Page 92 of Big Dick Energy

“Ouch.”

She grinned. “Just wait until you see the comments section.”

The countdown began. Abby's voice filled the studio: “Three... two...”

The ON AIR sign I'd been looking for earlier? Turns out it was right above the door, and it lit up in brilliant purple instead of red.

Davina transformed.

It wasn't dramatic, no physical change, no obvious shift in posture. But her energy expanded, became magnetic as she took a deep breath and looked into camera one.

“Hey, babes. Welcome back to Big Girl Panties, the podcast where we talk about everything they told us good girls shouldn't discuss, especially if those girls don't fit into sample sizes.” Her voice was warm, intimate, as if she were talking to a friend over coffee rather than broadcasting to hundreds of thousands of listeners. “I'm your host, Davina Lawson-Dodger…”

Lawson-Dodger. She'd hyphenated. My heart swelled in my chest. There was something about hearing my name attached to hers.

“…and if you've been anywhere near the internet in the last week, you probably already know why I added that last part.” She turned to me, and the smile that curved her lips was genuine. “Babes, meet my husband. Dallas Dodger. Yes, that Dallas Dodger. No, I haven't lost my mind. Well, maybe a little.”

“Maybe a lot,” I offered.

“He speaks!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I was worried he'd just sit there looking pretty.”

“I can do both. Multitasking.”

A notification chimed, and Davina glanced at the monitor beside her. Her eyebrows rose.

“Alright, first listener question coming in hot from SarahLovesSushi. She wants to know…” Davina paused, reading. “Is it true you dump every woman before her twenty-third birthday?”

I laughed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Okay, that one's making the rounds, huh?”

“Apparently, you have a reputation.”

“I have a lot of reputations. Most of them exaggerated.” I faced the camera. “Sarah, here's the honest answer: I dated casually for a long time. A lot of those relationships ended because I was on the road three hundred days a year and had the emotional availability of a brick wall. The age thing is a coincidence, not a policy. I wasn't dumping women at twenty-three.”

“And now?”

“Now I married a woman who's smarter than me, more successful than me, and refuses to put up with my nonsense.” I shrugged. “Growth.”

Davina's monitor chimed again.

“Next question from MelanieInMiami: For Dallas—we've all seen you with those tiny model types. Do you have a type?”

My chest tightened uncomfortably. The phrasing of the question bothered me, and I couldn't fully explain why. It was like Davina was somehow separate from every woman I'd been with before. Less than, or different in a way that needed explaining.

“The entertainment industry has a type it pushes, and I went along with it because it was easy. Because I was performing a version of myself that came with certain expectations. The flashy cars, lifestyle, and girlfriends were all part of the show.” I paused, choosing my words. “Davina isn't part of any show. She's the first person who made me want to stop performing.”

“Smooth,” Davina said, but her voice was softer than before.

“I'm just getting started.”

Another chime, and Davina checked the monitor. “Okay,” she said, her professional tone firmly in place. “CurvyKatie asks: Davina, you've always been so confident on the show. How do you handle all the hate comments about your weight? Do you read them?”

“Honestly? I don't.” Davina's voice was steady. “I made that decision early on, when I started plus-size modeling. My mental health isn't worth satisfying some stranger's need to tell me I'd be prettier if I lost fifty pounds. I know we get them. You can't be a plus-size woman with any kind of platform without knowing. But knowing they exist and letting them into my head are two different things.” She straightened in her chair. “I built my brand for women who've spent their whole lives being told they're too much. Too loud, too fat, too opinionated. I'm not going to let anonymous accounts undo that work.”

“So you never read the hate…” I asked curiously.

“Never.” Her smile was sharp. “Abby filters everything. She sends me the love, deletes the garbage, and occasionally reads me the really creative insults so we can laugh at them together.”

“It's true,” Abby's voice came through the speakers. “Someone once wrote a full poem about how Davina was destroying America's perception of beauty. It rhymed and everything.”