The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 17 - 18

Chapter 17

That first Monday morning in January hit hard, dragging along the fallout from my post-Christmas free-for-all.

The aftermath stuck to me like glitter after New Year’s—impossible to shake and showing up in all the wrong places. Cookies stashed in Tupperware. Half-empty bottles of wine I couldn’t just let go to waste. And that hazy, blurry week between Christmas and New Year’s? 

Yeah, not my finest moment. I’d taken all my frustration with Mom, the holidays, and, let’s be real, myself, and turned it into a full-on binge-fest.

I didn’t set foot in the office, milking my last chance to work from home before the mandatory five-day-a-week grind kicked in. But instead of productivity, my apartment turned into chaos central. 

I “worked” from bed—logging into Zoom calls with my camera off, nodding along while scrolling DoorDash like it was my actual job. Anything remotely holiday-themed? On my doorstep faster than I could hit “order again.”

Peppermint bark? 

Hell yes. 

Eggnog cheesecake? 

Bring it on. 

My apartment became a one-woman holiday buffet, and the gym? Yeah, that was a hard pass. Sorry, Jenna. If I wasn’t showing up at work, I wasn’t showing up at the gym. Flawless logic. One last week of delicious culinary freedom before getting back to being a good girl in the new year.

The scale? No mercy. None. Zilch.

201 pounds.

I stared. Blink. Blink.

Maybe—just maybe—if I squinted hard enough, it’d magically change.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

201.

Two hundred and freaking one.

Seriously?!

That was like eight pounds up in a week and a half.

What the actual fuck?

I hadn’t packed on weight that fast since—yeah, let’s not talk about that blurry, bingy Halloween week. But okay, fine.

I’d been indulging.

And I mean, really indulging.

Like sprawled out in bed, satin pajamas clinging for dear life, nightstand buried under fast food wrappers, half-eaten dessert containers stacked up, more on the way kind of indulging. Empty wine glasses everywhere. Calling it self-care with a sigh and a satisfied little smile.

And movement? Minimal.

The hardest I’d worked all week? Squeezing into that tiny black dress for New Year’s.

Too much booze, too many “just one more” slices of pizza, too many late-night cravings.

And yeah, some of it was probably water weight. But still.

How is the scale so stubborn sometimes—then you string a few cheat days together, blink—boom.

It jumps up like it’s personally offended by your life choices.

And the mirror?

Not exactly giving me a standing ovation today either.

My brand-new pink workout set—one of those “new year, new me” splurges—was already working overtime. 

The high-waisted leggings squeezed too tight, stretched too thin, every inch of them working overtime to contain my hips, thighs, and everything in between. Under the harsh bathroom lights, the fabric shimmered, shined—highlighted way more than it hid.

And the matching sports bra? Not doing me any favors.

My boobs, fuller than ever, strained against the fabric, spilling at the edges, testing every stitch.

Between the two, my belly pushed out, soft, round, impossible to ignore—proof of every indulgence, every extra helping, every sweet, buttery bite December had to offer.

I tugged at the waistband, but it wasn’t budging.

This outfit?

Absolutely not ready for what I’d put my body through over the past week, but whatever.

“Alright,” I muttered, stepping off the scale and letting out a long, defeated breath. “At least I’ll never be over 200 again.”

The words tasted about as hollow as the empty tin of peppermint bark still sitting on my kitchen counter. But what else could I say? I had to start somewhere.

Driving past Starbucks on the way to the gym wasn’t as hard as I thought it’d be. No venti iced mocha. No bacon gouda sandwich. Just me, my playlist, and a shred of determination. New year. No excuses. No slip-ups.

201 pounds. That wasn’t where I wanted to be—not even close. Never in a million years did I think I’d let myself get here. When I called off the wedding, I knew my obsessive dieting and exercise routine had made me miserable. I was ready to let go of that, to gain a little weight, embrace myself for who I was—a girl with curves, with a butt, and a love for food.

But I didn’t expect to embrace myself all the way to over 200 pounds.

