When I was twenty years old, I was on my own for the first time. A chunky white girl moving to a big(ger) town meant I was out of my league without realizing it. I lived in a second story apartment with my newly adopted puppy and I worked the swing shift. I’d just dropped out of culinary school and broken up with the love of my life, so I was ready to experience new things. Life was about living it and I fully intended to experience everything I could. (Oh, the innocence of wide-eyed youth.)
The building sitting across from my apartment held a row of townhouses. In the townhouse closest to my apartment lived a handsome man and his stunning girlfriend. We said hello coming and going and had a generally neighborly relationship. That man had a cousin named Troy, who was gorgeous, fit, and shockingly enough, seemed to be interested in me.
As a fat girl from a small town, I hadn’t had a lot of experience with men. The fact that this smokin’ hot man was interested in me excited me. One night after I came home from work, I was out on the patio reading a book when Troy came out of the townhouse next door. He spoke to me, we flirted for a few minutes, and then he asked me if he could come up. Naively, I said yes.