Since early childhood Cecil Trump had dreamed of rendering perfect bodies, women's bodies (which he cherished from the moment gums sucked pap); he thought them 'luscious,' thought their flesh (whose bounty drove him to distraction) was the prototype for all that Man found beauteous, thought them 'fair,' stood back in awe (once past the nursing phase) at painterly depictions a la Ingres's "The Turkish Bath" (his all-time favorite),
thought them 'ripe,' not only Titian's
aroused his ardent admiration; nudes in National Geographic
nudes in Playboy
caught his eye; femininity was femininity, LA to Polynesia.
Whereas Donna Bledsoe's femininity (for as long as memory served her) lay obscured beneath excessive rolls of thick, unsightly lard. From pudgy baby, chubby toddler, tubby schoolgirl, portly teen, to gross adulthood, she, at twenty-three, was nicknamed "Donna Blubber," a whale-size lab-tech who withstood harpoons from skin-and-bones-ish colleagues (their aesthetic dating back to the likes of
who endured, beset by "what a shame" from parents, teachers, friends (whose favor dwindled in proportion to the pity they bestowed), who grew demure, her own self-loathing adding ballast to the tonnage she was hauling, for Ms. Bledsoe, no denying it, was ENORMOUS.
Trump beseeched, "Lord, grant me skill enough that I might make in clay, wood, stone, or bronze a humble replica of her from whom all others issued;" Eve, the primal female, was the goal at which his humble talents aimed--and missed repeatedly, much to Cecil's disappointment. Oh, he mastered Gray's Anatomy, learned to draw, to sculpt, to paint, but though his work achieved precision it lacked a certain verve--as if, in capturing perfection, soul had managed to escape; Trump's nudes, in everyone's assessment, were cadaverous.
Clad in muumuus, ponchos, tent-like trappings, Donna Bledsoe languished, ever-cognizant of gravity's grueling drag upon her bulk--its mass conspicuous in a world disposed to 'slender' sensibilities, an affront, in fact, to all those bent on slimness; to be thin, was to be happy, healthy, sexy, witty, wealthy, even wise, while being stout condemned its delegates to despair... yet hope revived; could there, indeed, be such a personage as a "Reconstructive Sculptor"? She had written.
Trump, impressed, had written back.
NAME: Donna Bledsoe
I AGREE: to submit my whole anatomy to the sculptor Cecil Trump for weight reduction by techniques of his invention.
I AGREE: to furnish photographs of myself--au naturel--front, back, and sides, and of a model whose proportions I most covet.
I AGREE: to spend whatever time is needed to accomplish my remaking, to be punctual, uncomplaining, and respectful.
I AGREE: to post a fifty thousand dollar bond as fee to Mr. Trump, funds to be paid upon completion of his labor.
I AGREE: to keep in confidence the means by which my body is transformed, the details shared at Mr. Trump's request exclusively.
(Fee is waived)