# Journey from Anorexia



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Mar 27, 2006)

A response to positive feedback given on the "Is this too weird a story idea?" post. Enjoy!

This is not a typical WG story. There is not as much description of food, WG or eating in it as I usually have, and most of the story is in flashback. The protagonist is a BHM who was once an anorexic. Men can and do get anorexia, and a lot of what follows is based on what Ive read about it, including some first-person accounts. I am grateful to those who had the courage to post them.
My intent is not to minimize or criticize eating disorders. Instead, I found myself exploring Chips journey into BHM-hood from an emotional standpoint as much as a physical one. There is some (I hope) good description in here, and I hope you enjoy reading this long story as much as I enjoyed writing it. BBD.

Francine watched Chip as he napped peacefully on the porch of their time-share cottage on Marthas Vineyard, smiling, as always, at the sight of his prominent belly. Gleaming with sunblock, it lay round and bright in the afternoon sun, the sides of his thin guyabera, unbuttoned, falling to either side like curtains framing an art masterpiece. His soft, plump face, slackening to his double chin, was relaxed. Chip was a much happier  and larger  guy than the fretful, furtive, tormented law student she had first encountered in their study group.

It was only after she had gradually won his trust that she learned why he had never kissed a girl, much less gone on an actual date. She closed her eyes, remembering the first time theyd gotten together after a study group session in summer school between their first and second years. Shed invited him for coffee. Blushing furiously, hed accepted and theyd strolled across campus to the coffee shop.

He acted as though hed never been on a date, so she jokingly said, First date, huh?

Hed stared down at the floor. After an eternity he looked up. Yes.

I meant, first date in law school.

The floor again. No, he said to his shoes. First date  ever. He kept staring at the floor. Finally, he looked up. His face was stone blank.

Francine laid a hand on his arm. That silent gesture seemed to undo him. Over a very long session, starting in the coffee shop and ending in her apartment, he told her his story.

In elementary school, hed been chubby; in junior high school, just plain fat, he told Francine. I was 5 feet 3 and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. I swear I was wider than I was tall. When I was 14, my parents moved us from Greenwich to the Chestnut Hill section of Boston. The day I found out we were moving was the first day I heard my father call me son. He laid his hand on my shoulder and put a copy of the Atkins diet book in my hand and said, Son, this may be your chance to start over. You know  its who you know as much as how hard you work that gets you ahead in this world. 

Francine stared. Wow.

That summer, as my parents got ready to move, I studied that book cover to cover. I cut out bread, rice, starchy vegetables, fruit, salad dressing, anything that might have carbs in it. I started eating nothing but a chicken breast three times a day, then two times a day. I started jogging. At first I could barely go a block. But I kept going. By the time we moved, I was an inch taller and 75 pounds thinner. I ate half a chicken breast once a day and worked out for four hours a day. 

That August, when I started high school in Boston, I was sure Id be popular. Instead  I was the new kid and, instead of being a real fatty, I was the smallest kid in school! Wrong again.

What did you do then?

I swore Id get even with everyone who called me Squirt,  Chip said. If I couldnt be tallest or strongest or handsomest or smartest, I would be thinnest. I stole my sisters magazines and tore out the pictures of male models. I figured once I was thinner than all of them, Id be best at losing weight.

The effort was not without its price. His heart was always racing and he could never get warm enough. His urine stank, and he couldnt stay awake. It was harder and harder to concentrate. His grades sank. To his embarrassment, he had to go to summer school the year after 10th grade.

In college, hed been on the wrestling team. His parents had insisted that all three of their children participate in collegiate sports, and at 56 and 125 pounds, Chip had only a choice of crew or wrestling. Wrestling didnt involve icy predawn workouts.  Make weight was about all the coach ever said to us, he said. Some of the guys started throwing up to make weight. I thought that was sick. Then one morning before a meet, I had to lose a pound or I couldnt wrestle. So  I made myself barf.

Francine was horrified but also enthralled. What happened?