Still, here I was, ready to do something about it. No regrets, no shame—just pure determination to find some balance. This time? I was all in. Low-carb diet, no more cheat days, no backing down, no matter what.

I hopped on the treadmill—after snapping a few selfies, obviously. Medium pace, slight incline, timer set for 15 minutes. My big, cushy pink headphones were blasting my go-to workout playlist, the beats pounding, but not hard enough to distract me from how brutal—and yeah, boring—this was.

Every step on the treadmill felt heavier than the last. I was carrying more weight than I ever had before by far, and every labored stride reminded me of it. But no matter how miserable it was, I kept going. Step after step, breath after heaving breath, I wasn’t giving up. Not this time. Not in this outfit. Not when I’d already driven past Starbucks like a champ. God I wanted Starbucks so bad!

Finally, after what felt like an eternity—but was actually only 13 minutes—I slowed the treadmill to a crawl and gripped the side rails, sucking in air like I’d just run a marathon. My legs wobbled like Jell-O, and my heart felt like it was beating way too fast.

Jenna turned to me, fresh-faced and annoyingly full of energy, her ponytail bouncing like she hadn’t just spent the past 15 minutes jogging like a machine. “Done already?” she asked, one brow arched, her tone laced with just the right amount of genuine disappointment to make me groan.

“Yeah, (pant) sorry, Jenna,” I managed between gasps, stepping off the treadmill and planting my hands on my hips, trying to catch my breath. “I’m exhausted. (huff, gasp) Didn’t eat breakfast, my blood sugar’s basically zero, (gasp) and I still need to shower, (pant) do my hair, and hit the cafeteria before work.”

Her brow shot up higher, her ponytail swishing as she turned toward me. “No squats?”

“Next (pant) time,” I huffed, fanning myself. 

Let’s be real, though—I wasn’t exactly sure I needed any more squats. My butt was already plenty big, thank you very much. “Promise. Next time.”

She gave me a look, one that clearly said she wasn’t entirely convinced but decided to let it slide—for now. “Alright, but I’m holding you to it.”

By the time I made it back to my apartment—after somehow resisting the urge to gorge myself at work (small miracle)—I was wiped. 

Exhausted. Starving. Barely functioning. 

I kicked off my shoes, letting them land wherever, and collapsed onto the sectional with a long, dramatic sigh, the kind that could fill a room.

My brain was still spinning from the day, but my hands? They had a mind of their own. Before I even knew it, I grabbed my phone, hesitated for maybe half a second, then opened OnlyFans for the first time in almost two months.

And just like that, it hit me.

God, I missed being Cel Monroe.

Notifications lit up the screen—likes, comments, tips—and then it hit me again. Damn. That weigh-in video I posted back in November? The one I didn’t really think twice about after filming? It had, by the looks of it, overtaken the donut-stuffing clip as my most popular—and most lucrative—video ever.

The guys seemed to love it. Every second of it. They loved the vulnerable, storytime vibe. Who knew stepping on a scale, spilling your thoughts, and letting it all hang out could rake in that kind of cash?

But then I scrolled and investigated further.

When’s the next mukbang video?
Where have you been?
This is such a rip-off. She’s not even active.
Cel Monroe, don’t hold back!
We miss the feasts!

The excitement fizzled as reality sank in. The tips? Still coming, but not like they used to. My subscriber count? Dropping—slowly but surely. With each swipe, every new comment, the weight of it settled heavier in my chest.

I leaned back, grabbing the glass of wine I’d poured before I sat down, the stem tight between my fingers as I stared at the ceiling. My fans adored me—worshipped me, even. They craved more indulgence, more Cel Monroe. They loved the confident, sensual goddess who lived without rules or limits, who didn’t give a damn about numbers on a scale.

But adoration only goes so far. Fans are fickle. If I didn’t give them something new, they’d move on to the next shiny thing.

And me? I wasn’t so sure about any of it anymore. The line between Cel Monroe—the confident, camera-ready queen—and, well, me, was getting blurrier by the day. Taking two months off from OnlyFans hadn’t changed that. If anything, it made it clearer. I was a girl who needed to be heard, who needed to express herself.

