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The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 13 - 14
🕑 Added 2025-02-08 03:20:35 +0000 UTCChapter 13
Lumen Field Event Center was alive. The place buzzed with laughter, music, and just the right amount of chaos to make it feel electric. Google had gone all out—transforming the space into a Halloween wonderland so over-the-top it could’ve been ripped straight from a Hollywood set. Thousands of employees and their families from all the campuses in the Puget Sound area filled the space, their costumes as flashy as the decor. It was a madhouse, in the best way possible.
If I was going to tough it out at Google for another year, you’d better believe I was going to enjoy every damn perk they threw my way.
Chandeliers draped in glittering cobwebs sparkled under orange and purple strobe lights, while a live band rocked Thriller so perfectly you almost forgot it wasn’t Michael himself. Tables groaned with lobster rolls, sliders piled high, and creamy truffle mac and cheese. Dessert stations? Total decadence—towering cupcakes, caramel apples that gleamed like jewels, and chocolate fountains bubbling like temptation itself.
And then there was me.
I wasn’t just dressed as Marilyn Monroe—I was Marilyn Monroe. Or maybe her ultra-curvy, modern-day twin, the kind of version she’d be if she lived now and embraced every inch of her body. Maybe I was Cel Monroe tonight.
The gold dress shimmered like liquid sunlight, hugging every curve like it had been poured onto me. The neckline plunged deep—dangerously deep—stopping just shy of my belly button, daring anyone to look and keep looking. And that thigh-high slit? Oh, it had a mind of its own, flashing more leg with every step, practically shouting, “Go ahead, try to look away.”
I found the dress online, paired with a fluffy faux-fur stole that all but whispered, “Babe, this is the look.” Cozy yet chic, the perfect blend of old Hollywood glamour and bold, modern confidence. Everything about it screamed, “You’re about to own the room and leave men fainting in your wake.”
But when I clicked Order, let’s just say I wasn’t feeling like the femme fatale this dress deserved. Nope. I felt more like an elephant wanting to play dress-up.
Size XL? Me? I read the reviews, reluctantly clicked the dropdown, and told myself it’d be roomy—heck, maybe even a little forgiving. Something that’d let me move without feeling like I was wrapped in shrink wrap and, you know, actually breathe.
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t.
When it arrived, getting into it wasn’t the magical “Cinderella moment” I had envisioned. Oh no, it was a full-on battle. There was pulling. There was tugging. There was some creative maneuvering that probably defied the laws of physics. And yeah, there was a lot of swearing.
But there was no damn way I was going up a size. Double XL? Absolutely not.
Not when I used to slide into mediums like they were custom-made for me. I just couldn’t do it.
Wasn’t ready to face that reality.
Sure, I knew I was bigger. The scale told me. The mirror didn’t lie. But double XL? Dipping into 1X, and plus sizes?
That felt like crossing a line I wasn’t prepared to cross.
Not yet…or I mean not ever.
Thank God for shapewear. That miracle mesh smoothed me out, cinched me in, and somehow made the whole outfit work. Did I feel oversized? Oh, hell yes. But did it deliver? Absolutely. Comfortable? Not a chance. Worth it? Every second of discomfort.
This wasn’t just shapewear—it was straight-up magic. The super short left leg? Pure genius, giving just enough room to show off some skin (and a teasing flash of hip) through that thigh-high slit. And the way it snatched my waist? Almost back to the tiny curve it had been in my workout warrior days. Like it had one mission, and it wasn’t taking no for an answer.
But my hips, booty, and boobs? Oh, they weren’t playing by the same rules. They weren’t there to follow—they were leading the charge, center stage, owning the spotlight like they’d been born to steal it.
And take it, they did. I wasn’t just curvy—I was full-on, drop-dead, va-va-voom.
I mean, you should’ve seen how huge and juicy my ass looked.
I didn’t just walk into Google’s annual Halloween party—I owned it.
Platinum wig? Cascading in soft curls, catching every flicker of light.
