TRANSCRIPT OF BOOB TUBE PODCAST EPISODE #049
| Hey, this is Cat! | |
| And this is Ruby. | |
| And this is Boob Tube, the podcast where we take a weekly look at how women are represented on television. | |
| This week, we are so excited to talk with our guest Ane Crabtree, who does the incredible costumes on The Handmaid’s Tale. We’re going to talk with Ane about the female form and how it’s depicted in a society that’s both ultra-conservative and, in its own way, hypersexualized. | |
| It’s a great conversation, so stay tuned, but first: I have a confession to make. | |
| It’s a juicy one. | |
| You wonderful listeners know my tastes can run a little highbrow and a little lowbrow. | |
| You do love anything that veers toward British royal fanfic. | |
| It’s my British kryptonite! Bryptonite? | |
| No. | |
| Okay. But you may not know that I am a longtime fan and avid viewer of the reality dating show Main Squeeze. | |
| I believe you’ve actually taken part in several betting pools surrounding this show. | |
| If by “taken part” you mean “won,” then yes, I absolutely have. | |
| And yet we’ve never discussed any of this on our podcast! | |
| Well, I’m sure it will shock all of you listening to hear this, but the Main Squeeze franchise is not typically a bastion of interesting representation of women on television. | |
| Gasp! | |
| I know. But tonight is the premiere of a new season, and this year, Main Squeeze is tackling some of the most thought-provoking questions about body image I think we’ve ever seen on TV. And maybe doing so in a completely unethical way? Because this year, for the first time, a plus-size woman is going to be the star of Main Squeeze. | |
| Whoa. Daring. | |
| Right, as if the idea that a woman who isn’t a stick figure deserves a shot at love is somehow controversial. So this woman is named Bea Schumacher, and she’s one of the more popular plus-size style bloggers out there. Even though Bea looks how a lot of American women look, for a viewing audience, it’s really unusual to see someone who looks like her at all, and it’s almost nonexistent to see someone who looks like her portrayed as a romantic lead instead of a sidekick or best friend or mom. | |
| Right, and that’s where the so-called controversy comes in—if Bea were just the main girl’s best friend on this show coming in to give advice or whatever, no one would care at all. | |
| Well, people would still be terrible to her on the Internet, because a lot of people find the existence of a fat woman something to get worked up about. | |
| Sure, in the immortal words of Taylor Swift, haters gonna hate— | |
| I don’t think she coined that. | |
| Okay, you’re proving my point. | |
| Anyway, another question is how gendered the discourse around this season is going to be, because we don’t know yet whether Bea’s suitors will be plus-size too. | |
| Oh, that’s interesting! Do you even call men “plus-size,” is that a thing? | |
| Technically, you do, but it’s not a phrase you hear a lot—society doesn’t really feel the need to divide men according to their body size the way we do with women. The point being, there are a LOT of outstanding questions about how this season is going to play out, and I, for one, am really excited to watch, but also kind of dreading what the producers might have planned. | |
| Right, because on the one hand, we have the potential for this very mainstream show to do something really subversive, but on the other hand, we’re talking about a reality show! Do we think they’re actually going to do something feminist and empowering, or do we think they’re going to exploit and humiliate this woman for ratings? Which option sounds more likely? | |
| The only way to find out is to watch the live season premiere tonight on ABS, which I’m certainly going to do. Ruby, have I convinced you to give it a shot? | |
| Well, I’m feeling pretty invested now, so I think I am going to watch tonight to see what happens. And speaking of investments, it’s time for us to hear from our sponsor for this episode, LadyVest, which is not a purveyor of ’90s lesbian fashions. No, LadyVest is an online service that helps women learn how to invest their money to secure their financial independence, which the women of The Handmaid’s Tale can tell you is a really smart move. Go to LadyVest.com/boob—that’s slash B-O-O-B—to get a free consultation and learn more about their services. We’ll be back right after this. |
——Forwarded Message——
FROM: Beth Malone <btmalone@gmail.com>
TO: Squeeze Main-iacs <main-iacs@googlegroups.com>
SUBJECT: TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!
Hi, everyone! As you know, tonight is the premiere of the new season of Main Squeeze, so for those of you who haven’t created your brackets yet, PLEASE DO SO NOW or you will not be able to participate in the league this year. Colin, you’ve been saying for three years that you want to join the league, but you never fill out your bracket in time, so if you don’t do it this year, I’m going to remove you from this email list, okay?
For those who are new to the group (hi, Jenna!), here’s how it works: First, you create your bracket on MainSqueezeBracket.com before 8pm ET tonight—just click the league invitation I sent last week to log in, pick a username, and you’re good to go. Then, you’ll have until NEXT Monday at 8pm ET to fill in your picks for the WHOLE SEASON. So watch tonight, get to know the men, and then make your predictions for who gets cut each week and who wins it all! The brackets all LOCK before episode 2 airs, so again, Colin, if you don’t fill in your brackets by next week, you won’t be able to participate all season. I can’t even change that as league commissioner, that’s just the way the website works, okay?