That was harder to ignore than the slow drip of disappearing subscribers.

Still, something had to give. I needed to drop some weight—not just for my health, but because I was over feeling jiggly and puffy 24/7. 

Curves? I’d definitely learned to love them over the past several months. But when your belly starts getting in the way and your feet are too swollen to squeeze into your favorite heels?

That’s the line. And I’d officially crossed it.

By the second week of January, I hit the wall.

Work was dragging. Boring. Draining the life right out of me.

David was still pretending we didn’t know each other, and Sam? Well, he was probably hiding out at South Lake Union or tucked away at the Kirkland campus.

Fine by me.

But my motivation to drag myself out of bed at the crack of dawn and meet Jenna at the gym?

Circling the drain faster than last night’s bubble bath.

I was miserable again.

Obsessing. Overthinking. Picking apart every bite, every damn choice.

Literally starving. All the time.

Dreaming about the food I wasn’t letting myself have.

Cheeseburgers. Milkshakes.

Chocolate-dipped cheesecake.

Waffles, drowning in butter, piled high with whipped cream.

Even pizza rolls—freaking pizza rolls—had me fantasizing like I was starring in a full-blown food porn flick.

The workouts weren’t helping either. Every morning, I dragged myself out of bed and into my too-tight leggings. My body begged me to skip it, to crawl back under the covers, but my brain screamed at me to keep going. And in the middle of it all? 

I felt stuck. 

Stuck between the person I wanted to be, the person I used to be, and the person my fans expected Cel Monroe to be.

That night, lying in bed, I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced, mostly with thoughts about food. Two weeks into the new year, and I’d done alright. No major slip-ups. I’d resisted the late-night ice cream binges, which, honestly, felt like an Olympic-level achievement. And I’d dropped back below 200 pounds—197 to be exact. Not exactly a parade-worthy moment, but hey, progress is progress.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling aimlessly through OnlyFans, skimming through the endless messages. They loved me, worshipped me, begged for more. And on a whim—I typed, “I’m hungry,” and hit post.

The responses started rolling in almost instantly.

What are you hungry for, Cel?
You should do a cheesecake indulgence video.
Did you gain weight over the holidays?
You should eat!

I stared at the screen, eyes heavy, thoughts all soft and foggy, just floating. Debating.

Finally, with a slow, sweet sigh, I reached over and flicked on the lamp. Warm, golden light spilled out, wrapping me up, turning my pillows, my headboard, my skin all soft and glowing, like a little movie scene.

No overthinking tonight. Just feeling.

I switched to camera mode, hit record, and stayed right where I was. Head on my pillow, hair a little messy, falling in loose, touchable waves around me. Nothing extra. Nothing staged. Just me.

Perfect.

I brushed my fingers through my hair lazily, my hand lingering like I couldn’t quite bring myself to care, and let out a soft, sweet yawn. My lips curled into a dreamy little smile as I stared into the camera, all sleepy-eyed and soft.

“Hey, guys… it’s Cel,” I murmured, my voice low and velvety, tinged with sleep. I blinked slow, my long dark lashes fluttering like they were about to give up the fight to stay open. “I’ve been lying here, trying to sleep, but…” Another yawn escaped, delicate and unhurried, arching my back as my hand floated up to cover it before falling back to the pillow. “I can’t stop thinking about food. I’m so hungry. And yeah, I know… I’m supposed to be on a diet or whatever—no eating late, blah blah blah—but…” My voice trailed off, soft and dreamy, like I was lost in the thought. Then, with a little pout I added, “Would anyone… maybe… want to buy me dinner? Help a girl out so she can finally eat and get some sleep? Anyway, love you guys. Goodnight.”

I blinked at the camera one last time, my lashes fluttering slowly, letting out the softest, most content sigh. My head sank deeper into the pillow, my lips parting in a lazy, sleepy gasp as I hit stop. Without hesitation, I posted the clip. Rolling onto my side, I set my phone on the nightstand and snuggled deeper into the warm cocoon of my blankets.

I told myself it was just an experiment. If someone actually sent money, fine—I’d break the diet for one night. I mean, I deserved it, right? Food, comfort, indulgence. Totally justified.

