Stripped Raw Read Free

to keep it together for just a few more minutes. “I won’t lie. Some mornings I wake up having a total ‘fat day,’ so putting on a nice pair of panties and bra can make me feel a little better.”
    “That’s good to know,” Deacon says. “It’s good to know your lingerie works.”
    “I hope everyone who puts on a piece of Kenzie Lingerie feels better, no matter what kind of day they’re having or what type of body they have, what size they are, what age, whether they’ve lost their breasts to cancer or wear a colostomy bag.”
    Deacon picks up the catalog again. “Now, Kenzie, you mentioned size , and you’ve told us most of the women in your catalog aren’t models. I’ve noticed that some of the women are, well, obviously a little overweight, or fat , to use your word.”
    “What? I didn’t call anyone fat !”
    “That was your word a moment ago.”
    “It’s not my word!” I cry, my blood pressure rising.
    “You used it.”
    “About myself , not my models!” Red-faced, I look out to the producers, but they’re not helping. Again .
    “So you’re not glamorizing obesity?”
    “Are you serious? These women are not obese! They are normal, everyday women! And my catalog glamorizes them !” I think about reaching for my microphone and disconnecting from this nonsense, but I feel obligated to stick around and defend the women in my catalog—and maybe all women in the world. If Kenzie Lingerie had a mission statement, it would be the Madeleine Albright quote, “There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.” I mean, we all have to stick together, especially against assholes like Deacon Barnes!
    “I see,” Deacon says, now scratching his chin like he’s some kind of serious newsman. “I think I understand now. It’s just that we had this whole series last week on obesity and the dangers it can pose. It’s still just so fresh in my mind. It was very powerful.”
    “I must’ve missed it.”
    “It’s on our website if you want to catch it,” he says before turning to the camera. “Same for all you out there, if you go to our website, you can watch the series. We’ve gotten a tremendous amount of positive feedback on that series—so many emails, calls, letters. I think we helped a lot of people. We’re very proud of that here at the station.”
    I look down for a moment, hoping not to add vomit to my already-stained shoes. I’ve had enough. My patience has run out, and I’m not sure why I’m still here. Picking up my head, I look Deacon straight in his eyes. “Maybe next week you can run a series on what your problem is with plus-size women. I’ll be sure to tune in for that. I’m sure a lot of women will.”
    Deacon gives a nervous laugh. “What? I have no problem with plus-size women! You can ask any of our viewers. . . .”
    “I don’t need to ask them. It’s obvious. When you wrap up that series on why rude, obnoxious wannabe journalists feel like it’s okay to criticize women who struggle with their weight, please post it on your website. I’d happily watch that series over and over again.”
    “How dare you. . . .”
    “How dare me ?”
    “Yes, you!”
    Standing up, I reach for my microphone as the army of producers swoop down on set. “How dare you treat me the way you have! You obviously have an issue with women who have a little meat on their bones, though that certainly didn’t keep you from talking to my breasts when we were introduced!”
    “I do not! I did not!”
    “Do curvy women make your pencil dick look even smaller than it normally is?”
    “You little. . . .”
    The producers let out a frantic cry for a commercial break.
    *
    KANE
    I’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s what I’m good at, what I do best. In fact, it’s the only reason I’m in a Texas courtroom today, sitting in this hard wooden chair at counsel table, listening to the prosecutor question potential jurors. This isn’t even my case. My