Okay! Hope you’re all as excited as I am for the new season!
xx, Beth
P.S. Did you guys hear Cat talk about our league on her podcast today?? We’re famous!
——Forwarded Message——
FROM: Colin Whitman <cwhit7784@gmail.com>
TO: Beth Malone <btmalone@gmail.com>
SUBJECT: Re: TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!
Jesus Beth, I made a bracket, are you happy? You’re the one who cares about this idiotic show, not me.
——Forwarded Message——
FROM: Beth Malone <btmalone@gmail.com>
TO: Colin Whitman <cwhit7784@gmail.com>
SUBJECT: Re: TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!
Yes, Colin, I *am* happy. Thank you!
——Forwarded Message——
FROM: Ray Moretti <rmoretti@gmail.com>
TO: Bea Schumacher <bea@ombea.com>
SUBJECT: wow
Hey, so, you’re on the cover of People magazine. And you’re going on TV, to find a husband? Bea, what’s happening?
I know I haven’t responded to your emails. I’m sorry, that’s on me. It’s just, I’ve been trying so hard not to think about you, which is impossible enough on its own, but now with your face staring out at me from all over the internet, and TV, and even the grocery checkout line…I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.
You look incredible, by the way. You should know that. I hope you know that. When I see these assholes talking about you, I want to fucking kill them.
I’m sorry, I know I’m not being articulate here. You’re one of the most important people in my life, Bea. When my mom got sick, you’re the one who got me through it. Every good thing in my life, every bad thing, you’re always the person I want to tell. I love Sarah, I really do. I want to marry her. Or, I don’t know, I thought I did. But seeing your face everywhere…I don’t know. Can we talk, Bea? I really want to talk.
——Forwarded Message——
FROM: Bea Schumacher <bea@ombea.com>
TO: Ray Moretti <rmoretti@gmail.com>
SUBJECT: AUTOMATIC RESPONSE re: wow
Hi there! This is a weird thing to say, but I’m off filming a television show right now and have no access to my phone, email, or social media (or daylight, probably). If this is business-related, you can reach my agent, Olivia Smythson, at smythson.olivia@theagency.com. If this is personal (or a hideous death threat!!), I look forward to digging through my inbox and getting back to you once the shoot wraps at the end of April. Have a great day!
“What do you think?”
Bea was standing before an oversized mirror in the wardrobe room, where Alison had placed her in a navy Zac Posen jumpsuit with long sleeves, flowing legs, a ruffled collar, and a plunging neckline, all woven through with sparkling thread that gleamed copper and silver and gold, making Bea shimmer like a galaxy. With her makeup soft and romantic (and caked on thick enough to withstand hot lights and high-def cameras) and her hair in glossy waves, Bea almost felt like the television star she was about to become.
“I think you’re a magician,” she said breathlessly, and Alison beamed.
“Okay!” Lauren clapped her hands as she strode into the room. “Let’s see our Main Squeeze.”
Bea did a little twirl for Lauren, who grinned with approval. “This is perfect!”
Lauren herself looked game-day ready in her uniform of skinny jeans with a white tee, black blazer, and heels, her auburn hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail.
“You good to go?” she asked Bea. “Time to head to set!”
“What happens if I say no?” Bea’s heart started pounding as it sank in that this was really happening. Had she been completely insane to say yes? What if the whole adventure was an unmitigated disaster?
“It’s gonna be a piece of cake,” Lauren assured Bea as she guided her toward the makeshift studio the crew had constructed on the mansion’s front lawn. “I know it’s your first time doing anything like this, but this is my fifth season running this show, and Johnny could host a Main Squeeze premiere in his sleep.”
The host of Main Squeeze, Johnny Ducey, was an erstwhile teen heartthrob (he’d famously mauled hearts in the fantasy Shakespeare crossover Whither the Werewolf?). After several public bouts with addiction and subsequent stints in rehab, he’d settled into his lucrative and unchallenging work on Main Squeeze, where, it was rumored, he’d slept with female contestants more than once. After so many years watching him conduct earnest interviews with assorted reality stars, it was wild for Bea to contemplate that, in a matter of minutes, she’d be the one sitting opposite him.
“Let’s run down the schedule one more time,” Lauren continued. “Act 1 is the video package introducing you to America, then your interview with Johnny—that’s eight minutes total. Then we cut to commercial—”
“And then we intro the first five men,” Bea broke in, reciting the call sheet she’d memorized by rote. “Another break, another five men, another break, and so on until I’ve met all twenty-five of them. Then they all put on noise-canceling headphones while I give my impressions of them, then I put on noise-canceling headphones while they give their impressions of me.”