My phone lit up. Damn that didn’t take long. I glanced at the screen, and there it was—a $100 tip with a message attached: “Hope this covers delivery expenses. Please don’t be hungry, eat up, Cel Monroe.”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed, the sound soft but full of warmth as it filled the room. God bless OnlyFans.

Without missing a beat, I went straight to my DoorDash app. See? I knew I was smart not to delete it. And I didn’t even hesitate. I went straight for what I wanted most—a big, hot white sauce pizza and, obviously, some Napoleons for dessert. Sure, it was already pushing midnight on a worknight, but who cared? I was hungry. I deserved pizza.

Maybe tonight wasn’t the night for self-control after all.

I should’ve known myself better. The rest of January? A slow, steady backslide, and I let it happen.

The gym? 

Yeah, I was over it. Motivation gone. I was slacking more and more, barely putting in any effort when I managed to drag myself there—if I even showed up. Half the time, I canceled on Jenna with some excuse that even I didn’t buy. And when I actually made it I was just going through the motions, staring at the clock, counting down the minutes until I could leave.

My so-called low-carb diet was turning into a total joke. 

It went from strict to nonexistent faster than I’d like to admit. Starbucks slid back into my life like an old flame I couldn’t quit, and honestly? I wasn’t even pretending to fight it anymore. 

On the mornings I skipped the gym—which, let’s be real, was most mornings—I’d hit the drive-thru, grab my usual, and then roll into work where the breakfast bar and cafeteria basically became my personal buffet.

Waffles? Every time. Coffee cake? Obviously. Whipped cream? Pile it high, thank you very much. Bacon? Hell yes. Every. Single. Morning. 

The only downside was I actually had to haul myself down the hall to the cafeteria to get my fix. 

Total injustice.

And OnlyFans was becoming my daily highlight reel again. Scrolling through the comments, interacting with my fans—it wasn’t just a side-husstle; it was my escape. 

The thing I looked forward to more than I’d admit out loud. 

They adored me, and the best part? They were always ready to buy me dinner or send me treats anytime I so much as hinted at being hungry.

I was loving it.

The attention, the praise, the validation—it was intoxicating. Tips rolled in like clockwork, and every time someone sent me cash with a sweet little note about how I deserved to eat whatever I wanted, it felt like a golden ticket to keep doing exactly that. Sure, I was slipping off the plan. Sure, I wasn’t hitting the gym like I should’ve been. But did it matter when my fans worshipped me no matter what? They were literally paying for my next meal.

Part of me knew I needed to rein it in—find some balance, get my act together.

But the other part? The part that lived for the attention, the indulgence, the absolute freedom of doing whatever the hell I wanted with my body? That part wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

Especially not after Jenna helped me file my taxes.

Because, damn. I knew I was making good money, but seeing the final number? Jaw-dropping. Almost as shocking as how much I owed—which, of course, I hadn’t saved for. Or even thought about saving for. Because apparently, being an adult meant remembering taxes were a thing.

And the kicker? That debt could disappear with a few more videos. A role play. Another mukbang. A weigh-in. 

Like the universe itself was looking down at me, shaking its head, and saying, Keep going, babe. Feed the beast.

Literally. Figuratively.

And then, on one of those slow, gray, soul-sucking January afternoons at the office, I sat there, nibbling on a muffin, my mind drifting. Thinking—really thinking—about body neutrality. About body positivity. About self-love. About how the word fat had been demonized, turned into something ugly, something to fear.

And how it wasn’t even my voice in my head whispering that something was wrong with my body.

It was hers.

My mom’s.

That nagging, relentless voice that had been there since the first time I reached for a second cookie.

And right there, mid-bite, I realized—it was time to let that voice go.

I pulled out my phone and started scrolling through Insta, my go-to distraction, other than OnlyFans, when work slowed down. Lately, my feed had been full of body-positive models—women who celebrated their curves, owned their beauty, and shut down all the noise about shrinking themselves.

