There’s a large square parquet floor, a cash bar manned by two women in black vests, a DJ, and circular tables with dark maroon table clothes. It feels a lot like a wedding reception and I’m having those classic wedding reception feelings. I’m looking at my watch a lot. My feet hurt. And I have no intention of getting on the dance floor. I haven’t danced in years.

I’m leaning against a retractable wall that separates this ballroom from the one next to it. I’m sipping on my coke, slowly, trying to make it last. It’s an art, appearing incredibly involved in an act or a place when under the surface lies a completely different story.

At least I’m a bit calmer now. My heart is no longer racing like it was when I first entered the Holiday Inn Express 30 minutes ago. I was terrified I would get questioned. “Sir, can I help you find something?” A question I don’t want to have to answer. This fear causes me to walk straight past the front desk in an act of feigned confidence. I walk what feels like a mile down the wrong side of the hotel before I finally backtrack and find the ballroom.

Now, I am the party gargoyle. But it’s ok, I’m soaking it all in. I’m surprised by the number of couples that are here, which is pretty cool considering I thought this was going to be somewhat of a meat market. The attendance is impressive too. About 100 people so far and they’re continuing to stream in. Another false notion is that I assumed there would be food here. I actually had envisioned a buffet of some kind. Not the case.

“I like to move it, move it!!” The DJ has been spinning for a while but this song is the first one that brings people out of their chairs and onto the dance floor. The bass threatens to disrupt my bowels. It takes right now, this visual of everyone on the dance floor at the same time in such proximity to each other, to make me cognizant of where I am.

I’m at a BBW Party. An event for “BBWs, BHMs, their friends, and admirers.” For the uninitiated, a BBW is a Big Beautiful Woman. A BHM is a Big Handsome Man. I am neither of these. I don’t have any friends here. And I would not exactly classify myself as an admirer either. But the night is young.

For now I will continue to do a stellar job of holding up this retractable wall. Someone has to do it.

Every time it looks like someone is walking in my direction my heart jumps. I am convinced they’re coming over to initiate a conversation with me. This is never the case, people are simply walking to the bar or the bathroom. But, whoah. I realize what I’m doing. I’m assuming that just because I’m not a BB-anything that I must be a prized possession in this environment. “Check out that size 38 against the wall. I’ve got first dibs ladies! Growwwl!”

How self-centered of me. I feel bad about it. It’s never fun to uncover an unattractive truth about yourself. Turns out I’m a BBJ. A Big Beautiful Jerk.

I head to the bathroom, more for the change of scenery than to use the facilities. As I’m drying off my hands a guy strikes up a conversation with me.

“I don’t mean to be forward but I saw you in the ballroom. You here by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you come to our table, I’ll introduce you to some people.”
“Sure. Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”
“Well, I was in your shoes a few months ago. I remember how I felt at my first one of these.”

Dan walks me back to his table and introduces me to 1 other guy and 3 women sitting at his table.

Thrilled to not be standing against the wall anymore I’m coming to life and chatting it up with these people. But I’m getting the third degree. Are you single? Are you Jewish? Where do you live? Where do you work? How old are you? Are larger women your preference? When was your last serious relationship? Was she a larger woman?

It’s a challenge. I’m trying to answer these questions as honestly and openly as I can but I also don’t want them to resent me for being here for hidden reasons.

Conversations continue and in the process I get to learn a bit about the scene in general. Apparently there’s nothing else like this in New England and people drive from New Hampshire and Connecticut for it. In fact they do so regularly since these events happen every 4-5 weeks. Because of the regular frequency of these parties there’s a bit of a gossipy high school feel to things. The people at my table are able to point out several people in the room and give me the low-down on them. “He just wanted to have sex with me.” “He used to date that girl in the blue dress.”

Dan talks about why he likes larger women. I can’t tell if he’s doing it for my benefit or to get in even better graces with the women at our table. He likes “a real girl. With real Legs. And real Thighs, and real Hips.” He also dispels a notion that BBW’s are desperate. “Just because they’re big doesn’t mean they’re hard up. No no no.” Ok, now I feel like he’s talking to the BBW newbie, but it’s cool. It’s why I’m here.

The woman next to me (she’s 6’3” and probably 250 lbs) talks to me about how she and her friends just feel more comfortable here. If they went to a regular club they know they’d be talked about, or judged. Even if said out of earshot, there’d be enough of a vibe or enough looks that they’d feel uncomfortable.

I feel a mix of emotions. I feel a sadness that people can be so cruel to each other. And for some reason I start to have flashbacks to the kind of unfair cruelty children inflict on each other, and some of my own childhood experiences. There’s something about an emotionally charged childhood event that will never completely leave your core. But at the same time I feel really happy and proud that these people have created a place where they feel so accepted and comfortable.

“Want to dance?”

Eek! Andy doesn’t dance. It’s law. But I feel like I can’t say no. And before I know it I’m a lone string bean being bandied about by a crop of plump ripe tomatoes.

Right now, in this moment, these people are happy. Truly happy in their own skin. Happy just being themselves. No hang-ups. And for the first time in a long time I feel a small slice of this. I’m dancing! I’m actually letting go.

I don’t have any glaring physical attributes that might cause people to unfairly judge me on sight, yet these people are happier and freer than I am. Being surrounded by their self-acceptance is allowing me to do the same. What a lesson.

I do three songs and I’m done. I chat with people a little bit more and then announce that I have to go. “Leaving already? It’s only 10:30” I’m apologetic but I know it’s time. I say my good-byes and head back to my apartment and sleep like a log.

Sunday morning I wake up and head to my neighborhood café. “An iced-coffee please and, hmm….” I look up at the menu trying to decide.

“You need a BBW?”

What. The. Fuck. My eyes bug out. My jaw drops. I am staring back blankly in utter disbelief.

“You need a Big Bad Wolf?” she says again. And it hits me. This is my regular Sunday morning order, I just never made note of the acronym before…

“Yes,” I say. “Yes! I need a BBW!”

I enjoy every single savory bite. It’s a gorgeous day out. I am not going to stay home, again, and feel sorry for myself. Not today.

I leave the café with a spring in my step, iced-coffee in hand, ready to take on life…. and as I skip down the street I can’t help but sing my favorite new song….

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