Page 1 of Marshmallow
Marsha
One thing I’ve learnt in this life is that everyone is different. There is no cookie cutter mold to create the perfect look, the perfect shape, the perfect size. It doesn’t exist. The only thing that truly exists is imperfection. And it’s in all of us. Learning to embrace our imperfections, even loving them, is the biggest hurdle most of us face.
“That’s good,” my friend Georgia states as she looks over my shoulder. “Add your hashtags and let’s goooo. We’ve got a party to attend and swimsuits for you to model, and the light will only stay good for so long.” She tugs on my arm and I chuckle. Georgia is also my official photographer. And before you go rolling your eyes, I’m a plus-sized model. Instagram famous. I get mocked and ridiculed daily, but I do it for the girls who say I’m an inspiration. @marshmallow is my username, the name I was given as a plump child. Marsha the marshmallow. Kids would tease me and say I was fat like the marshmallow man on Ghostbusters. I would run home crying, and my mom told me the best way to stop the teasing was to claim the name as my own and never let them see me cry. So I got a T-shirt with ‘marshmallow’ written on the chest and wore it like a badge of honor. They laughed, but I laughed too, and eventually it was just a name. I took my power back. That’s what I’m trying to do with my Instagram profile—give girls their power back.
“I’m almost done,” I say, tapping in the hashtag #EffYourBeautyStandards followed by #HonorMyCurves #bodypositive and #CelebrateMySize.
Just as I hit ‘share’ a DM notification banner drops from the top of my screen.
Normally, I ignore them until I can sit down with Georgia and we go through them together. I get a lot of DMs, some beautiful, some lascivious, others simply disgusting, so I need the moral support. But this time, it’s the name of the account that gets me tapping the notification right away. @CarterReedOfficial.
Holy crap!
Carter Reed is a beautiful bronze-skinned model whom I drool over every chance I get. I have never made my love of romance novels secret (#smartgirlsreadromance) and Carter Reed graces the covers of some of my favourite novels: a hockey romance called Pucked All Night by Saffron Spark, an enemies to lovers called Hate to Love by Julia Kyle… I could go on.
My eyes go wide as I bite my lip, hungry to read his words.
@carterreevesofficial: check your email. I have a proposition for you ??
A proposition? For me? From Carter Reeves? What is even happening here?
“What are you doing?” Georgia snaps as I pinch my forearm. “You’ll make a red mark!” She rushes over and rubs her palm up and down my abused skin. “Why would you do something like this, anyway?” she asks, her tone softer now.
“Because I can’t believe my eyes.” I hold out my phone and show her the email I’ve just pulled up on my screen. It’s a booking request for a photo shoot. “I’m going to be on the cover of a romance novel with Carter Reeves,” I squeal.
“Nooo.”
“Yes!”
We look at each other and squeal. “Holy crap!”
Carter
@marshmallow: I’m honored. Can’t wait to meet you ??
Is it wrong that a little kiss-face emoji is making me hard right now? It’s not the emoji itself, of course. It’s the woman on the other side of it. Marsha Foster, the most beautiful, sumptuous woman to grace god’s green earth. Long chestnut hair, soulful brown eyes and full lips that she has a habit of pressing her teeth into. She has the body of a goddess and skin so smooth it looks like peaches and cream. The moment I saw her, I knew I had to make her mine. I’ve spent hours scrolling through her profile while imagining the feel of those sweet curves and soft skin. Does she taste as good as she looks? I’m desperate to know.
That’s why, when an author I’ve modeled for mentioned she was writing a book with a curvy heroine, I jumped at the chance to suggest myself and the delicious Marsha as her muses. She said yes almost immediately and I swear my dick hasn’t calmed down since. I’m about to be in the same room as the woman of my dreams, and I plan to claim her as mine. No more quietly stalking her profile, I’ll have the real thing within my grasp. I’ll treat her so right, she’ll never want to leave.
Which is exactly what I want.
Marshmallow will be mine.
Marsha
“What if I say something dumb like: Nice to want you? Or if I just start saying cock or pussy or…” I wave my hands to calm my overheating face as we ride the elevator in the hotel where the shoot is taking place. These cover photos are racy, and I’m not sure I’m going to be able to keep myself from creaming all over the place when I’m that close to a man like Carter Reeves.
“You’ll be fine,” Georgia coaches, also trying to cool me down with her waving hands. “You’re a professional. He’s a professional. Just remember that you’re getting paid, and this is amazing exposure. Saffron Spark is a twelve time New York Times bestseller. This is huge for your career.”
“That’s not actually helping me calm down,” I gasp, afraid I’m about to break out in hives. “Maybe we should just go home. Cancel the whole thing.”
“No way. As your best friend, I forbid you to let this pass you by.”
“But it’s him. And then it’s me. What if he’s grossed out touching me or something?” I try not to let the fat shaming get to me, but at times like this, when I’m pushed out of my comfort zone I find myself wanting to run home and cry to my mother about the bullies. I’ve been called a plethora of horrible things since opening a social media account.
“Don’t you dare talk like that. You are beautiful inside and out. Hundreds of thousands of followers tell you that every day. Carter contacted you directly.Himself. So he clearly knows who you are or he never would have bothered.” The elevator door pings open and I’m faced with a hallway filled with people and camera equipment. And Carter. He’s standing against the wall while some woman rubs lotion all over his naked chest.
Naked.