Red lips? Bold. Unapologetic. A statement.
French-tipped nails? Glinting like stardust, every inch of me screaming untouchable goddess.
As I wiggled toward the bar, the room shifted. The men? Frozen. Their eyes tracked the shimmer of my dress, the curve of my ass, the gyrating sway of my hips. By the bar, The Joker stared, drink forgotten, while his crew—Batman, Deadpool, and, for some reason, a banana—followed suit, their murmurs fading as they locked on me.
Across the room, a woman glanced my way, leaned into her friend, and whispered something that made them both smirk.
Yeah. I had that effect tonight.
Even if, underneath it all, the shapewear was slowly strangling the life out of me. And those gold heels? They weren’t just shoes—they were a full-body workout on stilts. Pack on forty—okay, maybe fifty—pounds in less than a year, and suddenly, every damn step felt like climbing a mountain. But hey, if Marilyn could handle dripping in diamonds, I could handle a pair of stilettos.
Jenna’s voice sliced through the music, sharp and sure. She strutted up in her Wonder Woman costume, rocking it like she was born for it, with Aaron trailing behind her, looking like Kurt Cobain come back to life. “Girl, you are causing a scene! You pull off this look a little too well,” she said, eyes sparkling as she took me in. “Seriously, Marilyn, I think half the men here forgot how to breathe.”
Aaron nodded, his gaze fixed, chest barely moving, and rasped, “She’s not wrong.”
“Well, I’m not sure I can breathe either,” I said, resting my hand on my waist before taking a quick puff from my vape.
“Alright,” Jenna said, looping her arm through mine. “What’s the plan? Food, drinks, or watch these guys faceplant over you?”
“Food and drinks,” I replied, my gaze locking onto the bar.
Because if I was going to survive the rest of the night squeezed into this dress and wobbling on these heels, with everyone looking at me, I needed a stiff drink. Or two. Maybe three. And sliders. Lots of sliders. Because this kind of attention? Online, it’s a party. In real life, with every pair of eyes glued to me like I was some rare, exotic animal on display at the zoo? It was a whole different story.
Sure, I liked it, but also… damn. It was a lot.
By my third pumpkin martini, I wasn’t just buzzed—I was flying. Whoever invented these cocktails—sweet, spicy, and topped with whipped cream—deserved either a Nobel Prize or a lifetime ban from bartending. The whipped cream? Gone in one deliberate lick of the rim (yes, I meant to, and yes, it worked). By the time I waved down a blood-orange margarita, I was fully leaning into Cel Monroe.
She was out, loud, and unapologetic, rocking a dress that was way too small, way too tight, and way too sexy. After all the booze, a mountain of juicy, cheesy sliders, a buttery lobster roll, way too many fries I didn’t need, and now this margarita? My belly was full to bursting, and my dress was holding on by a prayer. One wrong move, and I’d be popping out like a sparkly Pillsbury Doughgirl.
But the margarita had me feeling loose, so I didn’t care. I laughed louder, leaned in closer when men flirted, letting my fingers linger just enough to leave them wanting more. Then, like a queen commanding her court, I’d send them off to fetch me black-and-orange frosted cupcakes, and they’d jump up to do it, eager to please.
I’d lick the frosting off slowly, extra sensually, pretending not to notice the way they were staring, practically drooling over me like I was drooling over those cupcakes. But just when they started to think they had a shot, I’d slide away, leaving them chasing shadows. Like the goddess I was channeling, I made sure they knew exactly who was in control.
Outside, the smoking section by the stadium was quieter, the cool night air rushing over me, crisp and sharp against my bare skin. It bit, but in the best way—woke me up, cleared my head, chased away the thick, hazy warmth of the crowded party. My fluffy white stole helped, the alcohol buzzing through me didn’t hurt either, but the cold? It felt good. Fresh. Like a reset.
I had my vape tucked in my clutch, but tonight, I wanted something more. Something classic. Something Marilyn—glamorous, old-school, unapologetic.
