Hear Me Roar

Hi, my name is Sophie Hoobler, I am seventeen years old, five foot two inches in height, one hundred and ten pounds in weight, and I am a recovering lesbian. To be more distinct, I am attracted to the heavy-set woman, and the heavy-set woman alone. I am what we call here, a category R-8, a chubby chasing lesbian. This is my story.

I grew up in a very heterosexual household. I had one Mom, one Dad, one older brother, and one German Sheppard, Bandit. My dad coached my brother’s soccer team. My mom drove me to ballet. I got good at ballet. My brother failed at soccer and tried baseball. He got good at baseball. We ate dinner as a family, went on vacation as a family, went to church as a family, blah, blah, blah. Painfully normal and perfectly functional was our never-ending repetition. A conventional, well-adjusted lifestyle didn’t fulfill my needs. At night, to close up my prayers, I’d ask god, for WW III to break out in my backyard. For my Mom to find blood stains on my Dad’s favorite white-collar shirt. For my brother to catch some rare incurable disease, like Elephantitis. Something horribly disfiguring and life threatening. It’s not as if I had sociopathic tendencies, or wished them any real ill will, that wasn’t the case at all. Tumultuous situations just seemed better suited for a person like me. I liked disorder. There’s something appealing about calamity. Chaos has the fun factor that peace doesn’t.

Ballet was my Mom’s idea. She had been a dancer but had to quit after high school cause she hurt her back. She doesn’t like to talk about it. Dwelling on the past is for losers, and I, I am a winner. By the age of twelve I had been invited to join a professional dance company in Media. My schedule ranged from fourteen to twenty hours a week in the studio. It sucked. There’s only so many times, one can listen to The Nutcracker score without gauging their eyes out with a screwdriver. Or go out on a massive sugar plum killing spree. Sorry Tchaikovsky. Sad face. My ballet peer group would spend the break between classes in the ladies room, taking turns holding each other’s hair as one after another tossed up what miniscule amount of food was left in their system. I never had the urge to purge myself. Engaging in activities in which, with the help of my index finger, I had to forcibly throw up my turkey hoagie did not have much appeal to me. Letting food take its own digestive journey down my large intestine had always appeared to be the most sensible and natural course of action. Instead, I chose to occupy my time by taking lone walks around the shopping center that was next to the dance school. My first stop was Giovanni’s Bakery to pick up a six-inch chocolate cake. Sometimes I’d have them write positive reinforcement onto my purchase. Inspirational sayings like “Sophie is the prettiest, nicest, bestest ballerina EVER” and “I have BIG self-esteem!” were inscribed in pretty purple icing overlaying the dark chocolate frosting.

There’s a Curves two stores adjacent from Giovanni’s. For those who aren’t aware Curves is a place where overweight women (ages 30-50) congregate to work out in a shame-free environment. According to their advertisement it’s a fitness center where “self-esteems rise while BMI’s shrink”. It’s a great place. For reasons that are beyond reason, they designed it so that the treadmills are stationed next to the big storefront window facing the parking lot so passersby could watch large, insecure women of a certain age run, jog in place, their meaty thighs clapping together to the beat of Olivia Newton John’s “Let Get Physical.” My fellow dancers thoroughly enjoyed the paradox that an establishment like Curves brought to our shopping center. Donned, in skimpy leotards they’d make sure the Curves ladies got a good view of their hot, prepubescent little boy bodies as they sashayed up and down the sidewalk. Actions that are considered cruel, are also in most cases, a great source of entertainment. The no “tolerance policy” on bullies is poorly. You know it’s funny, we all do. I never initiated the terrorizing of the members of Curves. I watched, I laughed a few times, but never intentionally partook in making anyone feel bad. I am an extremely nice person.