One post stopped me dead in my tracks—a curvy fitness influencer who, I’ll admit, kind of reminded me of myself. Not quite as gorgeous, obviously, but close enough to make me pause. And her nickname? Bunz. Seriously? But then she posted her stats: 5’4” and 208 pounds.

And you know what? She looked pretty. Not drop-dead gorgeous like me, but yeah, she had something.

She didn’t look over 200.

But then again… neither did I.

Apparently, she even outweighed Jenna, which made me stop for a second... because, yeah, I guess I outweighed Jenna now too. But anyway, this girl’s vibe? Definitely more like mine. That said, unlike me—and okay, more like Jenna—this girl was all about the gym.

Squat racks, deadlifts, all that hardcore gym stuff—and yeah, it showed. She had a butt for days (though let’s be real, mine’s a little juicier), thick thighs, and she strutted around like she was the hottest thing ever to grace a pair of leggings.

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t exactly the gym bunny I used to be—or at least not in the way this girl was—but watching her made me stop and think. If she could rock being over 200 pounds, own every inch of it, and rack up a million Insta followers while she was at it, then why the hell couldn’t I?

I switched to camera mode and gave myself a once-over—sometimes a girl just needs a reminder of how great she looks. 

I tucked some stray strands of my hair behind my ear, the light catching the cool platinum highlights framing my face in soft curls. My cheeks had a healthy glow, and my full lips curved into the kind of subtle smile that gave nothing away but hinted at everything. 

My makeup was on point. Smoky eyes that made my baby blues pop and a swipe of nude gloss shimmering just right with every squish of my plump lips.

I stretched my arm out to get a better angle and shifted slightly, feeling the snug pull of my white button-up dress as strained with every move I made. My soft belly folded into thick rolls, a little thicker than they were a month ago pressing against the material, while my ass spilled slightly over the sides of the chair, making the seat feel a little smaller than I’d like to admit.

The hem of the dress rode high on my thighs, showing off more than I’d planned but not enough to make me tug it down. The bright white fabric complimented my pale, milky skin, soft and creamy, catching the light in a way that made every inch look smooth and flawless. And despite the too-tight fit—hell, maybe because of it—I couldn’t help but think, holy hell, I look good.

Damn, I needed to start hyping Cel Monroe more. Building her up. Getting her to a million Insta followers, just like that fitness girl.

I flipped to Cel Monroe’s Insta. Right now? I was sitting at 80K and climbing. But a million? That was next. If Ms. Squat Rack could do it, then Cel Monroe sure as hell could.

“Hey, uh, Celeste.”

Oh my God. I glanced up, surprised to see David standing there, shoulders hunched slightly, trying to look casual. Spoiler: he wasn’t even close to pulling it off.

“David,” I said, setting my phone down and dragging his name out slow, with just enough edge to make him squirm. “You finally remembered where I sit?”

My tone was sweet as honey, but the arch of my brow? That told an entirely different story.

I obviously knew he was in love with me, and I wasn’t about to let him forget it.

His hand shot to the back of his neck, rubbing like he was trying to massage away the awkwardness radiating off him. “Sorry, I’ve been… busy,” he muttered, his eyes darting everywhere but my face.

"Busy avoiding me?" I said, grabbing the rest of my muffin and leaning back in my chair. My dress seemed to be working overtime now, pulling at the buttons across my boobs and riding up to even more dangerous territory, now well above mid-thigh. It was admittedly undersized enough that getting it buttoned this morning felt like I’d done a full-body workout—but no way was I letting David see even a flicker of doubt. 

By now, I had him pegged. Like most guys, he wasn’t concerned about the weight I was putting on—hell no. He was into it, so much so he couldn’t even act normal around me, too intimidated to keep it together.

“No,” he said quickly, then hesitated, scratching his jaw like the truth might magically appear there. “Okay, maybe a little.”

I took a slow bite of my muffin, letting the sound of my chewing stretch. “And (chew, chew) why’s that?”

David shifted his weight, glancing around the room like he was silently begging someone to swoop in and save him. “About… Halloween,” he started, hesitating again. “I’m sorry. I’d just broken up with my girlfriend, had way too much to drink, and I just… I always thought of you so—”

“David,” I cut him off, holding up a hand to stop him before he tripped over his own words any harder.