I sauntered up to a guy—Jimi Hendrix, I think?—leaning against the rail, cigarette in hand, and shot him a smile. “Can I have one of those?” I asked, all sweet and flirty.
He didn’t even blink, just handed me one and lit it without a word. I took a drag, and it hit—sharp, smoky, way stronger than my vape could ever dream of being. The nicotine rushed through me, smoothing out every rough edge, leaving me feeling sultry, confident, and downright delicious.
“Celeste.”
The voice was familiar, and it grated instantly.
I turned. David. Of course. A few feet away, he stood shifting awkwardly in his soccer gear—a jersey, shorts, and a navy jacket with “Binghamton University” stitched on the chest. The jacket was zipped halfway up, like he couldn’t decide between looking laid-back or trying not to freeze.
His dark hair caught the glow from the stadium lights, and his eyes? They were glued to me. Warm, soft, maybe a little too much for my liking. I took a slow drag of my cigarette, letting the smoke fill my chest before releasing it into the cool night air.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked, keeping my tone even, my gaze steady as I flicked ash off the end of my cigarette.
He hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket like he couldn’t quite grab hold of his words. “I, uh… I just saw you come out here and, well…” His voice softened, trailing off before he finally got it out. “You look… incredible.”
“Thanks,” I replied, rolling my eyes as I took another drag. The nicotine cut through the lingering haze of cocktails, giving me a light, heady rush that made everything seem sharper, clearer.
His eyes dropped to the cigarette, and his brow furrowed. “Since when do you smoke?”
“Since tonight, apparently.”
“So, the Marilyn Monroe vibe means sneaking out into the cold to pick up bad habits?”
“Maybe,” I shot back, flashing him a pout that was more teasing than innocent. “It works, though, doesn’t it?”
“You know that stuff’s terrible for you, right?”
“Oh, relax,” I said, flicking ash with a casual swipe, my tone light and breezy. “It’s a one-night thing. Unless…” I tilted my head, giving him a sly grin. “It makes me look sexy. Then I might reconsider.”
He just stared, his gaze focused on my hips, like he couldn’t quite pull himself away. “You don’t need a cigarette to look sexy.”
I rolled my eyes, dragging my free hand down my side, the shiny polyester-spandex fabric clinging to my ass and thighs like it was trying to prove a point. The dress? It was doing its job—and then some. The deep V-neck was plunging lower and wider with every breath I took, the fabric inching apart like it was daring me to see just how far I’d let it go.
I shifted, tugging my stole over my chest, trying to rein it in, though I knew it was pointless. The show was already happening. Still, I tossed him a playful, unapologetic look. “I know. But it does add a little something, doesn’t it?” I took another slow drag, breasts heaving, letting the smoke curl around me.
“Where’s your mole?” he asked suddenly, his tone teasing, though his eyes still darted back to the cigarette like it was a live grenade.
“Guess I didn’t go full Marilyn. I’ll work on my commitment next year.”
He didn’t say a word. Just stood there, wide-eyed and fidgety, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. His eyes flicked to mine, then away, like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.
I sighed, already losing patience. “So, why are you really out here, David?”
His head shot up, his face turning red. “I just—uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, his breath puffing out in the cold. “Thought maybe you’d, you know, want some company?”
The air between us felt heavy, the distant music fading into the sharp chill of the night. He shifted closer, awkward and unsure, his gaze darting between my face and my belly and hips.
Then, without warning, he leaned in, voice low, rough, certain.
“I’ve been in love with you since the moment I first saw you.”
His lips brushed mine—soft, hesitant, tasting of beer and nerves.
My mind raced. Didn’t he have a girlfriend? Why the hell was this happening?
Before I could process, his hand slid to the bare skin of my back, heat meeting chill, his touch steady, claiming.
I froze.
Cold air bit at my skin, tension crackling between us. For a brief, dangerous moment, I let him close, even as every instinct screamed this was a bad idea.
And then? Reality hit—hard.
"David, I—"
Before I could finish, some guy dressed as Beetlejuice stumbled straight into him, the sharp slosh of beer cutting through the moment like a slap.