I made it through college at 125, even though I grew four inches, he said. I would drink a lot of water and eat maybe a bagel and cream cheese once a day. I was in a study group with a girl who kept yakking about how in shape I was and how handsome she thought I was. Emily Colbert. He sighed. I could never work up the courage to ask me out. Besides, she had a boyfriend.

Then Chip said: Do you remember, in April, I kind of dropped out for a while?

Francine frowned. Yeah. I heard you had mono or something. I remember you fainted in class.

It wasnt mono, Chip said. He sighed again. It was anorexia.

What? Francine couldnt help exclaiming.

I know, Chip said ruefully. Anorexia is for teen-age cheerleaders, right?

Well  well  Francine was flustered. 

Its OK, Chip said. Ive had a LOT of therapy to deal with this, he smiled.

Over Christmas break that first year here, I worked up the nerve and made a date with Emily. It didnt go well. She took one look and said, Oh, my. Law schools made somebody a chubby Chip. She poked me in the stomach. Then she suddenly remembered that she had to be somewhere else.

Chip had closed his eyes, remembering that second semester. Taking Emilys words to heart, hed returned to the skimpy eating habits of his college wrestling days. It wasnt working! The scale stayed stuck at 150, and all he could see when he looked in the mirror was flab. His flat stomach seemed huge, monstrous, a whale-size belly. His sharply defined hips taunted him, seeming to bulge with flab. He turned his face this way and that, coaxing up a nonexistent second chin. Now 5 feet 10, he was absolutely normal  ideal  by medical standards, but all he saw was Chubby Chip growing more obese by the day.

That was when he stopped eating. He would drink water and pop to keep himself going, but if it was food, it didnt go in. He remembered having to poke pizza around his plate, to claim not to be hungry. He dove into his books as an excuse not to eat. His weight dived, the scale finally going in the right direction. 140. 130. 120. His ribs protruded, his belly curved inward, forming an increasingly deep bowl. Shoulder blades and hip bones jutted. But whenever Chip looked in the mirror, he saw flab hanging from his chin, gut, behind. Once he went to bed in tears at how fat he was and cried himself to sleep.

The day he got to two figures, 99, he spent an hour in front of the mirror, wondering how he would look at 90. He went to bed and lay awake all night, running his hands down his prominent rib cage, concave belly, bony hips.

He never got there. The next day, hed stood to answer a question and fainted. He woke up in the hospital, his parents huddled by his bed. Chip, his father said, What are you doing to yourself? His mother started to cry. Stiffly, his reserved father managed to say, Son, we  care  about you. We dont want you to put yourself under this kind of pressure.

Francine frowned herself, hearing Chip recount the story. Did your parents care about your health?

Chip sighed. I think they cared more about the image problem of having a son with anorexia. It was very much hushed up. The story theyd put out was that I was taking a break from law school.

So thats why youre in summer school.

Right. Chip made a face, making Francine laugh. The professors gave me Incompletes on the condition that I do summer school.

But  are you 

Cured? Chip raised an eyebrow and wiggled it comically. How could he laugh about this, Francine wondered.

After two weeks, I started eating again. It wasnt easy. The first time I ate something, it was the first solid food Id had in four months. I ate four bites of chicken and a forkful of green beans and I felt like Id swallowed a basketball.

Repelled, hed pushed the table aside and tossed back the thin blanket. His shrunken stomach was now huge! Bloated and swollen, it made a spherical distortion under his hospital gown. What had he done? He was huge  fat  he could feel himself swelling. Stiffly, he got out of bed, intending to go throw up.

As if on guard duty, the nurse came in. Where are you going? Her tone was just sharp enough so that Chip knew they were watching him. They were all watching him  whispering at the nurses station about the fatty in Room 308 

Bathroom, Chip mumbled. The nurse helped him to the toilet, then turned her back but left the door open. Cripes. Thwarted, Chip used the toilet, then went back to bed.