I was having a particularly bad afternoon this one time. There was this guest teacher and she pretty much called me out in front of everyone. “You know you’re not gonna be this pretty or this good forever. Your gonna get old and die one day, keep that in mind.” Something along those lines. And I was all like I’ll show you. Which, I didn’t. I went to Giovanni’s and bought a carrot cake that read “SOME DAYS ARE UNBEEARABLE” with a picture of a bear on it with flowers. I like bears. They had no forks out, so instead of asking if they had anymore in the back, which they must have. I ate with my hands. I had shoveled all of “bear” in one bite. Swear to god, no lie. What I was about to go town on the “able” when I saw her. My goddess dressed in raggedy t-shirt and spandex biker shorts. Face red, sweaty. Cankles, extending from a pair of Nike sneaks. She was beautiful. It was like seeing the Mona Lisa or Starry Night for the first time. You feel whole, like your brain connects that you’re in the presence of something exquisite. Sublime. I was in awe. Unaware that I was rubbing residual brown frosting on to the back of my pink tights making it look very suspicious. Even if I did, I’d doubt I care. She eyed my cake. I eyed her waist. She licked her lips. I blew a kiss. She got a really weird look on her face and I ran away. Throwing the cake into a dumpster on the way. Baked goods could no longer satisfy my sweet tooth. No, I was hooked onto something much bigger than cake, much bigger than myself for that matter. Literally.

“Did you have an accident?” snickered Lindsey, the one kinda mean girl, when she noticed the small brown stain on the seam of my tights. Usually, I’d be able to come up with a sharp-tongued comeback, something along the lines of “Well uh no it’s actually chocolate, they forgot to give me napkins and I like accidentally wiped them on my tights. I haven’t made in my pants in like six months.” This, this particular moment though, was an exception. I was in a state of shock. All my life, skinny women had surrounded me. As a young girl my father would place me on his knee, cradle me in his arms and say, “Sophie, I love you. But I love you skinny. No Halloween for you.” And I, I would run crying, to my mother saying that daddy, had called me a repulsive beast. She would pick me up in a big ole bear hug and after a minute or so she’d put me down because “someone was getting a little too heavy!” Growing up I had been fed this lie that a twenty-five inch waistline was the epitome of beauty. Now, the truth had been exposed. Large women, with their curves and different proportions had a refined allure that thin women could never attain. No, I was done with these toothpick girls. Finished, forever. Ladies of a petite frame were weak, submissive creatures. My new type of women, was pleasantly plump, the great Rhinoceros of the jungle, an underrated Venus.

When I reached high school, ballet took on the back burner and my new best friend Lauren grasped a hold of all aspects of my life. Lauren was cool. Lauren wore non-prescription horn rimmed glasses, smoked cigarettes in social settings, and refused to eat anything that casted a shadow. A self-proclaimed “intellectual” Lauren had a way of inserting obscure Nietzsche quotes into almost every conversation. She was a deep thinker. It amazed me at times, the way she could intertwine the works of great 19th century philosophers into discussions that were completely unrelated. Smart was an understatement. No, Lauren, at times bordered on genius. According to Lauren, sexual experimentation was very “in” at the moment. Girl on girl action had a metropolitan, Parisian feel that the typical “normie” couple lacked. Our eyebrows would instinctively rise at the sight of boy/girl handholding. We’d shout, “LOVE KNOWS NO GENDER YOU CLOSE-MINDED HOMOPHOBES FUCKS” after them, a statement, which in most cases caused a kind of shocked silence wherever, we went.



Unlike me, Lauren was not a full-fledged lesbian. She was 65.97% bi-curious. Sometimes at parties, after a sip of the Captain, she’d come up to me and give me an open mouth partial tongue smooch on the lips. This act was always followed with her shouting “I’M TOTALLY WASTED!” in her cute, slurred somewhat incoherent speech. The boys feigned disgust. They were very creative in articulating, “That’s not very attractive” in new mean ways. But they were just jealous. Jealous that they weren’t in my checkered-print slip on shoes. I understand and empathize with their situation. Lauren was a very special lady. One in a million. She was the deepest, most profound person both of us had ever met. And I was grateful to be her best friend.