A small part of me almost felt sorry for him. He saw me. He wanted me. He took his shot—or at least tried to. And yeah, I won’t lie, now knowing he probably broke up with his girlfriend because he thought he had a chance with me? Lowkey made me proud.

Sure, he might’ve crossed a line, but at least he didn’t grab me or grope me like Sam had. So, there was that.

“Halloween was over two months ago,” I said. “I think we can all agree it’s time to move on. If you want to make yourself useful, go grab me a vanilla matcha and another one of these pistachio muffins.”

David blinked, his gaze briefly dropping to the curve of my hips before snapping back up to meet mine. His face flushed, and he nodded quickly, before scurrying off toward the coffee bar like a man on a mission.

As he disappeared, Jenna popped up over her monitor, her sharp eyes darting between me and the coffee bar like she’d just stumbled onto the juiciest soap opera of the year.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, her tone dripping with equal parts curiosity and judgment.

“He’s too awkward,” I whispered back, leaning forward in my chair. “Needed to put him to work before he confesses his love for me again.”

“No, like what about your diet and everything?” she hissed, glancing around to make sure Kristen or Petros couldn’t hear us.

“Meh… what diet?” I said, brushing crumbs off my desk like they were nothing.

Her eyes narrowed. “Have you been going back into Cel Monroe mode again?”

“Maybe.”

“Bad girl.”

“What?” I asked, crossing my legs slow, the soft press of thick thigh against thick thigh making the fabric of my dress ride up to the point of now teasing my ample hip.

“Okay well just don’t come crying to me later when you’re all down on yourself about not making progress. Especially if you still expect me to help you get in shape.”

“Noted,” I replied with a cheeky grin, already plotting what snack I’d have David fetch next. The guy needed to stay busy, right?

Moments later, David reappeared, matcha in one hand, muffin balanced on a plate in the other like he was auditioning for Waiter of the Year. He set them down in front of me with this careful precision, his eyes flicking to mine for approval. It made me smirk. The guy was trying way too hard, but I wasn’t about to stop him.

“Thank you, David,” I said in a breathy, over-the-top voice, batting my lashes for extra effect.

“Anytime. Just let me know if you ever need anything,” he replied, his tone dripping with eagerness, his face lit up like I’d just handed him a winning lottery ticket.

Jenna groaned and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I will,” I said, giving David a slow, knowing smile as I reached for the muffin.

With a little nod, he turned and practically floated back to his desk, like I’d made his whole week with a single look.

Jenna waited until he was out of earshot before pinning me with one of her I’m so done with you stares.

“What (chew, chew)?” I asked, biting into the muffin and shrugging like I didn’t know exactly what she was about to say.

“Cel. You’ve got him acting like a puppy waiting for table scraps.”

I waved her off, taking a sip of my matcha. “He likes to help. I’m just giving him purpose. What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re impossible.”

I leaned back in my chair, letting out a slow breath as the weight of everything settled around me. Not just the muffin sitting heavy in my stomach, but the familiar heaviness of slipping back into old habits.

Guilt.

Guilt from eating, from nourishing my body, from taking in what I wanted, needed. Because where there was pleasure, there was always guilt.

That kind of guilt? It had followed me most of my life.

Since growing up with Mom, who had an opinion on every calorie, every bite, every glance at the scale.

Who made sure I knew that wanting too much was dangerous.

But Cel Monroe? She didn’t do guilt. Apologies? Not in her vocabulary. Not for her curves. Not for what she ate. And definitely not for what she weighed.

My fans reminded me of that all the time.

The comments on my last weigh-in video back in November? Straight-up love letters. People pouring their hearts out, saying I brought joy to their lives, proving beauty wasn’t about a number on a scale. Real beauty had curves, and they were here for it.

And you know what? 

They were right.

Chapter 18

If Cel Monroe taught me anything, it was this: never, ever shrink yourself for anyone. So, I decided to take that lesson and run with it. No more dimming my light, no more tiptoeing around who I was. By the time January rolled into February, I was done playing small.