Chip, Francine said softly. Her blue eyes were brimming with tears. She shook her head. What happened after that?

I kept talking to the psychiatrist. He helped me realize that I wasnt that huge. We talked  sometimes hed show me pictures and ask me to tell him if the person was fat. Then hed tell me what they weighed. It was always more than me.

How long were you in the hospital?

A month, Chip said. I got from 99 up to 105, and they said I could go home but come back as an outpatient to see the guy. Im still going there. A slight defensive edge entered his voice. Hes good.

Does he stroke his beard?

No, Chip laughed. He strokes  nevermind! They both laughed. After such a grim tale it felt good to laugh.

So now what? I mean, health-wise.

Im up to 125. People dont stare so much anymore. I used to think they were staring because I was so fat.

Yeah, fat chance, Francine blurted, then clapped her hand over her mouth. A giggle sneaked out, and Chip was laughing too.

Hey, Chip said urgently. The story Im still giving out is that it was mono. Youre the only friend who knows. Dont spill, okay?

Not a chance, Francine assured him. Hey  want to call in for some Chinese?

Okay, Chip said. 

Do you  like Chinese?

Yeah, theyre great on toast, Chip quipped. Seriously. I do like Chinese. Anyway. I eat, now. The doctor wants me to get back up to 150. Were sort of negotiating. It just seems like so much. 

I think youd look good at 150. I mean  you look good now  Francine blushed.

Chip put his head on one side, then leaned in. She leaned in. They kissed, quickly and genteelly. 

The summer sessions went by quickly with the two of them keeping company. By August, Chip was up to 135. Something about 140, though was creating a psychological barrier.

Throughout October, Chip hovered at 139. Twice Francine heard him in the bathroom making strange noises. She didnt want to press, but after it happened a third time, she was waiting on the sofa when he came back into her living room.

Chip. Are you  throwing up again?

No! Chips face darkened. He looked as though hed just been sick, though, so  Please, tell me the truth. I want to help you.

You do not. None of you want to help me. You just want me to be fat. Well, I wont! Chip grabbed his coat and bookbag and slammed out of the apartment. Hed cut class the next day and Francine went by his apartment to bring him her notes.

He recognized her knock. Go away. But the door was unlocked. Francine entered gingerly and found Chip in pajamas, hunched up on his futon.

Sorry, he mumbled. Francine sat down behind him and stroked his hair. I just feel so fat. People are staring again.

Whos staring?

In class  on the street  everyone. He stood up and slapped his stomach. Still thin everywhere else, he had, typically for anorexics, regained weight first in his stomach. The effect, of course, was that his belly appeared distended in proportion to the rest of him. It was beginning to even out; his arms, legs and face were less skeletal. But his abdomen was still the biggest part of him. Naturally, it made him upset and self-conscious.

Francine tugged him back down. Chip, she said softly. Do you think your body is supposed to be perfect?


----------



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Mar 27, 2006)

Sure. He looked puzzled. Of course.

What if someones body is not perfect?

Well, then, they can do better.

Is being hospitalized better? Francine was groping here, having no idea what the right thing was to say. Um. Um. How many appointments with the psychiatrist have you missed?

There! Shed hit on something. Two, Chip admitted.

Call his office, now, Francine said firmly. She stood and pulled him up, propelling him toward the phone.

Chip made the call. Hanging up, he turned to Francine. Hes had a cancellation. He wants to see me.

Ill walk you to his office, Francine said. She didnt want him skipping out.

Once at the building, though, Chip froze. Were late.

Chip! How can we be late? He just said Come see me now, right?

But its ten after. The sessions start on the hour.

Okay, um, then well go see him and apologize for being late.

No! I dont want him thinking Im a bad person.

Francine opened the door and pushed him into the lobby. In silence they rode up on the elevator. Chip, feeling defeated, went into the office.

When he came out, Francine was in the waiting room.

Im starved, Chip said, trying to sound casual. Lets get something to eat.