Bea paused here as she tried to stave off a wave of nausea—why exactly had she agreed to let a bunch of strange men judge her on live television?
“You’re sure these men are what I asked for?” she asked Lauren. “Diverse, smart, open-minded?”
“Bea, absolutely.” Lauren gave Bea’s arm a squeeze. “There are a couple of villains in the mix—we’re still making a television show—but I don’t want you to worry. You’re going to love spending time with these guys.”
“But what if they don’t love spending time with me?” Bea hated herself for letting her insecurities creep in like this, but the closer they got to air, the more she could feel her anxiety taking hold. “What if they hate me, and the audience does too?”
“I promise, that’s not going to happen,” Lauren reassured her. “I have a plan for tonight specifically to guarantee that everyone in America will be rooting for you.”
“Plan?” Bea was skeptical. “What kind of plan? Why don’t I know about it?”
“Because I need your reactions on camera to be genuine!” Lauren grinned. “So don’t worry, okay? I’ve got your back, Bea. We all do.”
“If you say so,” Bea grumbled, but she still found it difficult to believe that everything was really going to work out as perfectly as Lauren insisted.
They’d arrived in the mansion’s entryway: Just outside the front door, the lawn had been transformed into a makeshift studio, complete with a stage, a barrage of light and camera setups, and a live audience of a hundred Main Squeeze superfans, all of whom had won an Instagram contest for the privilege of being there, and whose feverish chatter Bea could hear through the door over the whir of the enormous generators powering the whole operation.
“Hey, Bea.” Mack, a bushy-bearded sound guy in his fifties, arrived to mic Bea up. “You ready?”
Bea nodded, feeling less and less sure that she actually was.
“Where are the men now?” she asked Lauren as Mack placed a microphone pack in a specially molded pocket Alison had affixed to the back of Bea’s jumpsuit.
“In a trailer outside.” Lauren paused, hearing something come through on her headset. “Okay, Bea, we’re five out from air—I’ve got to get to the control room. How do you feel? Are you good?”
Bea opened her mouth to say something—anything—but she couldn’t find the words. Lauren laughed.
“Yeah, I know, it’s a lot. You’re going to kick ass, okay? Just go out there and be brazen and bold and unapologetically yourself. Failing that, just smile and say you’re ready for love.”
Bea forced herself to nod, and then Lauren was gone.
“Bea, can you say something for me? I need to test your level.”
“What should I say?” she asked Mack. He smiled kindly.
“Tell me what you’re most excited about for tonight.”
Bea knew what she was supposed to say: that she was excited to potentially meet her future husband. But she didn’t believe that, and she didn’t really want to lie about it—not when there weren’t any cameras to pretend for.
“I’m excited for all the little girls who are going to watch this and think, She looks like me.”
Mack gave Bea a warm smile, and in the next instant, a producer was tugging on Bea’s sleeve, leading her out the front door, down the wide stone steps, and into the living rooms of several million Americans.
TWITTER THREAD FROM USER @REALI-TEA
Okay shippers & sippers, time for the season premiere of Main Squeeze! Let’s see if a lady of largesse can find love on our teevees. Ready?!
…but first, one million corporate sponsors. Bea uses Lucky Lippies Lipstick in her everyday life? WHAT A COINCIDENCE, they’re also advertisers on ABS!
Ok ok ok, Bea’s doing her live interview with Johnny, she’s excited to meet her men, FRANKLY SAME. WHERE ARE THEY?
Ah, well. Time for a commercial break. Hiya, Lucky Lippies!
HERE WE GO, the first guy is about to walk onstage! Bea looks nervous but maybe a little amped? Go get ’em, sister. We’re with you.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
I don’t know if I can actually watch this.
It only took a few seconds for Bea to get used to the lights. In a way, they were helpful; she couldn’t see the audience or the crew, only what was happening onstage a few feet in front of her. For her first several minutes on camera, that was restricted to Johnny Ducey’s crookedly attractive face, made somehow stranger and blurrier by a combination of Botox and the uppers Bea was quite sure he hadn’t kicked, as if he were now a wax model of the movie star he used to be.
Johnny asked Bea all the softball questions Lauren had prepped her for, and Bea delivered all her scripted answers, eliciting the appropriate laughter, empathy, and applause from the studio audience. By the time they broke for the first commercial, Bea was feeling much calmer. This wasn’t a massive first date on live TV where it actually mattered what the men across the table thought of her—it was the highly scripted opening act of a story with a preordained ending. This was just the requisite meet-cute that would lead to romantic dates and declarations of love and, eventually, a picture-perfect engagement. Lauren had a plan—all Bea had to do was follow it.
When the commercial break was over, Bea stood at her mark at center stage. Behind the mansion, the sun was setting over the Pacific, and the whole set was bathed in a soothing pink glow, accentuated by the warm lights.