I ate what I wanted, when I wanted, and if my jeans got a little snug? Whatever. I’d hit the mall, do some online shopping, and snag bigger sizes. 

Clothes that hugged my curves like they were tailor-made? 

Yes, please. 

Growing out of them?

Just another excuse for a shopping spree. And worrying about price tags? I left that energy in 2024.

My fans kept me fed—DoorDash deliveries, fancy dinners, whatever I wanted. And for a little extra entertainment, I reactivated my Bumble profile. Again. I’d been toggling that thing on and off since I called off the wedding…okay, maybe even a little before. But it was never serious. Just harmless fun. Because sometimes? A girl just wants to be wined and dined. 

And the guys? Absolutely obsessed.

If you can believe it, even more into me now than when I was skinny.

Honestly, I had no clue curves could turn men into such puddles.

They loved watching me enjoy myself—food, life, them.

Didn’t give a damn about my size.

Okay, sure. Maybe I was a little thicker in person than I looked in my pics. And yeah, some of them might’ve had a second of surprise when they saw me up close.

But let me tell you—no one was complaining.

Some got lucky enough to make it to my bed.

Others? Didn’t make the cut.

And sex when you’re curvier, softer—when you’ve only ever known it as a skinny girl? Unbelievable.

I had no idea what I was missing.

Every touch? Deeper. Every sensation? Sharper. My body? More. More sensitive, more receptive, more turned on than I ever knew was possible.

I never want to have sex as a skinny girl ever again.

The best part? It was all on my terms.

It felt good—no, amazing—to date, to pick and choose, to have fun without any strings or expectations dragging me down.

And for once, I let myself enjoy it. I stopped overthinking, stopped questioning their motives, and started to just… receive.

That mindset carried me straight into my 24th birthday party in February, where Jenna, being Jenna, proved that “low-key” wasn’t even in her vocabulary.

Over 30 people crammed into my apartment and spilled out onto the rooftop deck. Heaters blasted to keep the winter chill at bay, candles flickered like we were living in a Pinterest ad, and string lights cast this dreamy golden glow over everything—and everyone.

It was like a rom-com, but better. Because it wasn’t some cheesy love story on a screen. It was my party. My life. And I was owning every second of it.

The food? 

Straight-up chef’s kiss. Charcuterie boards piled high with brie, manchego, prosciutto, and enough crackers to build a fortress. My cake was a three-tier chocolate ganache masterpiece with gold leaf and fresh strawberries, so decadent it practically deserved its own Netflix special. The wine? Endless. Aaron made sure no glass stayed empty—especially mine.

But let’s be real. The food and wine was just the opening act. The real showstopper was me.

I squeezed into a ribbed, bright pink bodycon dress, the kind that hugged everything like it had been stitched just for me.

The fabric clung, soft, tight, sinful—molding to my belly, plush and full, rounder than it had been a month ago, a tribute to every indulgence, every bite.

It stretched over my hips, taut, teasing, the outline of my deep-set belly button showing through, daring to be noticed.

And my boobs? Framed. Showcased. Little room for imagination.

My hair was soft and thick and fell just above my shoulders, and thanks to Jenna’s last-minute makeup magic, my face glowed like I’d been kissed by a perfection filter.

And here’s the thing—I was feeling all of it. 

Dinner sat heavy in my belly, pressing against the snug fabric of my dress. Every step across the room had my wobbly thighs squishing together and rubbing, my breasts bouncing, and by the time the party hit full swing? I was already exhausted and my feet were killing me.

So, like any queen worth her crown, I parked myself in the comfiest chair on the rooftop, perfectly positioned to overlook the city—and, of course, right between two big propane heaters—and held court.

The guys? Oh, they didn’t seem to mind one bit. 

Chase leaned against the railing, his blue eyes glued to me like I was the only thing worth looking at on that rooftop. 

Jordan tried pulling the whole “pretend-not-to-stare” act, but it was about as convincing as a three-dollar Gucci bag, especially with that dumbass smirk plastered to his face. 

