, but it wasn't an unappealing package to the discerning viewer, if I did say so myself.

As he straightened from retrieving the last of his impedimenta from beneath the sink, a posture that provided a very enticing view, the b.u.t.terflies in my stomach metamorphosed into elephants and s.h.i.+fted up a gear from soft-shoe shuffle to tap dance. I'd managed to distract myself from impending events in contemplation of Rip and my own vanity, but as he beckoned me toward the torturer's chair, I realised my moment of truth was at hand.

I lowered myself into the chair with trepidation.

"Show me again where you want this positioned," said Rip, donning latex gloves as he seated himself on a wheeled stool and scooted it over beside me.

I felt a blush creep up my cheeks as I unb.u.t.toned my blouse, my modesty grateful I'd had the foresight to wear a tank top beneath it. Not that I really minded being ogled if it were done with sincere admiration, but there was something very intimate about disrobing, even partially, while in such a vulnerable position with a man who, I had to admit, was getting to me in ways I didn't dare examine in detail.

I pointed to the expanse of upper breast thus bared and avoided his gaze.

"More to the left?" His hand, holding the paper with my design, hovered awaiting my a.s.sent.

I peered down my nose trying to see if that was where I wanted to put the tattoo.

"Don't worry too much. I'll apply the transfer, then you can have a look in the mirror and see if that's right. It's no ha.s.sle to wipe it off and try again," he said, smoothing the paper over my skin.

His knee brushed my arm, sending another of those disconcerting flutters freewheeling through me. He peeled it away, leaving the outline of the sketch printed on my skin, and stepped back to allow me a view of my reflection.

I pondered. "Maybe a bit more to the left, please."

Rip swabbed the first try away with a little alcohol, and repositioned the transfer.

"Better." I smiled.

"Great. Make yourself comfortable, and we'll start. I'm just going to adjust the chair, don't be alarmed." He raised the chair and lowered the back to a reclining position.

Getting comfortable seemed an impossible task in the face of the ominous nature of the contraption in which I was seated, as well as my puzzling reactions to Rip. I squirmed, feeling awkward, reminded again all too vividly of being in the dentist's chair, fitting my knees over the long leg rests. I was about as comfortable as I was going to get, given that every tendon in my body had gone rigid with fear.

"So does your other half know you're doing this, or will it be a surprise?" he asked.

"I don't have an other half."

"Ah."

I wasn't sure what his 'ah' meant, but I had other more immediate worries.

He pulled himself closer into my left side, so close I could feel his knee warm against my thigh while his breath stirred loose strands of my hair. He smelled of something herbal and spicy, and I had to drag my eyes away from his too close face.

I was blus.h.i.+ng again.

"Ready? If the pain's bothering you too much, tell me and we'll take a break. Okay, here we go."