Bea smiled placidly as her first suitor walked toward her.
He was backlit at first, but as he came into focus, Bea took in his broad shoulders and narrow waist, his muscles rippling beneath the perfectly fitted fabric of his Italian wool suit, his thick golden hair, warm brown eyes. He was looking at her with distaste—or maybe, worse, disgust.
“Hi,” he said tentatively, well mannered but clearly perplexed. “Are you…Bea?”
“Yes, hi, I’m Bea.” She struggled to maintain composure even though her heart was pounding. “What’s your name?”
“Brian,” he replied. “So, you’re the person we’re going to be dating? Sorry, I’m just a little surprised.”
That makes two of us, buddy, Bea thought—this guy didn’t bring a new look to the show in any way whatsoever. She smiled wider.
“Yep, that’s me! I guess you should head over there, and we’ll talk later?”
Bea nodded toward the risers behind her where the men were meant to stand and wait as the rest of them filed onstage. Brian wandered off, looking dazed—Bea felt the same way. Was this just ratings bait, throwing out a stunning Adonis before Bea got to meet the diverse range of men who might actually look like they had any interest in dating her? That must be it. Of course that was it. Bea squared her shoulders and mentally prepared herself to meet the next man, someone she could sell to the world as her Prince Charming. She could do this. She was ready.
Then the second man appeared.
He was imposing and Latino with powerful arms and pillowy lips, like a young Javier Bardem with a mischievous smile. He wore fitted jeans and a button-down, but the ten-gallon Stetson made the outfit.
“Well, howdy,” he greeted her warmly with a thick Texas accent, and Bea was momentarily so captivated that she forgot to be horrified.
“Hi, I’m Bea.”
“Bea? Jaime. It’s a damn pleasure to meet you.” He kissed her hand. “Can I say damn? I don’t know the rules.”
“Who cares about rules?” Bea blurted, and Jaime let out a full laugh, a great laugh—the audience appreciatively joined in.
“Talk more soon, I hope.” He gave her hand a squeeze and headed off—Bea didn’t bother not to stare at his ass as he left. Talk about damn.
Except—wait. That was two men who could just as easily have been Calvin Klein models as contestants on this show. But before Bea could think too much about what was happening, the third man walked onstage: He was young and Black with a broad, muscular frame, a thick mustache, and a dazzling smile, the spitting image of Michael B. Jordan. No. This wasn’t happening. These were all the same men you always saw on Main Squeeze—more diverse by skin color, sure, but so far, Bea thought these men looked far more likely to give advice on weight-lifting technique than give her the time of day.
Bea needed to talk to Lauren—crap, they were on live television—could she maybe signal a producer? Get someone’s attention? She turned to see who might be around, which of course was the exact moment the third man extended his arms to give Bea a hug hello, and poked her directly in the stomach instead. Bea closed her eyes and imagined the moment replayed in slow motion on YouTube, an unflattering GIF of her mid-section shimmying up the list of trending topics on Twitter.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I was trying to hug you—”
But Bea didn’t care what Mustache Man had to say, she just needed to get through this, needed to get to the next break so she could talk to Lauren.
“It’s fine,” she insisted through gritted teeth. She willed her facial muscles to relax. “I’m Bea. What’s your name?”
“Uh—Sam,” he sputtered, thrown off by her bizarre behavior.
“Great!” She tried to sound normal, but her panic was bleeding through. “See you soon, Sam!” She gestured toward the risers, and off he went.
Two more until commercial, she thought. Keep it together. Two more.
The next man was already walking toward her, a laid-back guy with a golden tan.
“Hey, am I in the right place?” he joked. A few audience members laughed uncomfortably.
“I hope so!” Bea smiled. “I’m Bea, and you are?”
“Confused,” he retorted. “This is Main Squeeze, right? I’m on television right now?”
“If you’re not, I’m not totally sure what all the cameras are doing here.” Bea fought to maintain a light tone. This guy needed to move the hell along.
“Cool. Um. I think I’m gonna go?”
Bea’s heart stopped, and all the noise of the set—the hum of the generators, the grind of the cameras, the whispers of the audience—fell suddenly silent.
“What?”
“Yeah, I gotta—it was nice to meet you, though.”
And with that, he turned and walked offstage, passing man number five on his way. Bea closed her eyes, seized by a sudden compulsion to burst out laughing. What kind of a waking nightmare was this? What would happen if she left too? How would Lauren fill the rest of the hour?
“Hello, Bea. I’m Asher.”
Oh, the fifth man was here. He was really attractive—Asian American with black glasses and thick salt-and-pepper hair.
“Fantastic. The risers are right over there—or you can just leave now if you prefer?”
“What? Do you want me to leave?” Asher looked perplexed.
