Paint Me Beautiful

and far too nice to be on a man's face. Admittedly, I'm a little jealous. I scoot forward and lean over, putting my hands on either side of Emmett's knees, dragging my breasts against his jeans as I press my face close and let my eyelids flicker shut.
    As if on cue, he moves into me, tangling his hand in my hair, pressing hot heat to my cold lips, tasting me with long teasing strokes of tongue that cut through my cold shivers and replace them with sudden contractions of my muscles as my body cries out hungrily, desperate for another bite. I hold back, denying it with sheer strength of will. Just as I deny myself calories for fear of the repercussions, I will deny myself Emmett Sinclair and whatever it is that he's offering. We just met today, and he's making me think weird things, putting strange thoughts in my head. I don't know how or why, but he sees that I need help, and he's willing to give it.
    I touch the back of Emmett's neck, run my fingers up into his shaggy hair and pull his hat away so I can tease and stroke and explore. Our kiss lasts minutes, stretches out long and warm, twists like taffy and solidifies into this little nugget of something. If I thought I was going to be able to escape Emmett after one date, I was wrong.
    I want … no, need more, and like food to my hungry body, I can only resist so long before it kills me.

 

    I'm standing in a line that curls around the block and doubles back on itself, so that the people at the end of the line can see those at the beginning. I'm lost somewhere in the middle, wearing a thin sweater over my tank top because it's chilly out, and I can't seem to stop shivering. My portfolio is tucked under my arm and loaded onto my phone, just in case they want digital. I'm scrolling through the pictures and examining them for flaws. My arms look flabby in this one, and oh God, look at my thighs in that suit. There should be a gap there; I won't get hired if there isn't a gap there.
    I look up and examine the people around me. There are women, men, and even kids. I'm guessing there were multiple ads targeted to different demographics. It happens. It also means I'm going to be here five times longer than I want to be. I'm in a horrible place – smack dab between a bakery and a pizza parlor with a Chinese takeout two doors down and a street cart selling hot dogs not five feet away. The horrible smells waft in the air and trigger my weaknesses, making my mouth water and my tummy grumble. I didn't eat this morning even though I wanted to, even though the plate of food my mother left on the counter covered in foil enticed me. Last night, I took it up to my room intending to throw it out and ended up keeping it just so I could stare at the mountain of mashed potatoes, the pieces of greasy chicken, the buttery biscuits. I stared at that and then I stared at myself in the mirror and I imagined where each and every calorie would fall, how it would hang from my bones and jiggle. This morning, I tossed it in the trash can in my bathroom. If my parents haven't stooped to going through my things then nobody has to know. I can just say that I ate it and save myself the fight.
    I close my eyes and whisper a simple mantra to myself. Skinny is beautiful. Skinny is pretty. Skinny is perfect. The cravings fade away to a dull throb, and I smile, proud of myself for remaining strong. After all, what it all comes down to is this: a slice of pizza or a cover shoot; a container of orange chicken or a print ad; a doughnut or a commercial. Failure or success. Not a hard choice to make.
    The line moves forward, and I shuffle along with it, perfectly aware that the girl three people ahead of me is a double zero. Bitch. Why did she have to be in front of me? Now my chubby cheeks and flabby arms are going to be twice as obvious. I sigh and wonder if it's worth it for me to stay, to even go to another casting call until my weight is under control. I touch my hair, my cheek, my lips. I know I can muse all I want about staying away, but I won't stop. Even if I had to walk clear across the city, I'd go to these damn things. It's an addiction, really, and maybe a bit unhealthy, but I have a goal in my mind, and I won't stop until I reach it. I glance up at the billboard above my head and imagine what it would be like to grace it, to see myself stretched out across the sky clad in a bra and panties whose yardage is measured in decimal points … and I shudder. I shudder because I want it so bad , but I