“Oh, crap, sorry, man!” the guy slurred, half his drink spilling down the front of David’s jersey.
David jumped back like he’d been scalded, cheeks flushing crimson as his hand dropped from my back. He fumbled, wiping at the wet spot, his eyes darting anywhere but me. “I should—uh—get back to my group,” he stammered, his voice shaky, his steps even shakier.
Yeah, and your girlfriend, maybe? “Yes, you should,” I said, my tone flat, watching him retreat like a scared puppy. He disappeared into the smoky haze, back toward the party, leaving me standing there with my cigarette, my margarita-stained lips, and a head full of chaos.
My heart was pounding, my skin still tingling where his hand had been, and my brain? It was a mess of too many thoughts, none of which I had the energy to untangle.
I needed another drink.
The party raged, the bass pounding so hard it felt like it was rattling my bones. Drinks flowed—Long Islands, spiced Old Fashioneds, cocktails I couldn’t even name. People laughed louder, danced harder, leaned closer as the night pushed on.
Me? I wasn’t there. Not really.
My mind was still outside, stuck on David’s kiss and the way his hand had brushed my bare back. My lips tingled from the taste of him, my heart hadn’t stopped racing, and the cigarette buzz left me feeling warm, soft, and floaty—even as my dress and shapewear waged war.
My feet throbbed. My stomach felt stuffed, and my dress? It hated me. Every breath pressed against the unforgiving fabric, and every exhale reminded me I’d gone too hard on sliders and booze. I was ready to find Jenna and Aaron and call it a night, besides, I was so tipsy I could hardly walk straight.
Then I turned—and froze.
Sam Walters.
He stood across the room in I think a Top Gun pilot uniform—bomber jacket, crisp pants, and enough swagger to make you roll your eyes, even as some traitorous part of you swooned. Grown men in Halloween costumes? Ridiculous. Honestly.
“You’ve been hard to miss tonight,” he said, his eyes sweeping over me, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.
“Thanks,” I muttered, softer than I meant, nerves dissolving as the alcohol hummed in my veins. I was feeling woozy. My dress felt tighter. My patience thinner. Perfect. Another guy fueled by cocktails and party lights. Where the hell was Jenna? I needed backup—or a cupcake. Probably both.
Sam’s gaze locked on me, heavy and unrelenting, making my skin crawl. “Can we talk?” he asked, motioning toward a quiet corner near the restrooms. Not a request—a demand.
I hesitated, my stomach twisting beneath the unforgiving grip of my shapewear. The night was already spiraling—David, my inability to say no to Halloween treats, and spiced cocktails throwing me off my game. Every ounce of better judgment screamed, Don’t do this. But, as usual, I ignored it.
“Umm…(hiccup) sure,” I said, slurping down the rest of my Long Island, then setting it down on a table and following him, regret hitting me before I even took two steps.
He led me to a hallway by the restrooms, quiet and tucked away, private enough to at least hear yourself think.
Up close, Sam was suffocating. His cologne—overpowering and way too much—wrapped around me like a fog, making my head swim. The noise of the party faded into the background, but the tension between us? Absolutely deafening.
“How do you keep getting more beautiful?” he asked, his voice low and smooth, like he thought his words were some kind of gift.
“Uh…” The sound slipped out, startled. My heart pounded against my dress, which felt like it was seconds away from throwing in the towel.
“And tonight,” he continued, stepping closer, backing me against the cold concrete wall of the dimly lit hallway. His gaze dragged down my body, before locking back on mine. “You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Thing? Did he seriously just call me a thing?
The words hung heavy in the air, invasive, unwelcome. My skin burned under his attention—and not in the good way.
Before I could respond, his hand touched my thigh. Light at first, almost testing. Then it got firmer. Possessive. Sliding up the slit of my dress, his hand moved higher, then squeezed my ass—hard.
Too much. Way too much.