“Makes no difference to me!” She flashed him a grin that she was sure bordered on deranged, but she was fresh out of fucks to give about who these men were or how they saw her. Asher tentatively backed away and headed over to the riser, and then Johnny was onstage to close out the segment and take them to commercial, saying something about this dramatic season being off and running while Bea smiled and gazed blankly ahead.
“And we’re out!” a producer called as they cut to commercial. “Back in a hundred and twenty!”
A hundred and twenty seconds—Bea didn’t know what Lauren was going to say to force her to continue this torment in two minutes flat, but she was already rushing toward her.
“Bea! Bea, what the hell?”
“Are you kidding me?” Bea didn’t want to freak out in front of all these people, but she no longer felt above it, not after what had just happened. “These men hate me!”
“Bea, no—shit, shit, shit.” Lauren put her hands on her head, looking a little panicked herself. “I told that guy to walk off, okay?”
“What?” Bea was flabbergasted. “Why would you do that?”
“Ratings, Bea! People are going to vilify him and love you. They’re going to think you’re the bravest person on the planet, and they’re going to be desperately invested in you finding the perfect guy you deserve. But that must have felt awful—you had no way to know it was fake. I’m sorry, I should have told you beforehand.”
Something clicked into place in Bea’s mind—
“This was your plan to make America love me? To humiliate me on TV?”
“I’m seeing the flaws now.” Lauren grimaced.
“It was a bad plan!”
“Back in ninety!” the producer called.
“What about the others?” Bea demanded.
“What others?”
“The other men! You saw how they looked at me. Why would you set me up to be mortified?” Bea asked bitterly.
“You’re wrong,” Lauren insisted. “Jaime, Sam, Asher—they’re good guys. You’ll see.”
“Sixty seconds!”
“I want to walk off this set right now,” Bea rasped, her voice breaking.
“Your contract prohibits that pretty expressly,” Lauren pleaded, “but even if it didn’t, I still believe in this show. In all the lives you’re going to change—including yours.”
“Thirty out!”
Lauren looked into Bea’s eyes, her expression desperate—
“Bea, by the time this is over, you’re going to be the most beloved woman in America. But only if you stay and fight. Can you do that? Forget me, forget the show. Think of your career—your future. Think of all the women at home, glued to their televisions, who know if you find love, that means they can too.”
Bea pressed her lips together and nodded. Lauren sprinted offstage as the producer counted them back to air in five, four, three, two, one.
“Welcome back, everyone!” Johnny said brightly, as if completely disconnected from the mess that had recently played out before him. “What do you say, Bea, are you ready to meet your next five suitors?”
Bea lifted her chin and did her best to put on a good-natured expression.
“We’ll see, Johnny. If they keep walking out, maybe they’ll save me the trouble of having to hold the first kiss-off ceremony!”
Johnny looked rather like a deer in the headlights as he faked a laugh at Bea’s joke. “Okay, then! Up next, please meet Wyatt.”
Bea turned to the edge of the stage, where the next man was walking toward her. If Lauren had called Central Casting and asked for an all-American football hero, Bea didn’t think they could have done any better. Tall and muscled with blond hair, Wyatt wore jeans and boots and a charcoal flannel shirt buttoned smartly, as if this were a cozy business meeting instead of an appearance on live television. Ducking his head shyly, he looked even more nervous than Bea felt, and she warmed to him immediately.
“Hey—um, hey. Hey, Bea.” His voice shook, but he brought her into a hug that was kind and sure.
“Hi, Wyatt.” Bea felt her temper melting away. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Wyatt stepped back to meet her eyes. “What that guy did before, walking away like that. I don’t think that was right. Not right at all.”
“Me neither,” Bea said softly.
“I really like your dress.” He smiled. “Actually, I guess it’s pants. Is it pants?”
Bea laughed. “It’s a jumpsuit.”
“Well, whatever it is, it looks beautiful on you.”
Bea suddenly felt tears behind her eyes—totally disarmed by this small act of kindness, this show of support. Wyatt looked at her with concern.
“Are you okay?”
Bea nodded. “I think so.”
“Good.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, and as the shadow of his tall frame blocked the hot lights for just a moment, Bea closed her eyes and exhaled. This was possible. All she had to do was keep going.
After Wyatt, the second group of men was pretty similar to the first: a parade of athletic men with bulging arms and narrow waistlines, perfectly symmetrical faces that soured with displeasure as they laid eyes on Bea. The second man in the group stopped short when he walked onstage, but recovered with relatively little awkwardness.
The third veered toward incredulity: “Uh…seriously?”
The fourth said “Wow” over and over again. “Wow. Wow. Wow.”
“Wow?” Bea ventured.
“Wow,” he parroted back.
“Who are you?” asked the fifth man.
“I’m Bea,” she replied.
“No, but I mean, who are you, like, on this show?”
