BigCandy

The one that finally attracted a few subscribers to my page was a video I called Snickers Dildo. You can imagine how it went. The melty chocolate brought a whole different sort of clientele. If someone wanted to pay for my unflushed toilet, why not?

If there’s one thing I learned during my career as a nurse: people have their kinks.

One guy paid me to film myself pouring a jug of milk over my naked body before rolling around in Skittles. The tiny candy stuck to my skin. Melted. Streaked. Stained. The guy paid me a bonus that allowed me to pay my student loan—and my rent. I probably wouldn’t live long enough to pay off my student loan, but I liked how the aggressive letters and phone calls stopped for a few weeks, anyway.

The money made up for the cruelty.

Comments ranged from the unimaginative—you disgusting whore—to the overly specific—six stomach rolls is a record, you disgust me—and the bizarre—your ass looks like a sack of piglets wrestling.

I hadn’t yet started kindergarten, the first time someone said something mean about my body. Our family used to take a Sunday drive in our new Buick, stopping for ice cream somewhere along the way, and one particular Sunday, after the preacher had talked about gluttony, my father told me that I could only order one scoop. “You’re getting a chubby tummy, honey pie,” he had said. I stopped eating ice cream, or any desserts—in front of my family.

God bless Daddy’s soul, if he could see what people paid me to do with ice cream now. Took me a bit of practice, but I learned how to hold a pint of ice cream between my tits, and once it has melted, I bounce it up and catch some of it in my mouth. My subscribers love it, especially when I try to catch the bits from Mint Chocolate Chip.

You disgusting whore.

Saggy sloppy boooobies!

You got any midgets hidden in those norks?

Like a lot of curvy girls I developed early and boys noticed. I looked good in a sweater and that scored me a spot on the cheerleading squad. I dated the quarterback when he was a junior and I was a freshman. A rumor went around that I was easy, and that’s why Joe dated me—for the rumors. He rarely touched me, and mostly wanted to talk about football plays for hours on end. In the 80s I heard he’d died of AIDS, but I was glad that he’d gotten to love how he wanted to love. I’ve always remembered sweet, QB Sneak-obsessed Joe fondly. Since high school I always had more boyfriends than girlfriends, girls being jealous.

I don’t have too many subscribers, but a few days ago, someone paid me to stick Twizzlers between the rolls of fat on my boobs, belly, butt and thighs, so that by the end I looked like a porcupine with red quills. Made for a great video and earned me enough to buy a three month supply of my medications from that discount pharmacy up in Canada.

You disgusting whore.

Suck that candy, lady!

Red dye #3 should be banned. It kills!

My first husband nearly killed me one night. He accused me of being a whore because I wore a blouse to his work picnic that showed too much cleavage, and so he choked me until I passed out. He was a sad kid who suffered PTSD, wrecked by fighting in that cruel war, but I was young and dumb and fell for his moody machismo. The next time he passed out drunk, I walked out and drove his cherry red Chevy Impala straight to Reno so I could no-fault divorce his ass in six weeks. I lived in Reno for years, working as a cocktail waitress at Fitzgeralds down on South Virginia Street. Got good tips for my tits, allowing men to get handsy with me, until I aged out, and I wasn’t going to work out in Winnemucca or Ely, so I waited tables in Sacramento for fewer tips. Got good at flirting with truckers. Helps me now, I guess.

One fool paid me a huge tip to buy a Cookie Monster cake at the Kroger and eat the whole damn thing on camera—and film my bright green shit the next day.

You disgusting whore.

I’m disturbed by how much I’m loving this shit.

Warning: aliens take over bodies. To make their shit green. You BE possessed, lady.

I married again—to a guy who worked at a regional bank. His circumstances didn’t match his ambitions, and he was one of those guys who wanted to look successful. He leased cars he couldn’t quite afford. He wanted me to match his vision of success too—and that involved sculpting my body through a mixture of starvation and Jazzercise. He bought me a Thigh Master for Christmas one year, and that was enough for me. I left his ass.

Subscribers will send me gift cards to shove things in my ass: Twix bars, M&Ms, Sour Patch Kids. Shove the candy inside my cheeks, let the candy pieces drop back out again.

You disgusting whore.

It’s like the candy is being butt born. So sick!

Plop, plop fizz fizz, you’re gonna make me jizz.

I married one more time to a nice social studies teacher with a wild side. He never missed Sturgis and I pretended to like being his Harley Girl, riding behind him, wind and rain and sun beating down on my terrified ass. We saw a lot of country before he died in a motorcycle accident, something I saw coming, the risks he took.

Sometimes I worry about the risk of stalkers. That’s why I only ask for gift cards to chain stores that have locations all over the place. I never give out any personal information. I made the mistake in an early video of buying myself a box of fancy chocolates from a boutique shop on Primrose Street, and a guy recognized the brand.

You disgusting whore.

Choco Bon Bons! I love that place! You live near me!

I’m gonna find you and come over and slap that fat ass until its flat.

After my last husband died, I decided I was done with all of that nonsense of trying to please someone, always being sweet enough, sexy enough, thin enough, fun enough, dressing the right way, saying the right thing, always thinking of someone else before myself.

I decided to help people and get paid for it—so I went to nursing school. The oldest student in my class. Worked at the hospital until my back gave out. Worked as a home aid until my memory wasn’t good enough to keep up with all the little details.

I thought about getting married again, but not many men are in the market for a lumpy old lady, not in the real world. And I didn’t want someone telling me how to spend my money. I joined the online site as a lark, after reading about a girl—an attractive young thing—making more money than her ex-husband, a fancy lawyer. I didn’t need that kind of money, but Social Security wasn’t cutting it. Not with the landlord raising my rent. Groceries always costing more. And then my doctor prescribed a pricey new inhaler. I had to do something—something where I wouldn’t have to spend hours on my feet, or keep track of too much stuff, memory-wise.

One of my online fans messaged me, why do you degrade yourself like this?

I wrote back, do you know how much I get in Social Security each month versus the rent I pay for a shabby studio apartment? Do you know how much my new asthma inhaler costs?

But people are so mean to you, my fan wrote, you deserve better at your age.

I laughed out loud.

Men have always stared at my body, said stuff about my body, touched my body—and I could get things from them, a date for homecoming, tips at work, a nice dinner, a new sofa, a cruise one time. I don’t care if the comments are nice or nasty, all those men were nice or nasty. Nowadays it simply feels good to be seen. I’ll be 82 next month. Being seen is the only power I’ve ever had. And the money doesn’t hurt either.

The guy sent me a gift card to Sweet Factory and wanted me to order enough cotton candy to wrap myself head-to-toe like a mummy, so I don’t have to see you show off your fat naked ass. I happily ordered the candy. What did I care?

You disgusting whore.

I’ll pay you to do that again—but melt the cotton candy after with Mountain Dew.

Sticky slut with a big ass butt.

The tips I earned from that video allowed me to take my new neighbor friend in 3B to the Olive Garden—we shared the tiramisu for dessert. We’re thinking of starting a book club, too.

BIO: Sydney Salter is the author of My Big Nose And Other Natural Disasters, Swoon At Your Own Risk and Jungle Crossing. She has written short stories for The Saturday Evening Post, Neon Origami, Strip Mall Magazine, Watershed Review, Marrow Magazine and The Main Street Rag. She lives in Utah.