I sucked in a sharp breath, stunned, as he leaned in, his lips pressing against mine. The kiss didn’t ask—it took. Bold, greedy, way too confident in its welcome.
For one dizzying second, I froze. What the hell? Did I have a sign on my back that said, Throw yourself at me, please!? The alcohol, the heat of his hand, the weight of the night—it all worked together to mess with my head. Then my instincts kicked in.
I twisted to pull away, but—RIIIIIP.
The sound was loud. Unforgiving. Brutal.
I froze, horror washing over me as cool air hit my hip, feeling suddenly much more sober. My stomach dropped. My dress had split right down the seam, the jagged tear leaving me exposed in the worst way imaginable. Mortification crashed over me like a tidal wave.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, my hands flying to the fabric, desperately trying to cover what couldn’t be covered.
Sam stepped back, his confidence cracking. “Celeste, I—”
“Nope,” I cut him off, my voice sharp, panic clawing at my throat. “Nope. This isn’t happening.”
My cheeks burned, my body felt like it was on fire—anger, embarrassment, and mortification crashing together. “I need to go,” I snapped, backing away, clutching at the ruined dress.
“Celeste, wait—” he started, but I glared, sharp and unrelenting.
“Don’t,” I bit out. “Just… don’t.”
I turned and bolted, wiggling, bouncing, and jiggling down the hall as fast as my heels, my oversized ass—and what little shred of dignity I had left—could manage. By the time I burst into the bathroom, I was a wreck. Winded, wheezing, and gasping for air, I stumbled to the mirror, gripping the edge of the counter to steady myself, bracing for the disaster I knew I’d see.
Flushed, puffy cheeks. Smudged lipstick. Heartburn, stomach aching, gassy, and—great—hiccups. My dress? Hanging wide open, exposing way too much ass in the unforgiving bathroom mirror. Too much cake, too much booze, too many months of telling myself it didn’t matter, and nowhere near enough time spent doing anything about it. I’d let myself go so much that even an extra-large Halloween costume couldn’t handle me.
Leaning hard against the counter, I let out a shaky breath between hiccups, breasts heaving, hands trembling as I fumbled with the torn fabric, trying to piece together something—anything.
No use.
The dress was done. I wasn’t exactly feeling like Marilyn anymore. More like Marilyn if she’d discovered DoorDash and didn’t know how to say no to late-night desserts.
With a gasping sigh, I gave up.
Pulled out my vape, took a long, desperate drag.
Nicotine hit, a faint buzz rushing in, just enough to keep me from completely falling apart.
Even though I was still hiccuping, still needing to burp, still feeling like an overstuffed disaster.
For a second, I let the haze settle, grounding me.
“What (hiccup) the hell (hic) just happened?” I whispered to no one but myself…or maybe to Cel Monroe, who was probably laughing at me from the depths of my psyche, reminding me why men were better when they were kept at a safe distance—like behind a screen.
Chapter 14
Monday morning hit like a sledgehammer to the skull—sharp, relentless, and completely unforgiving. The chaos of the weekend? Yeah, no chance of leaving it behind.
The ripped dress. The kiss with David. The kiss with Sam, Jenna having to steal a trench coat just to cover me and whisk me out of the party and into an uber. My life unraveling, one too-tight seam at a time.
It all sat heavy in my chest, a knot of regret and humiliation tightening with every minute stuck in morning traffic.
After the Halloween disaster—and a weekend of binging to drown it out—I swore: no more Starbucks. Time to face facts. I was getting fat, and if I didn’t get my act together, things were only going to get worse.
But then…
“Venti iced mocha,” I heard myself say, voice scratchy from cocktails and not nearly enough sleep. “Bacon gouda sandwich, a chocolate croissant, three chocolate chunk cookies… make it four. Oh, and two brownies. And a tiramisu cake pop.”
The barista didn’t blink. “Anything else?”
My stomach growled loud enough to answer. “Yeah, blueberry muffin and an everything bagel with extra, extra, extra cream cheese.”