“I’m the woman you’re here to meet. That’s why you’re meeting me.”
“I don’t understand.”
She told him they’d talk more soon, then attempted to take deep, cleansing breaths during the commercial break.
The third group included a grungy blond surfer named Cooper, a thickly muscled trainer named Kumal, a chilled-out stockbroker named Trevor, and a political consultant named Marco who burst into a broad smile when he saw Bea.
“Gorgeous,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry?” Bea wasn’t sure how to react to being greeted this way at all, let alone on live TV by a man with dark hair and olive skin who looked like he ought to be lounging on a beach in Capri, his muscles glistening in the Mediterranean sunlight.
“No, I’m sorry.” He took her hand and grinned, showing off his blinding white smile. “It’s just—you’re so beautiful.”
“Okay, um, thanks? I guess?” She laughed uncomfortably. Bea didn’t know if Marco was putting on an act, but she doubted very much that she could figure it out during his allotted thirty seconds of airtime, so she made polite chitchat and sent him on his way.
She turned to greet the final man in the third group, who turned out to be the first man of the night who wasn’t trim and handsome: Jefferson Derting, a Missourian with a roundly protruding belly and bushy ginger beard. In dark jeans and a gray button-down topped with an orange tie and tweedy vest, he put Bea in mind of a hipster bartender who would insist on being called a mixologist. Physically, though, his body type was much closer to most of the men Bea had dated in the past—and to Bea herself—and she felt a sense of relief as he approached her.
“Salutations, little lady.” His smile seemed friendly enough, but Bea couldn’t tell whether this was his usual mode of greeting or a barb at her expense.
“Fancy meeting a gent like you in a place like this,” Bea replied in kind. If he was just doing a bit, she didn’t want to ruin it with undue paranoia.
“Seriously, though, I think it’s awesome that you’re going to be the star of the show this year. About damn time they cast a gal who looks like you.” He raised his hand for a high-five, which Bea awkwardly returned. “See you soon, I hope?”
Bea nodded and smiled. “Definitely.”
As Jefferson took a walk toward the riser and Johnny took them to commercial, Bea took a moment to steady herself: more than halfway through now. You can do this.
“Bea, we have a special surprise with your fourth group of suitors,” Johnny gushed when they came back on air.
“Are you sure I haven’t had quite enough surprises?” Bea joked weakly.
“In this next group”—Johnny lowered his voice dramatically—“every single one of the men…”
Is an astronaut? Is a nice, kind, normal dude? Is a time-traveling wizard possessed of the power to make this night be over?
“…is named Ben.”
“What?” Bea asked, unsure why this merited mention, let alone a grand pronouncement.
“Yes!” Johnny clapped his hands. “Meet the five Bens!”
And so she did: Ben G., a Birkenstock-clad kindergarten teacher who brought his guitar and forced Bea to join him in his class’s good-morning song (on. live. television.); Ben F., a personal trainer; Ben K., a personal fitness coach (“So, like a trainer?” Bea had asked, and apparently this was very much the wrong thing to say); Ben Q., a dental student; and finally, Ben Z., who, at six-foot-six, was known by the group as “Big Ben,” and whose occupation remained a mystery—there seemed to have been a collective decision that his height was information enough.
Once the parade of Bens ended, they cut to commercial and Alison rushed over—theoretically to check Bea’s wardrobe, but really to give her a quick hug.
“Just one more group,” Alison whispered in Bea’s ear. “You’re doing great.”
As Alison hurried away and Johnny announced the arrival of the final group, Bea finally started to relax—there was light at the end of the tunnel. It didn’t matter whether these men really liked her, didn’t matter that this last group seemed the most indifferent yet, didn’t even matter that the second-to-last man presented her with a cupcake that he’d scavenged from Craft Services upon hearing that Bea was, quote, “a larger lady.” As if Bea hadn’t endured thousands of judgmental stares eating sweets (or burgers, or fries) in regular old restaurants, let alone on television. As if her fatness were the essence of her personality, butter and sugar paving the pathways to her heart.
“Thanks,” she said curtly to the cupcake-bearer, a smarmy property broker named Nash who struck Bea as a locker-room bully, “but I think I’m going to leave this with you. A snack for the riser!”
She faked a smile as he walked away, then turned to meet her final man, taking a deep breath and insisting to herself once more that it didn’t matter who he was or how he reacted to her.
Which was a lot tougher to believe when she realized he was the most attractive man she’d ever seen in her life.
Plenty of the other men were conventionally handsome, but this man was absolutely devastating: dark hair long enough to brush his neck, crooked nose, full lips, crinkly brown eyes, incredibly strategic stubble, geometric tattoos peeking out beneath his shirtsleeves along his muscled forearms.
And he spoke with a throaty French accent. Because of fucking course he did.