And Aaron? Sweet, quiet Aaron hovered close all night, offering me drinks, bringing me cozy blankets and extra pillows, getting me snacks, handing me my vape, and looking at me like I was a goddess who had graced him with my presence.

I didn’t lift a finger. 

Every sip of wine, every bite of cake, every indulgent nibble of brie on a cracker? Delivered straight to me like I was royalty. And yeah, I’ll admit it—I got pretty tipsy.

Chase cracked a joke, and I laughed way too loud, letting my hand rest on his arm like it belonged there. Jordan offered to top off my glass, and you better believe I leaned in close, fingers brushing his as I handed it over. And Aaron? Oh, he was practically glued to my side, flirting with me, constantly asking, “Need anything else?” like it was his life’s mission.

Jenna? Yeah, she caught it all unfortunately.

The kicker was when I bent over to grab a cupcake off the low patio table, my ass was apparently almost rubbing up against Aaron’s face. And Jenna? Oh, she saw the whole thing. Her arched brow, the barely-there smirk of defeat when I sat back down, and Aaron’s deer-in-the-headlights-with-a-mix-of-satisfaction look, said it all. She didn’t even need words—though I knew they were coming.

I saw her later on hissing at Aaron, her arms crossed and her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “Could you be any more obvious? It’s embarrassing.”

Aaron stammered, his face going beet red as he mumbled something about checking on the wine and bolted for the drinks table like it was his only escape.

Jenna stormed over to me, her frustration radiating off her in waves. “Cel,” she snapped, grabbing my arm like she was about to stage an intervention.

“What?” 

“Don’t play dumb,” she hissed, her voice low and sharp, though anyone nearby could tell she was this close to losing it. “You’ve been batting your lashes at Chase, Jordan, Gavin and even Aaron all night, and now Aaron’s over there, freaking like, practically writing sonnets about you. What the fuck are you doing?”

“Can you blame them?” I said, sliding my hand over the soft, full curve of my belly—packed tight with way too much food, cake, and wine, and no regrets about it. 

My body wasn’t just curvy; it was an exaggerated hourglass that demanded attention. Boobs spilling into just the right amount of too-much cleavage, soft arms, thick, shapely thighs, and an ass so juicy my dress didn’t even try to play coy. Bold, proud, and completely owning its space, with zero interest in anyone’s idea of “small.”

Add in my pink pointed-toe three-inch pumps, and I stood tall, radiating appeal that went way beyond the tight dress. I tilted my chin up, letting the confidence roll off me. “I mean, come on, Jenna. Look at me.”

Jenna groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was dealing with a toddler instead of her best friend. “Cel, you’re a lot of woman now, and that dress? Subtle is not the word I’d use. You’re killing these poor guys. And the girls are about two seconds away from forming a mob. Half of them are glaring at you like you’re here to steal their boyfriends.”

“What? No, they’re not,” I shot back, blinking like she’d just told me I had a third eye. 

A lot of woman? 

That was a new one. Couldn’t decide if I should say thanks, feel insulted, or just roll with it.

“Cel,” she said flatly, gesturing around the room like she was presenting exhibit A. “Rylee hasn’t let go of Gavin’s arm all night, Alana just hauled Brody into the kitchen like she’s planning a hostage negotiation, and Chase? He hasn’t stopped staring at you for an hour. Wake up!”

I glanced around, and...damn. She wasn’t wrong. The tension was practically buzzing—guys sneaking glances like they thought no one would notice, and girls whispering in tight circles, shooting me side-eyes like I was a walking threat to their happily-ever-afters.

“Not my problem,” I slurred, tilting my chin up, my confidence riding high on wine, good food, and yeah, the attention. “If they can’t handle it, that’s on them, It’s my birthday.”

Jenna threw her hands up, full-on exasperated. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when this turns into another Halloween fiasco. And, for the love of God, keep your ass out of Aaron’s face!”

I burst out laughing, waving her off like the drama wasn’t even worth my time. Tonight wasn’t about holding back. Tonight, I was owning it—every curve, every look, every second.

And not even Jenna was gonna dim my glow.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)