Moments later, my passenger seat looked like a carb lover’s paradise—or a crime scene, depending on how you looked at it. I told myself I’d pace it out, show a little self-control. That lasted one bite of the cake pop. After that? Game over. The croissant? Gone. Cookies, brownies, bagel? Obliterated. The iced mocha? Half-empty, its sugary buzz doing nothing to lift the sluggish weight pressing down on me.
By the time I rolled into the Google parking lot, my cropped black Céline hoodie was riding up my belly like it had a grudge, my fuller chest pulling it higher with every labored, oh-my-God-I’m-so-full breath. Tight clothes. Overstuffed belly. Bad choices. On repeat.
But hey, I was still in control… right?
I sighed, the weight of everything—my body, my thoughts, my life—pushing down on me. Even getting out of the car felt like gravity was working overtime just for me.
“Alright, Cel,” I muttered, sucking down the last of my mocha and grabbing my tote. My body felt slow, heavy, and achy, like I was carrying a weekend’s worth of bad decisions right on my chest and belly. “This has got to stop.”
The open office buzzed with way-too-chipper voices and clinking coffee mugs as I trudged in, keeping my head down and praying no one would notice me. My hoodie stretched tight across my chest and arms, refusing to cover anything I wanted it to. My gray honeycomb leggings dug into my waist, punishing me for every indulgence.
I swear, I wasn’t trying to always wear skin-tight clothes, but somehow everything I owned was too small—despite all the shopping sprees that were supposed to fix that exact problem.
Hair tossed into a messy topknot, I dropped into my chair with a plop, my stomach folding onto my lap, painfully obvious under my too-small hoodie.
Before I could even settle, Jenna showed up, leaning against my desk with her usual shrug.
“How you feeling?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with that no-BS tone that told me she wasn’t here for my usual excuses.
She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she grabbed a chair, dragged it over, and plopped down, eyes steady on me.
“Like crap,” I admitted, slumping back. No point pretending. My brain was still stuck in a chaotic blur from Halloween night. “Anyone talking? Rumors?” My voice dipped into a whisper. “The whole night is one big, mortifying blur.”
“You were pretty wasted, sometimes it takes a couple days to recover,” Jenna said flatly.
“I know. I’m officially off the booze for the week,” I muttered. “But seriously, are people talking? You know, about me? Did anyone see me with Sam? I think I, like, blacked out or something.”
Jenna shook her head, her tone firm but soft enough to take the edge off. “I haven't heard anything. The only thing people are talking about is about how smoking hot you looked in your freaking costume.”
“Yeah, before my butt ripped it open.”
“It wouldn’t have ripped if Sam hadn’t grabbed you. Are you going to talk to HR?” Her voice dropped, serious now—steady but still Jenna. Supportive, not pushy.
“I don’t know,” I muttered, avoiding her eyes like they might burn a hole straight through me. Truth? I didn’t have a clue.
“You should. That was straight-up sexual harassment from our boss, Cel. You can’t just let that slide.”
“Shh!” I hissed, glancing around the room, making damn sure Booby or Kristen or the rest of the team was far enough away not to hear. My heart was pounding, and I forced a smirk, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere—anywhere—away from the chaos in my head. “I just want to forget it happened, okay? Besides, maybe I’ll let him sweat. Keep him guessing. And hey, now I’ve got dirt on him.”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice calm and steady but loaded with Jenna-level determination. “But how long are you gonna carry that dirt before it starts dragging you down? Plus, you can’t let that sleazeball get away with it.”
I opened my mouth, ready to argue, but Jenna shot me a look—one brow lifted, cutting me off before I could even get started.
“And David?” she asked, her tone sharp, direct.
“Is he here today?”
“Yeah. Saw him in the cafeteria.”
I shrugged, shifting awkwardly in my chair, tugging at the hem of my hoodie like that might somehow make it bigger, looser, more forgiving. “Whatever. Right now, I’m just trying to survive the day. I ate and drank my weight over the weekend, and now I feel puffy, heavy, and like I got hit by a bus.”