I first went over to Lauren’s in what I believe was November of 2006. The weather was much like December weather but I cannot recall any holiday cheer in the air so I will continue to assume it was November. Yes, November of 2006. Lauren lived in the apartments at Belmont Village. The first floor, J building. I don’t think I will ever forget the moments that followed that cheap wooden door with the brass knocker. Walking through the kitchenette and into the living room, busty Latinas mud wrestling on the T.V., which was also the only source light. The blinds on the window were closed so that it was impossible for any natural sunlight to be allowed in. It was dark but if you looked close enough you could make out an outline of a woman on the couch. Actually, it was kind of hard to miss her considering she was gigantic and took up the entire faux leather sofa. She lay there, eyes partially closed, a cigarette in between her lips. “I’m Lauren’s Mom.” Grey clouds of smoke blew out of her nose. “Hear me roar.”

“What?” I turned to Lauren, and she shrugged. Once in her bedroom she informed me her Mother was in the midst of a mental breakdown. That she would probably stick her head in the oven, any day now, in styling reminiscent of Sylvia Plath. I told her that I was very sorry and if there was anything I could do. She asked me if I knew how to make a vodka martini and if so to do it before her Mom woke up and started throwing things. I did.

Lauren had Drama Troupe every Tuesday and Thursday until six. I came over those days. I didn’t have anything else to do. I’d manage to get her Mom to change into something reasonably clean. Fixed her a strong drink, no ice, of course. Attempted to fix dinner without use of the fire extinguisher. Got her nice and presentable for her post as cashier at the Walgreens down the street. Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. I was there. We grew on eachother. The second I closed that cheap plywood door with the brass knocker I would miss her. It wasn’t immediate but I fell for Lauren’s Mom. And when I fell, I fell hard. It was the little things, I noticed, the expanding of her rib cage, in and out in and out. Her deep-heavy breathing would echo throughout my eardrums all day long, as sweet as the first bird of spring’s song. The way her face contorted with rage when her Xanax prescription ran out. The coolness of her Dentyne ice breath lingered in my nostrils. Minty. When walking to an through rooms, I couldn’t help but stare at her massive bottom. How her behind arranged itself into a heart like shape. I liked to think that it was my heart that her hyney squeezed together to form. It took my breath away. Made my heart palpitate at an alarming rate. Gave me all symptoms similar to a stroke. The sight of her caused instant paralysis. The sides of my mouth would wilt, so that the left corner would ooze drool onto my t-shirt, and eventually drip to the floor. I was smooth.



She was simply sublime in a way that I never thought possible, a way that made me feel closer to god or whatever it is: the great gig in the sky. She took my breath away everytime. Wherever I went I could feel her with me as if she was imprinted into my DNA. Every second of everyday were consumed with thoughts of her and only her. Not even in sleep could I find means of escape. She immersed herself into my dreams. In my chest, in my bones. Forever, in my bones. It wasn’t just her physicality that attracted or me being infatuated with what she represented to me. It was the way she spoke. The things she’d say. Each time I left, I felt as I had a little piece of her with me. A secret piece, that I had to keep safe. I needed to keep her safe. She told me things. She told me about Lauren’s dad and why he didn’t come around anymore, why she didn’t like Dark Side of the Moon. How her manager at Walgreens was unfair and how the fluorescent lighting gave her migraines. How when she was little she saw a squirrel playing on the power lines. It got electrocuted and it died. She cried.

There was one afternoon. It was March, and I know this for a fact because it was snowing and I remember mentioning how weird it was for it to be snowing in March. We were watching Maury. Not exactly classy broadcasting, but entertainment nonetheless. The plastic Christmas tree was still up and fully decorated. Nobody had bothered to take it down and it was blocking my view of one of the possible baby’s daddy’s heads. I still can’t fully understand how someone could have twelve male candidates and none of them be the father. That’s like pretty much saying “I’m a huge slut and an idiot because I go on Maury hoping to get my problems solved when in actuality my problems are being ridiculed by millions of viewers daytime television” Seriously, just buy a paternity test, not a plane ticket. It’s cheaper, I swear. They were about to reveal who the real father was when she turned to me and asked if I thought she was a loser. I didn’t say anything for a moment, keeping my focus on a sparkly green pickle ornament on one of the higher branches of the tree. Letting my fingers pick at a rip on the seam of my jeans. “I don’t think you’re a loser at all. I think you’re kind. I think you’re smart. I think you’re beautiful. You’re real, in a world of plastic. And I love that, and I love you. I love you.” There was silence. I took my gaze off the decorative pickle and back to her. She was crying. The appearance of tears usually makes me run for the hills but in this case it didn’t. I stayed where I was. Didn’t look away. And I kissed her and she didn’t pull away. The hair on the back of my neck pricked up. Each and every cell in my body was electrified. Her tongue soft. Her mouth gentle. It was nothing like Lauren’s sloppy attention-seeking kisses. It was pure and without motive.

