Cassius
My dear, sweet Adam has a distorted self-image, and unfortunately for him, his target weight is unrealistic for a man of his build. But this idealized version he has of himself holds him in a death grip, nonetheless. What Adam doesn’t know is that the fancy scale I bought him also comes with an app, which I downloaded to my phone. The app allows me to raise and lower the scale’s base weight, which is necessary to moderate his moods because every time he’s a couple pounds up, it sends him into a depressive spiral where he doesn’t want to get out of bed. (I learned that lesson the hard way.) So, now I only tinker. A few extra ounces if I think he needs a little motivation, a few less if I think he’s going to tank.
But I’m not interested in dating a malnourished waif, so there are some occasions when I add bulking powder to his smoothies or cook with butter and cream instead of his low-fat alternatives. Sometimes I get him high on edibles and tempt him with fatty foods. He’s like a toddler then, opening his mouth obediently while I spoon-feed him ice cream and apple pie and his favorite, cherry cheesecake.
I catch him one evening after his high has worn off, in the bathroom with two fingers down his throat. Lucia went through a bulimic phase herself. How aggravating it was to treat her to an expensive meal only to have her vomit it up a little while later, not to mention the smell of digestive acid that always lingered on her breath
“Adam,” I shout, startling him so that he falls back onto his heels. His face is red, and his eyes are bloodshot from his unsuccessful attempt to make himself vomit. I’ll be damned if I let him ruin all the good work I’ve done to suppress his gag reflex.
“What?” he snaps like a moody teenager.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting rid of all that food I just ate.”
“Absolutely not.” I settle myself on the closed toilet lid and pull him up by his hair. “We do not cheat in this house. Every calorie you consume is going to be absorbed by your body and burned off the old-fashioned way, through exercise. Besides, do you want chipmunk cheeks?”
“No,” he sulks.
“Well, that’s what’s going to happen. Your face will be fat and swollen, not to mention what barfing all the time does to your teeth. How will your Instagram selfies look then?”
“Bad,” he says with a woeful pout.
“More importantly, do you think I want my cock attendant vomiting up his dinner while sucking my dick.”
“No,” he brays, getting emotional about it now. “I’m sorry, Cassius.”
“You should be sorry. If I catch you at this again, I’ll tape your fingers together, so they won’t fit inside your mouth. Now, go wash your face and get ready for bed. I’ve got something else to shove down your throat.”
But the battle is far from over.
“I’m still two pounds over,” he laments to me a few nights later with the despondency of someone who is truly bereft. I’ve brought him to a fancy restaurant as a reward for going on his first round of auditions, but all he’s ordered is a house salad with non-fat Italian dressing on the side. How depressing.
“With all the exercise you’ve been doing, you’re surely building muscle mass, which is heavier than—” I don’t sayfat, God forbid it. “Which is dense. Maybe you should increase your target weight. You’re really more of a twunk than a twink anyhow, dove.”
“But I can’t,” he moans. “Jean-Pierre says my best shot at breaking into the biz is to be cast in a teen drama, and that won’t happen if I look like Zac Efron.”
“Zac Efron inHigh School Musical 3,” I tell him as I cut into my scrumptiously marbled Wagyu steak. “We all know that was his absolute peak.”
“The casting director today told me I was too broad, which is code for too fat.”
“Darling, they always have a reason. Too short, too tall, too ethnic, too many freckles. They make shit up because they have no idea what they want. Casting directors are notoriously fickle.”
“They told me I had the personality of a Nilla wafer,” Adam says, stabbing at his lettuce with a fork.
“Nilla wafers are delicious and beloved by all. A go-to comfort cookie when you want something sweet but not cloying.”
He glowers at me, still unconvinced of his worth. Then he says, “I counted up the calories from sucking your dick this week and recorded it in my food diary. It’s 200 in all.”
Not this again.
“Semen doesn’t count, remember? It gets absorbed by your stomach lining, and all that remains is calcium, which is good for your bones.”
“I’m going on a juice cleanse tomorrow. Will you do it with me?” He bats his beautiful blue eyes and how could I possibly refuse him?
“Sure, darling. Whatever I can do to help. Now try a bite of this steak.” I cut a generous portion and feed it to him from my fork. Adam’s face is rapturous as he chews, his tongue sweeping his full lips to get every last droplet of steak juice. One day I’m going to feed him an entire five-course meal, make him devour it bit by bit until he’s stuffed uncomfortably full.
Adam reminds me of our cleanse the next morning, and I power through some nasty ginger root kombucha nonsense for his benefit. But the truth is, I enjoy chewing food, and if I ate only celery puree and matcha tea, I’d surely collapse from starvation. My people were not made for scarcity. So, when I hear Adam’s power ballad playlist blasting over the gym speakers later in the day, I drive over to the nearest burger joint and down a bacon cheeseburger with a milkshake and a side of fries, then swish with mouthwash so Adam won’t smell it on my breath.