Jenna’s eyes dropped to my hips, pressed snug against the armrests of the chair, making the whole thing feel like it was two sizes too small. Her brows furrowed, and her lips thinned into that look she gave when she was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.
“Cel, you know I love you,” Jenna said, her tone softer than the no-nonsense look she was giving me. “But you’ve gotta slow down. You’re getting obsessed. The mukbangs, the whole Cel Monroe thing—it’s fun, yeah, and honestly? I love making videos with you. It’s exciting for me too. But it’s taking over your life. You can’t stay in indulgence mode 24/7, drinking wine and eating cake every night. You need balance.”
“Yeah, but the whole Cel Monroe thing is pulling in almost five figures a month,” I shot back, keeping my voice low. Defensive? Absolutely. Backing down? Not a chance. “I must be doing something right. I know I make enough here, but with the way I’ve been spending…” I trailed off, swallowing hard, her words hitting harder than I wanted to admit.
Jenna tilted her head, her eyes steady, locking on mine with that look that told me she wasn’t going to let this go. “Just… maybe take a break from OnlyFans for the rest of the year. See how you feel. You can always go back to it.”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice softer now, my confidence taking a hit. “I definitely need to make some changes. I just… I don’t even know where to start.”
“The gym,” Jenna said instantly, like I’d asked her where the sky was. Like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. “I’ve been slacking too, babe. And let’s face it, I could one hundred percent stand to drop a few pounds myself.” She tossed her hair, giving me a look, all challenge, all ride-or-die. “Let’s do it. Together.”
The thought of stepping on a treadmill again made my stomach twist, but Jenna wasn’t about to let me off the hook.
“I’m not saying you need to go back to being that crazy weight and workout-obsessed girl you used to be,” she said, firm, her eyes locked on me. “But you’ll feel better once you start moving again. I promise.”
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “Fine. But I need more caffeine first. Can you get Kyler to make me an iced matcha with vanilla? I’m not ready to face the rest of humanity yet.”
Jenna rolled her eyes but grinned, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder like the queen she always managed to be. “You’re lucky I love you,” she said, sauntering off with just enough sass in her step to make me smirk despite myself.
That night, back in my apartment, Jenna’s words wouldn’t stop replaying in my head—about the gym, about finding the line about taking a break. I was curled up on my sectional, legs tucked under me, my laptop balanced on my knees, the screen glowing bright as I scrolled through OnlyFans. A big glass of Chardonnay rested in one hand while the other tapped idly at the trackpad.
My guys were still lighting up my page, gushing over the Marilyn Monroe photos I’d posted for Halloween.
Sexiest look ever!
You make the real Marilyn look plain.
How much do you weigh?!
Are you and angel?
You should do a weigh-in.
The comments poured in, sweet, flattering, and relentless. But I couldn’t focus. The weekend was stuck on repeat in my head—Sam’s grabby hand, David’s way-too-obvious stare, the sound of my Halloween dress ripping open for all the world to see. A disaster I couldn’t shake no matter how much wine I drank.
I shifted slightly, the satin nighty I’d thrown on clinging to my hips and thighs as I moved. The glass of Chardonnay rested on my belly, soft and round where it pressed against the waistband of my pajama shorts. The matching nighty hugged every curve, the thin straps digging slightly into my shoulders, the fabric stretched taut across my chest.
I caught my reflection in the darkened TV screen and froze.
Oh my God. I looked huge.
It’s wild how gaining weight messes with your brain. Like, it happens so gradually. You know you’re eating more, you know you’re gaining, but you tell yourself every morning in the mirror, I look pretty much the same. And then, bam—one random moment hits you, and you’re like, Whoa. When did this happen?
Looking at myself now, I was all hips, all thighs, all tits and ass, plopping out in every direction. But then… I couldn’t deny it. I looked good. Beautiful, even. My curves were lush, undeniably feminine—the kind that drew eyes and turned heads. A part of me loved how they filled out my clothes—or, depending on the outfit, spilled out of them entirely.