“You do not ’ave a sweet tooth?” he asked as he approached—a reference to the cupcake she’d just refused.
“I’ve been known to indulge,” she murmured, “under the right circumstances.”
He took her hand as if to shake it, or kiss it, but instead he just held it, his thumb tracing deliberate circles inside her palm, turning her insides molten.
“Well, I am a chef,” he quipped, “so perhaps I will discover the sweetness you desire.”
“I think I might like that.” Her face warmed with a genuine smile, this dazzling man temporarily erasing her ability to feel self-conscious.
“Pardon me if I am forward, Bea.” He dropped his voice and looked directly at her. “But I think you should have everything you want.”
“What’s your name?” she asked, the words little more than breath escaping her body.
He smiled and finally raised her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips against it.
“I am Luc,” he answered. “Enchanté.”
The moment should have been cheesy, but it was the opposite, somehow—it felt almost too intimate to be shown on camera. The barest touch of Luc’s lips on her skin was pure sex, and in that moment, all Bea wanted in the world was to leave the set with him and make everyone else disappear.
“And that’s the ball game!” Johnny interjected, reminding Bea her fantasy was impossible—and probably unwise. “When we come back, we’ll find out what Bea thinks of these men—and what they think about her—so stick around!”
Bea reluctantly let go of Luc’s hand, and PAs descended upon the stage to organize a semicircle of chairs and dole out enormous noise-canceling headphones to all twenty-five men—well, twenty-four, since one had made an untimely exit. For this next segment, Johnny would interview Bea about her impressions of the men while they sat directly behind her, listening to loud music and unable to hear a word she said. For the following segment, though, the dynamic would be reversed, and Bea would be forced to sit in ignorance while the whole group talked about her.
“So, Bea.” Johnny leaned in conspiratorially after shouting a few childish insults at the men to make sure they couldn’t hear him. “We’re all dying to hear what you think of these men! Pretty amazing group, am I right?”
The audience clapped appreciatively, and Bea understood the game: There was only one way a fat woman was supposed to feel when a trim man paid her attention.
“I’m so grateful,” she effused. “I mean seriously, how lucky am I that these incredible men were all willing to spend time away from their jobs, their families, their lives, just for the chance to meet me? It’s overwhelming.”
The applause level rose, and Bea knew she was playing her part correctly.
“It wasn’t all smooth sailing, though, was it?” Johnny’s face was lined with faux concern. “That was the first time in Main Squeeze history that a suitor walked off the show before the end of the season premiere.”
And that’s the headline Lauren’s PR machine will be pitching the second this episode is over, Bea thought bitterly.
“How did you feel when he walked away?”
“Well,” Bea answered frankly, “it’s not like that was the first time that’s happened to me.”
She heard a few gasps and some titters from the audience—perhaps she’d been a little too honest.
“Really?” Johnny pressed. “You’ve had a man walk out on you that way?”
“What can I say?” Bea did her best to put on a brave face, knowing that’s what Lauren wanted. “A lot of men really care whether a woman is thin. For some men, that’s the only thing they care about. As if our entire worth can be measured in the inches of our waistlines.”
Johnny shook his head. “We’ll have to hope the rest of the men aren’t like that.”
Bea nodded, reassuring herself internally that it hardly mattered if they were.
“Okay, Bea, one last question, and I know all of America is waiting for the answer to this one: Of all the men you met tonight, who did you like the best?”
Luc sprang instantly to mind—Bea hadn’t been that attracted to any man since Ray. But she knew that wasn’t the right answer to give in this moment; Luc was too sexy, too volatile, definitely not the choice of a woman earnestly seeking her soulmate. She considered picking Jefferson, but something inside her rebelled against the idea of admitting so publicly what she privately feared: that he was the only man here who might honestly find Bea attractive. She thought back to Lauren’s advice—her job was to sell a fairy tale. It was her duty to find a Prince Charming, handsome and noble and, most important of all, capable of graciously sitting by her side for interviews for the duration of their pretend engagement. If those were the criteria, Bea knew exactly who she’d choose.
“Wyatt,” she said with a confident voice. “The way he comforted me when I was feeling down? If that’s not husband material, I don’t know what is.”
The audience applauded appreciatively, Johnny thanked Bea for her time, and they broke for commercial. Mack came to fit Bea with her giant headphones, a sad smile on his face.
“Sorry about this,” he groused as he got the earphones nice and snug.
“Come on, Mack. We’ve all got jobs to do.”
His smile faded a bit, and he clicked the headphones into noise-canceling mode. As the lights got hot and the men all around her started talking, the sounds of the set dissolved, and Bea felt the stress of the night fade into a nocturne by Chopin.
SELECTED TRANSCRIPTS OF JOHNNY DUCEY INTERVIEWS
WITH MAIN SQUEEZE SUITORS:
Season 14, Night 1
So, what was your reaction when you saw Bea?