* * *​
A bird chirped loudly nearby and Chip stirred. The sun had gone behind a cloud. Francine leaned over and stroked her husbands hair, then his round, gleaming tummy. Chip subsided back into sleep.

* * *​
The problems Chip had faced in passing 139 had ebbed, and hed made it to 140, then 150. At 150, hed had a real relapse, worse than before, probably because it was at 150 that Emily Colbert had called him chubby.

He became evasive, standing Francine up, avoiding food-related dates, choosing venues like museums and even clothes shopping where food was not allowed. He would claim not to have time for breakfast, and he overslept several times, missing class. Francine could tell he was losing weight. From 150, he slid back to 140. Theyd had a huge fight the night he threw a just-delivered pizza out the window of her apartment and stormed out. That was just before Christmas break.

For three weeks, he didnt call Francine, see her, write to her. But when he came back from break, he showed up at her apartment with a dozen roses, and he looked better.

I missed you, he said. Then, Im up to 144. It was a rough Christmas, but I  his voice caught. I want to be better.

Ill help, Francine said, holding him in her arms.

By the end of their second year, Chip had made it past 150. Over the summer, they both enrolled in summer school so they could be together. Their third year flew by. Under his graduation gown, the 510 Chip weighed 165. He looked great. Tanned. Healthy. Smiling hugely as he collected his law degree. Chip and Francine were married that evening in the university chapel and Francine was sure that all would be well.

Then they returned from their honeymoon. That first morning in their new home, Francine Franklin woke up to hear muffled cursing from the bathroom.

Chip? Whats wrong, honey?

Hed burst out of the bathroom holding his stomach, creating a roll of fat where there was none. Im huge. Im a balloon. I gained six pounds on that damned honeymoon.

Francine bit her tongue, wanting not to say the wrong thing. That must be  a little frustrating.

Im huge. Nothing will fit. I cant go to work looking like this.

Well, lets see, Francine sensibly replied, going to the closet. The pants of his good navy suit were just a trifle snug, but not at all bad. There. Now look in the mirror. What do you see?

Chip took his scowling self to the bathroom mirror. I see 
his face softened. "I look okay  I guess  I see a guy with a wife who loves him no matter what?

Thats right. Francine kissed him. Go get em, tiger.

When Chip returned home, the first thing he said to Francine was, No one said anything about how fat I was.

Charles Frazier Franklin the third, Francine scolded. I dont believe you. You are a man with a future. Youve got a wife, a law degree, and a great job right out of the box. You are healthy and handsome and fabulous. Stop this right now. 

She slid around behind him and slipped her hands under his suit coat and around his waist, which was only slightly soft. How many times do I have to tell you. I love you, not just your packaging. 

As their first year as husband and wife unfolded, Chip gradually relaxed. Love, a good job, and growing self-confidence made him less worried about his weight. He saw the psychiatrist only once a month now, and often went days, sometimes a week or more, without stepping on the scale. 

Like many married men, however, loving care in the kitchen put a few pounds on his frame, and there came a morning when his pants wouldnt fasten.

Look at this. Chip was on the verge of tears. 

Here. Francine stepped up. Suck in. There. She fastened the hook and got the zipper up. Chip exhaled. A modest spare tire squeezed out over the waistband.

Look at this, he repeated. Ive become fat. When did this happen? Crap  Ive got to do something. No breakfast for me today, he said firmly. And Im going for a run when I get home tonight.

He skipped breakfast and lunch, but hed gotten unused to starving himself and it made him lightheaded and cranky. He had a monster headache by early afternoon and could do no more than shuffle papers uselessly until it was time to leave.

Francine had supper waiting for him, meatloaf and mashed potatoes and string beans and hot rolls. Comfort food, reminding him that food was not the enemy.

Chip attacked his plate.

You didnt eat lunch, either, did you? Francine asked.

Chip looked up guiltily. No, he said with his mouth full.

You know what Dr. Saunders says about skipping meals.