But then there was the other part. The part that hated how far I’d let myself go. I was getting winded from just walking, for crying out loud. My clothes weren’t just tight—they were downright suffocating. And I swore I could still feel the phantom pinch of that Halloween shapewear digging into my soft waist, a sharp, unforgiving reminder of just how much my body had changed—maybe a little more than I ever intended.
“Ugh… okay, Cel,” I muttered, letting my head fall back against the couch as I stared at the ceiling. “Something’s gotta give.”
My gaze drifted back to the laptop on my knees, the weigh-in comment practically burning on the screen. My fans had been begging for it, hyping up every inch I’d gained, showering my curves with love like they were the greatest thing to ever hit the internet.
They adored Cel Monroe. They worshipped her curves, her confidence, the way she owned every pound. But me? I wasn’t so sure anymore. The line between the two was blurring, and I didn’t know if I was ready to face what was waiting on the other side.
I’d seen other girls do these like weight-reveal posts—sometimes videos—on curvy-girl platforms and stuff, hyping body positivity, owning it, making it a thing. And yeah… I’d admit it. It fascinated me. Growing up, a woman’s weight was something you didn’t talk about. It was private, whispered about in hushed tones, if it was mentioned at all. But this? This was different. It wasn’t just bold—it was intimate.
Sharing it with my fans felt personal, like letting them in on a secret. That was the magic of Cel Monroe—the connection, the trust. I could confide in them, show them parts of me no one else got to see.
The last time I mentioned my weight was back in September—162 pounds. That felt like another lifetime. Another version of me. And anyone with eyes could see I was bigger now.
So, why not give them what they wanted? One more time. A weight reveal on camera before I hit pause on Cel Monroe—before things got too weird, too messy. If I was serious about hitting the gym with Jenna—and I was—this would definitely be the heaviest I’d ever let myself get.
A one-time deal. A little indulgence before the big changes. Something to make my fans happy, to give them what they’d been begging for, and to send them off with a bang before I peaced out for the rest of the year.
Besides, I wasn’t exactly sure what I weighed at the moment.
My eyes flicked toward the bathroom, where the scale was tucked under the sink like it had been lying in wait for this exact moment. My stomach twisted, nerves tangling with curiosity, anticipation swirling in my chest. Last time I checked? 184 pounds. That was mid-October. Since then? A donut-stuffing here, a mukbang there… and let’s not even get into all the other indulgences.
“Let’s find out,” I whispered, my voice low, like I was daring myself. The knot in my stomach tightened as I stood, the pull of curiosity and the promise of connection with my fans nudging me forward.
I set up my phone and tripod, adjusting the lighting the best I could. Still in my pajama shorts and satin nighty, I perched on the closed toilet lid, my hips and thighs making it disappear beneath me. Speaking into the camera in my sweetest, sultriest Cel Monroe voice, I committed.
If I was doing this, I was doing it right. My fans craved intimacy, and honestly? I needed to get this off my chest.
I told them everything. The Halloween party, the ripped dress, the chaos. It felt good to say it out loud, to share the disaster that had been replaying in my head. Then I stood, adjusted the tripod again, and gave them what they’d been waiting for—a little tour of my body, every curve on display.
For some reason, I kept my gym plans and weight-loss goals to myself. They loved my growing curves, my bigger butt, and I wasn’t ready to let them down—not yet. Maybe I’d let them notice the changes on their own. After all, what better way to track progress than through their eyes, right?
And then, it was time. The scale.
I bent forward, holding my breath, because yeah, I had to, just to see past my boobs and belly. The number stared back at me: 191. Seven pounds up from just over a week ago.
“Oh fuck,” I gasped, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. The camera was rolling. My fans were going to dissect my every move. And in that moment, I wasn’t sure how to feel—mortified, or maybe a little turned on, or weirdly enough, both. Either way, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to stick around and see how this video landed. Not yet. Not for a while.
It was time to make some changes.
Cofessions of a Feedee
by Jolene Dubois 2025
