PART I

Bria moved slowly across the bed toward her lover's hand as he continually inched back. He forced her to crawl to him. Her aching for him was more than penetrable. It seared her soul.

"Why do you do this to me?" she asked in a breathy staccato-like voice. Matt, looking at her mouth, wet and pouty before him, forced a sudden lunge startling her. He deliberately, but gently took hold of that plump lip between his very white teeth. He began to slowly nibble and she instantly felt her sex catch a flame from the chaotic burst of fervid heat. Just like the humid and sticky Philadelphia heat in late August that she was actually experiencing. Not that moment with Matt, the handsome lanky swimmer. His lip biting often ran through her head at moments that she least expected.

She was furious that she had no control over that relationship. She seldom had control in any of her relationships for that matter. But Matt was different. His late night visits up West River Driver and over the Falls Bridge up winding roads to her house in Germantown were times she anticipated with great yearning. She would often leave the door unlocked for him so he would just slip into bed beside her. She relished the thrill of being awakened by her paramour, feeling his long slender legs wrap themselves around her thick thighs as his manhood greeted her joyously. She hated these thoughts, but they came so randomly, and her desperation was manifesting itself again with longing for the touch of a man. That special someone to remind her that she was indeed a human and in great need of affection. She accepted Matt's inconsistent bidding on her because she was needy, and she didn't want to cause trouble. Therefore, she pushed her true feelings aside and chose to have it his way. She thought it was much easier to accept these sub-standard lovers, for it was better to have some attention rather than none at all. At least that is how she rationalized it. She tried to play it brave. Unfortunately, it was all such a horrible front.

The truth was she was hypersensitive, and to pretend to be emboldened was much easier to pull off. And although some people thought that she had some nerve in being picky, she felt that it was justified considering all that she had been through. She always asked herself why sensitive people are the pickiest people. She thought that it was quite peculiar. Considering that she would not by any means be thought of as a standard American beauty. She was just a Philly girl. A smart girl, but a fat girl. And one that had been through such a god-awful divorce that she knew there was an entire population of men she would never date again. In her quest for new found glory, she tried to immerse herself in pop-cultural indulgences such as café mochas, designer shoes, handbags, and fragrances since she couldn't quite fit into clothes she longed to be in. She was jealous of the pale, yet fashionable mannequins that stood chicly in the shops on South Street. She passed those stores by with great contempt, and stopped in Soho, the gift shop. Here she could get that pink wig she promised herself she would wear to the Diabolique fetish ball this November if she got the nerve.

She knew that if she only tried a bit to mingle in the scene, she would find someone again. She simply had to, but was her pickiness that kept her at bay. What was she supposed to do? Bria was 32, and without any prospects whatsoever. Although she had recently lost some weight, she was still a "biggun," as her ex would tease. She learned to get around this by being thankful she never grew a second or third chin, and that her breasts were prominent enough to give an illusion of a waistline. One that had gone from a 29 to god knows what. She had always been a curvy girl, but had been burgeoning on the edge of morbid obesity in all her sorrow. As she moved about in Soho, looking for silver rings that would style rather nicely on her chubby soft fingers, she tells people who aren't really that close to her, "excuse me" so that she has enough room to fit down the narrow path leading to the glass case that houses all the steal-worthy items.

"I'll take that one," she tells the petite woman who looks at her suspiciously. Bria, feeling paranoid as usual, is not sure she is getting this look from the woman because she is black, or if it's because she is fat. It makes her uneasy as she watches the rings in the display case. The clerk reaches for a snake-like ring that has a black jewel for an eye instead of the ring Bria points out. "No, not that one," she says, "that one. Yeah. That's it."

The clerk walked the ring to the front counter. There, Bria sees a darling little velvet and rhinestones collar with the word "PRINCESS," in the center.

"I'll take that too. Plus the pink wig," she tells another woman behind the cash register, and then reaches for her credit card. She also takes out her license because she knows the clerk, who has seen her in here before, is going to ask her for her identification. Bria hands her the card only, and in what sounded to Bria like a Southeast Asian accent, the clerk said, "ID." She didn't say please, which irritated Bria. However she obediently handed her license over to the woman, and waited as she charged her card.

"Thank you," Bria said as he took her receipt and belongings and headed back to her car. She was lucky to find a spot on 4th Street between South and Bainbridge, which is practically a miracle in the late afternoon. Now she would go back home, and sink into the world she had grown to become comfortably wrapped up in the middle of: her Internet world.