I know. Chip closed his eyes. I went kind of nuts this morning. Sorry. I wont skip again, he vowed.

Francine looked across the table, her eyes shining with compassion and love.

Spurred by a fierce hunger, guilt, and exhaustion, Chip killed two heaping platefuls of dinner in record time, making no protest when Francine set a large wedge of apple pie and ice cream before him. Afterward, however, as he pushed back his chair and prepared to stand, his gut clutched. Unused to such a mountain of food, his stomach hurt. Recovering himself, he stood and staggered into the living room, collapsing in his favorite leather chair and reclining it with a grunt of effort. 

Francine perched on the broad arm and slowly and sensuously unbuttoned his shirt, loosened his tie, and began gently massaging his aching belly. Chip groaned. Oh  dont stop  that feels so good, he said. Ate (urp) too much (urp). His eyelids fluttered. Sated, dopey, stoned on meatloaf, he sleepily raised a hand and stroked her hair. Dont  want to (hic!) get fat again.

Honey, Francine murmured. Dont worry her voice trailed off. Chip was snoring.

Some time later, the room dark, he awoke and stumbled into bed, where Francine slept peacefully.

The next morning, Francine had a modest but good breakfast waiting for him: half a grapefruit, a toasted bagel, one slice of turkey bacon, coffee, orange juice.

Ahhhh, Chip exhaled his satisfaction, downing half the juice in one gulp. Just right. I need to eat  just not too much. He patted his belly, deflated after the previous nights gorge. My pants are getting too tight. He ate half the bagel and all of the grapefruit, leaving the bacon alone. Need to cut back.

But not stop eating altogether, Francine cautioned. Listen, you need a new suit anyway. Youre an up and coming new lawyer. And your wife is too!

Only then did Chip notice that she was dressed for the office. She beamed. Slater and Sloanes newest associate! she crowed.

Chip jumped up and smacked her on the cheek. Hey! You little secret keeper, he teased. Ill make reservations at Legal Seafood.

Chip strode into the offices of Slater and Sloane at 7 sharp that evening. Here for my wife, he proudly told the receptionist. Francine Franklin. Shes a lawyer here. The bored receptionist, unmoved, buzzed Francine.

At Legal Seafood, Francine said, On Saturday, I want us to go shopping. We both could use new clothes.

Okay, Chip agreed. He drained his first martini quickly, feeding Francine the olive. They both ate heartily that night, cleaning their plates of the huge portions and sharing a gargantuan dessert.

On Saturday, Francine took charge. Chip was dismayed at the number the tape measure showed for his waistline, but Francine whispered, Trust me. When youre a big guy, you stand out and you make a big impression. Youll be partner before you know it. Chip bit his lip, remembering being called Chocolate Chip in school and the painful chafing of his thighs and red mark of his jeans when he was fat. But Francine was rubbing his back and tracing it with her fingers and making him stiffen and food was not the enemy and how soon could they get out of here and home to bed?

The senior partner at Chips law firm was about Chips height and close to 300 pounds. As Chip developed a pot belly that turned into a paunch, he found Mr. Markham paying more attention to him and assigning him more interesting cases. One afternoon, four years after hed joined the firm, Mr. Markham invited him to lunch. Chip took his example from his boss and cleaned his plate. Over dessert, Mr. Markham said, Franklin, high time you were made a partner.

Chips heart skipped a beat. He must have heard wrong. Junior associates in Boston firms were never made partner after four years. More like 10 or 12. 

Sir?

Time you were made a partner, Mr. Markham repeated. You work hard and youre a good lawyer. And I want a big man on board, someone with a commanding presence in court. Like me, he said, patting his rotund stomach for emphasis. Dont disappoint me, son. Im taking a risk here. Show me that you can measure up.

Thats what he said, Chip told Francine. Show me that you can measure up.

Francine put her hand to her mouth. Does he mean?

He patted his stomach. He means that if Im to be kept on as a partner I need to be a big man like him, I guess, Chip said dubiously. It seemed pretty clear to me.