I was surprised. I don’t mind telling you I was surprised.
Like, a good surprised?
Like, a very surprised.
She seems cool.
In what way cool?
I don’t know, she probably learned a lot in school.
What makes you think that?
[…]
How do you think the night is going so far?
I think beauty comes in all shapes and sizes.
…okay?
Yeah. You can’t judge a book by its cover.
How do you think it went when you met Bea?
Dude, did you see what happened? I poked her in the side! Oh my God, I made a fool of myself on TV. My grandma’s going to laugh forever.
Have you ever dated a plus-size woman before?
That depends on your definition of “dated.”
Are you worried Bea might send you home at tonight’s elimination ceremony?
[laughs]
So, are you?
Oh, you were asking for real? I hope she does! I’ll look like a total asshole if I just leave like that other guy.
Do you want to leave?
I don’t know, man…do you know what the travel schedule is this year? We going anywhere good?
At first, it was almost novel, peacefully listening to one of her favorite composers on live TV, knowing the spotlight was off her for just a moment while the men had their say. And as for what it was they were saying, well…that didn’t really matter, did it? If it was slightly bittersweet that all of the romance Bea experienced on the show would be concocted, then it was enormously relieving that whatever heartbreak she experienced would be too.
Say she started “dating” one of these men, jetting to exotic locales, “falling in love,” only to discover he’d called her a gluttonous pig on the first night of filming—right now, in fact, as the audience laughed. That would be fine, because she never would have had feelings for him in the first place! He’d be no different from the Internet trolls who taunted her every day, except unlike those trolls, these men would help set her up for future success. Lauren was right: The more obstacles Bea faced, the more America would root for her.
And if some tiny part of her had hoped that maybe Marin was right, that she might meet someone special tonight…well. That was gone. No matter; now it would be easier to keep things professional, to stay focused on her own success. Besides, it was an enormous comfort that none of these men could possibly hurt her as badly as Ray did.
Was he watching tonight? Curled up at this very moment on his living-room couch with Sarah, laughing along at whatever joke someone had just made that had the audience completely in stitches? What was that joke? Who even was talking? Bea was seated off to the side, so there was no way for her to see which man was speaking without turning to look—which she was strictly forbidden from doing.
She could see the first few rows of the audience, though: rail-thin Influencers giggling unkindly, whispering to one another, pointing at the various men, typing fervently on their phones. Was Lauren crazy to think that women like this could ever be on Bea’s side? Was sisterhood really so universal, or would these girls rather die than, for even one second, identify with Bea—no matter how saccharinely they praised her body positivity online?
Bea wondered if these women saw her as alien.
If these men did.
If Ray did.
When that man walked out on her earlier, had Ray felt a pang of guilt for having done the same—twice—or was he relieved to know that someone else shared the impulse?
Bea had started the night feeling so beautiful, but the men had worked to change that. And now she saw herself through Ray’s eyes—not his treasure, but his shame. The audience was laughing again. She closed her eyes and waited for Johnny to take them to commercial.
Each episode of Main Squeeze concluded with a “kiss-off ceremony,” where Bea would send home the men in whom she was no longer interested. This season, it was being underwritten by a lipstick company called Lucky Lippies—meaning that Bea would be made to put on some preselected shade of lipstick, and after she announced the name of each man she intended to keep, he’d walk up to her, present his cheek, and she would kiss it, marking him for another week together. Bea thought the whole ordeal was tackier than pairing a slide sandal with a ball gown, but her agent had told her Lucky Lippies was on the hunt for a plus-size spokesmodel, so Bea wasn’t about to piss them off by objecting.
This was the biggest cut of the season: seven men gone in one fell swoop (including the one who’d left of his own accord—or Lauren’s). When Lauren approached Bea during the final commercial break of the night with her list of proposed men to cut, Bea told her she didn’t care who stayed—that Lauren could choose to cut anyone she wanted, anyone the producers thought didn’t look right on camera.
“Great!” Lauren handed the list over to Bea with a smile. “See? I told you this would be easy.”
“Sure.” Bea nodded. “Easy.”
Back onstage, the guys assembled on their risers, descending one by one as Bea read out the names of the men she’d “decided” to keep. She kissed their cheeks, breathed in the smell of whiskey and overdone cologne. When she called Luc’s name, he walked toward her deliberately, his eyes fixed on hers.
“Will you stay, Luc?” she asked him, just as she’d asked each of the men before.
“Of course I will stay. I will go anywhere you ask.”
When she kissed his cheek, she tasted salt and smelled something herbaceous, like soap and thyme. He put a hand on her waist, and she felt Ray pressed against her, his weight on top of her, his mouth hot on her skin. He was gone. This was nothing. Bea smiled for the camera and called out the next stranger’s name.