“Get out”

Neither of us had heard the door. Apparently, drama troupe had been cancelled due to inclimate weather.

“Get out. Now.”

I didn’t argue. I walked the longest two yards of my existence to the door. Let myself out. Exit stage right. It was snowing still. Not as heavily but there were flakes coming down. I had left my coat inside. A grand re-entrance didn’t seem appropriate. I’m sure there was a whole collection of obscenity-filled insults that she wanted to spit at me. I was going to avoid that scenario as much as possible. So I walked coatless, down Route 1, back home. Cars flashed by. The temperature rose several degrees, the snow turned into sleet. A blue Acura, stopped at the red light, honked at me:

”Yo sad looking girl, you need a ride?”

“No, I’m ok. Thanks.”

I didn’t see Lauren at school for a while. I took the long way to class. Hid out in the computer lab. Ate lunch in the teachers’ room. Did everything short of shoving myself into lockers to avoid her. She stopped wearing her non-prescription eye-wear. Let go of the Freudian speak. Got a boyfriend, even. A real one too. We never spoke again after the incident. The death of our friendship didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. There was no real grieving process. I’m reminded of what I left behind whenever I spy squished squirrell on the side of the road. I can hear Lauren quoting after a long drag off her American Spirit, “What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” Yeah. Exactly. Tell that to the squirrel.



Lauren’s Mom, however, that was something I wasn’t able to give so easily. Couldn’t, who knew if I’d ever feel that way again. I called her cell phone and it was off. I marched into Walgreens and demanded to know her hours. They more than politely asked me to leave. So I sat and waited outside. They threatened to call the police. I left. The first thirty seconds after waking up in the morning were my happiest. The other half of the minute would be the worst because it would hit me what I had lost. It was like waking up every morning to have your heart ripped out and placed on a silver platter for you. The rest of my day wasn’t much better. I spent a lot of time alone during that period. I ran into her a few months later, after a long dry spell without her. It was at the Laundromat. She was doing her delicates and I was waiting for my whites to dry. We talked about the weather, the Phillies, mad cow disease, pretty much every subject that goes along with small talk. We watched our clothes spin. Spin, spin, spin.

“It’s funny,” said Lauren’s Mom “I wish my life was a washing machine just going round and round and round. It’s like I’m on the goddamn rollercoaster when all I want is the merry-go-round”

“Yeah. I got you.” The truth is, I didn’t. But I think I was beginning to understand that too much excitement in a lifetime could break a person.

I never saw her again after that. I like to think she got her wish. She was real, in a world of plastic. It wasn’t pretty, but it was real. Honesty, is never pretty, it’s not dolled up, it’s not a size zero. It’s hard to find, but if you peel back the layers of the onion, look close enough, you will find that something, something. I guarantee it.

Sometimes when I’m in the area, I’ll walk pass that Curves window. Just for kicks. They moved the treadmills to the back, and put the bikes up front. There’s less bouncing now, just a lot of huffing puffing involved. I stare through the glass and they stare back. I don’t stay too long. I can’t tease myself in such away. Whenever I see a woman with junk in her trunk I instinctively cross the street. Just to be safe. Besides, I have a boyfriend now. He’s nice and totally age appropriate, best of all he’s real. I have my perfectly normal and painfully normal family. I have my dog, Bandit.

And I got cake that reads in pretty purple icing- “I AM SOPHIE HEAR ME ROAR”