Francine sighed. Chip  are you okay with this? I mean

I know, I know, Chip said, wrinkling his brow. I know. But this isnt high school. I think I can gain some weight.

Well, then, Francine said. Lets go out and get some DINNER. 

Chip never forgot that night. Instead of one of their favorite restaurants, they went into the suburbs and found an all you can eat buffet. Francine filled his plate and Chip emptied it  many times. Dimly, from years earlier, came the memory of being stuffed and the remembered satisfaction of eating himself into a stupor. His belly stretched, his waistband dug into his bulging stomach, it became hard to breathe. His face gleamed with sweat and he gulped ice water to cool down, enjoying the sensation of the cold liquid sliding into his packed gut and sloshing over the mountain of food inside.

As he flagged, Francine moved her chair over and discreetly massaged his bloated belly. Chip realized that he was getting aroused. This was a new sensation; hed probably been a little too young for this feeling when he was fat as a child. But now, his tummy overloaded, his abdomen aching and taut, he felt also an unmistakable stirring in his privates. Francines hand moved south. Yikes! He was about to ruin a good pair of pants.

Lets get out of here, he murmured. Immediately, Francine helped him up. Too full to straighten up, his stuffed belly weighing him down, he stumbled toward the car.

Ill drive, Francine said. They were scarcely in the driveway before they were tumbling out of the car in haste, fumbling with the front door lock, undressing as they went. Collapsing onto the bed, they dove into each other with primal ferocity, groping, petting, grabbing, moaning, coupling fiercely and urgently. Chip had never before made love on such a full stomach, and he was delighted with how it felt. Packed to capacity, his belly sloshed and groaned, straining his skin as Francine rode him like a rodeo cowboy. They soared to orgasm, peaking together with a simultaneous yowl of joy, subsiding gradually, then lying, drained, empty, soaked with sweat in the tangled sheets.

Francine snuggled her head on his damp chest. That  was  fabulous, she panted.

Yuh, Chip agreed, incapable of speech. Panting, he gazed at the ceiling.

Francine tentatively traced a finger down Chips slick balloon of a belly, still full of dinner. Chip  um  do you think  you could stand being a  bigger guy? You know what Mr. Markham said. And, she took a deep breath. I think  I think I like you  bigger.

Chip was half asleep by this time, but his body seemed to feel the same way that hers did, for he hardened again. Okay, he murmured. Taking her hand, he pulled it toward his privates, silently showing her what was going on. With a little groan of pleasure, she languidly mounted him. Their second ride was in slow motion, sensual, dreamlike, hugely fulfilling. Finished, they slept knotted together, his arm draped over her, her hand squished between her body and his, resting on his belly.


----------



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Mar 27, 2006)

The next year was remarkable. Chip ate heartily, quickly developing a handsome gut. He wore his hair short but slightly tousled, and made quite a picture. His patrician jawline softened and a spare tire flabbed around his waistband. As his waistline thickened and his backside widened, he was moved into increasingly more spacious offices. Markham, Merrill and Wentworth was now Markham, Merrill, Wentworth and Franklin. Newspapers started referring to him as Charles Chip Franklin III, a bear of a litigator. 

Francine considered it her personal mission to make sure that Chip was happy being a big guy. Knowing his difficult relationship with his body in the past, she praised his size, stroked and fondled his growing midsection, and gave him a fabulous time in bed. The feeling was mutual: making love to a big handsome man was eminently satisfying.

They bought a time share on Marthas Vineyard. They began vacationing in Europe. Francine, having put in ten good years as a lawyer, quit to go to cooking school. And Chip, now happily reconciled to being a big guy, made eating a positive hobby instead of just something to do.

