50 Pounds of Heidi

Originally published here: http://eradica.wordpress.com/50-pounds-of-heidi

In France they call it a "Royale with cheese."
In France they call it a “Royale with cheese.”

“That asshole Morris never knocks,” Heidi thought, as she locked the office door. She went back to her desk, sat down, grabbed the computer’s mouse, and clicked “Next.”

Dear Heidi,

Thanks for all you do fighting racism and oppression. As a strong Black woman, I can’t believe that here it is in 2013 and we still have ignorant hateful racists. Just last month while driving south to Florida I stopped at an All American Convenience Store on I-95, and was reminded yet again of how far we have to go in this country. There was a white man, about 6 foot 3, muscular, with brown hair and blue eyes, wearing a Confederate flag on his muscle shirt! I couldn’t believe it. He glanced at me, and immediately I froze. I felt his micro-aggressions all over my body. I felt as disempowered as a slave girl cowering in front of mean Mr. Charlie, while he leers at me, whip in hand, as if I was his property. As if he owned me.

He glanced at my body, his eyes moving from my legs to my eyes, and he spoke: “Howdy, ma’am.” His accent made it sound like “Howdy, mammy” and I felt ashamed, reminded of the legacy of slavery and my lack of power and privilege. I felt invisible, desexualized, as if I was just an Aunt Jemimah, stereotyped as a non-sexual being. As if we needed any more proof that racism continues to divide us and keeps us from coming together.

Sincerely,

Tanisha Jackson

fatphobia
But come back later after we close.

Heidi was unimpressed. The reality was so different than her early ideas of what fighting racism would be like. She had imagined Ku Klux Klansmen, three at a time, riding up on their horses, snatching her up, and ravishing her in the woods; that moment when the robes came off – but the hoods stayed on (the hoods ALWAYS stayed on!)

Or Neo-Nazis, with their Hugo Boss uniforms and black boots, spanking her with their little leather whips, calling her a “dirty little jewess” and forcing her to say things, bad things. Naughty things no Jewish girl should say. Making her do things – want to do things! – things she had never even done with Tony the Italian boy who had lived near NYU. And she had done things with Tony she could never tell the rabbi! Ari just wouldn’t understand anyway.

But the last neo-nazi they found was a mild mannered accountant with a wife and kids. An accountant – like Uncle Abbie! That was not what she had in mind!

She clicked “Next.”

Dear Heidi,

I would like to draw your attention to a new form of virulent racism that is going under the radar of anti-hate activists. Hipster racism. Hipster racism is just like regular racism except it’s “ironic” but is still used to marginalize and isolate people of color, especially, women of color.

Last week in Brooklyn I was at the coffee shop with my friend from class, Andrew, who happens to be white. Two white girls he knows sat down with us. When a song by a white artist came on, they all seemed to know it. I just asked who it was, and one of the white girls said “Rihanna” and they all laughed. I felt humiliated. Andrew said, “oh don’t pay attention to them, they’re just hipsters” and they all laughed again. I felt excluded, turned into the “other” and reminded of my “place” and how “different” I am.

Sincerely,

Maria Gomez

“Hipster racism?” Heidi thought. She had heard about “hipsters,” fashionable urban whites with exclusionary and elitist attitudes. Heidi leaned back, and imagined herself in Brooklyn, at a private, luxury aerobics studio. Her instructor, Mr. H., tall, thin, with lean muscles. Cocky enough, he was wearing glasses that she knew weren’t prescription, but the moustache! Narrower than a cop moustache, but just wide enough it wouldn’t arouse (ooh!) too much suspicion. But she knew! She wiggled in her seat and closed her eyes …

Hotter than a bad yenta's dream.
Hotter than a bad yenta’s dream.

She had been on the treadmill forever, she felt. Hours. Days. Time had lost all meaning. Her entire body ached, and soaked in sweat, her panties were even more moist under her sweatpants. She burned all over.

Smack! She felt his hand smack her ass, hard. Hard enough she let out an involutary moan. Her breath ragged, her voice hoarse, barely able to speak she begged softly, “please, I can’t! I have to stop!”

Smack! “Ooh, ow!” she shrieked.

Mr. H spoke. “You don’t stop until I say you stop.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied meekly.

“I own you, Heidi. You signed the contract. Until I get my 50 pounds, you are my property. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir!”

“It’s not kosher to be a fat little piggy, now is it, Heidi?” Smack!

“Oh, no, I’m sorry Mr. H.”

Just when she could take no more, he turned off the treadmill. She stepped off, stumbled to him, and sank down to her knees, her zaftig figure jiggling as she hit the floor, hard.

“Well your next meal won’t be kosher either!”

“Yes, sir, yes please!” She moaned. She looked up into his prussian blue eyes. Opened mouth and drooling slightly, she reached up, unzipped his ridiculously skinny jeans, and fumbling around, finally felt the warmth of his fat, uncircumcized member. She wanted to devour him – she was hungry for him. She enveloped him with her lips, hungrily taking him into her famished mouth.

Heidi moaned at her desk. Squish squish.

“You like that, don’t you, Heido Ho!”

“Yes! Yes!” she cried out.

Fat Camp for Cutie
Fat Camp for Cutie

Squish squish.

The knock on the door startled her, but she was too far along to stop now.

“Mrs. Beirich, we’ve got that Aryan Brotherhood member in Corcoran Prison you wanted to interview, line two. The one with the facial tatoos?”

“Yes! OK, just a minute!”

Squish squish.

Mmrhf.

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