Back to our first date: I ultimately caved and agreed to relocate to Kit’s apartment, but I vowed to keep sex off the table for now. I needed to delay introducing Kit to my childhood alter ego—“Fat Mike”—as long as possible. I was convinced that if he were to find out too soon that hiding under my comfortably fitting clothes were pockets of loose skin and rows of faded-but-still-noticeable stretch marks—a by-product of my supersized teenage years—he would promptly run in the other direction. Best to leave Kit thinking there was a Marky Mark–caliber six-pack waiting for him underneath my disco
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