Devouring Francines professional-quality meals, supplemented with good dinners out, he became a growing boy. His waistline thickened seemingly by the month and his pecs softened and spread. His belly protruded impressively outward before sagging over his softened hips and covering his privates. His thighs circumference grew and his backside widened and softened, becoming acreage instead of just something to hold up his pants. His arms thickened and his hands softened; knees and elbows dimpled. Two chins became two and a half, settling at not quite three. His cheeks hung like apples, swelling when he smiled at a jury before delivering a devastating punchline. Big Chip Franklin, awed opponents called him. 

Then he ran for attorney general. His opponent, a former college basketball player who had remained slim and muscular, at first attacked Chips weight. There was little in his record to attack.

Mis-ter Frank-lin, Alistair Fabrizio drawled, is clearly sloppy, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. I shudder to think of the fate of the commonwealth in the hands of someone so clearly lacking in control.

The first time he heard the attack, Chip had paled onstage, grabbing the lectern for support. It wasnt a good first response, he knew. Did Fabrizio know about his past? If not, the whole world was about to, because Chip was going to grab the bull by the horns.

Chip took a deep breath, glancing at Francine in the first row. Im a big guy, he said, managing a replica of the winning smile that had swayed many juries. As Mr. Fabrizio has so charmingly said. Laughter. And like many of you, Ive struggled with my weight all my life.

He paused. What my opponent likely doesnt know is that I was once an anorexic. He heard a murmur ripple through the crowd. Hard to believe, I know. I dont look like it, do I? He grinned, giving the audience tacit permission to laugh, which they did, a little weakly and uncertainly. I was a fat kid and developed an eating disorder in high school. In law school, it got so bad that I had to be hospitalized for it. It took me a long time to get over it. Pause. Dont you agree that Ive more than succeeded?

Cheers. Applause. Whistles. Chip had made a winning argument and connected with the crowd.

I would say simply that one who has lived with adversity and struggle in his private life  and successfully overcome his own demons  is the one who can understand all angles of the justice system and the many facets of it that affect our citizens daily lives, Chip said loudly and firmly. Ive not had everything handed to me. Ive had struggles that many people cant even imagine. And like you, I know how to be stronger that that which would bring me down.

That brought on a five-minute standing ovation. When Fabrizio finally got a chance to speak, he said uncomfortably, As my opponent suggested, I of course was unaware that he had struggled with an eating disorder. I apologize. He nodded curtly in Chips direction, aware that hed made a mistake.

He never mentioned Chips weight again, but his campaign was jolted off the tracks and didnt recover. Chip won the election with 53% of the vote, not a mandate but a win, anyway. His smiling, plump face beamed in his official portrait. He won a second term, then a third. Secure in himself, he topped out at 265 pounds, exactly 100 pounds over what hed weighed on graduating from law school. 

He and Francine agreed that the third term would be his last. He was ready to retire and spend more time at the beach. 

]* * *​ 
The same bird was back. This time its chirping was insistent and prolonged. Chip stirred, ran a soft, plump hand over his face and stiffly propped himself up on his elbows. Time sit? he mumbled, blinking. 

Almost five. You were asleep more than an hour. Francine rose and patted his gloriously round belly. Let me bring you a drink. Im going to start on dinner.

Chips eyes brightened. Whats for dinner?

Fettucine alfredo, Francine said, with crab, shrimp, peas, broccoli and carrots. Then a chocolate mousse for dessert.

Chip sat all the way up and stretched, the movement thrusting his prodigious gut farther outward. He patted it, reveling in the drumlike thump. Good. Im starved.

Then after dinner, Francine said. Instead of completing her sentence, she started at his throat and slid her hand downward. Over his soft, flaccid pecs, down and out, gliding over his sunblock-slicked belly, down the tight elastic waistband of his trunks.

How soon, Chip murmured, can dinner be ready?

(the end)


----------



## zonker (Mar 27, 2006)

Great story! Very sexy and appetite-inducing! As a BHM who's getting H-ier, I've got to say this story is a great inspiration....And that last section really made me hungry, oohhhh!:eat2: :eat2: 

:eat1: :eat1: :eat1:


----------

