# Miscalculation



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Jun 8, 2016)

~BHM, ~~WG. _It doesn't do to forget about the pie.
_

*Miscalculation*

by Big Beautiful Dreamer​
I had never been so full in my life: not even close. I sat on the sofa, trying hard not to move because I was so stuffed that it hurt to move. Hell, it hurt to _breathe._ My belly felt as though it was swollen from my sternum down to my privates. I had wrestled my jeans undone and unzipped, but that hadn't been enough. I'd had to discreetly slide the waistband of my boxers down, reveling in the cool air on my aching and distended gut.

It was all down to a miscalculation, pure and simple.

I'd forgotten about dessert. Don't ask me how, I don't know. But I had, and so I had cheerfully stuffed myself to bursting with turkey, stuffing (the best part), sweet potato casserole (ditto), creamed shoepeg corn (yum!), corn muffins, green bean casserole, creamy mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, broccoli casserole, and several glassfuls of iced tea. 

Just as I was about to push my chair back and haul myself to my feet, Mom got up from the table. She came out of the kitchen with not one but two full-size pies.

"I made two," she said unnecessarily, "because I know how much Gerald loves my German chocolate pie."

I smiled automatically. Inwardly, I was thinking, _Oh, crap!_ I was going to have to accept and dispatch a large serving. I even managed to thank Mom as she handed me a plate bearing what looked like a quarter of a pie.

Which was why I was sprawled, glutted and gorged, on the sofa, half undressed, and with my belly bloated to the size of a soccer ball.

My sister dropped down beside me and I winced. The jolt to the sofa jostled my hugely distended stomach, which responded with a loud swooping gurgle of digestion.

Shelley raised her eyebrows and poked my tummy. Taut as a drumhead.

"Someone's got a full belly," she sang.

I opened my mouth to reply and belched. She smirked. I blushed.

"Stop it," I chided, swatting her hand away.

"How much pie did you eat, anyway?" she challenged. "Did you have two helpings?"

"Two helpings? No. No way," I said convincingly. It was true.

Unfortunately, my blush gave me away. We're of Welsh heritage, and the Welsh complexion comes in two settings: ruddy; or fine-grained, with the ruddiness just below the surface and ready to appear at the drop of a hat. Guess which I had?

"Then how many?"

My blush spread.

"Gerald! You didn't have three helpings, did you?"

I hiccupped.

Shelley smirked again. "I'll take that as an answer. Pig," she said lovingly and poked my swollen midriff.

Alan waddled in and sank into a recliner. His jeans were undone as well.

"Whew," he puffed, running a hand through his hair. "Urp."

"You helped Gerald get rid of that pie, didn't you?" Shelley asked.

Alan smiled sheepishly. "I think between us we killed off one whole pie."

"While the seven of us ate the other pie. You two! Honestly. You're both pigs"

I hiccupped again.

"Serves you right"; Shelley said, giving my belly a final poke before leaving the room.

We half-watched the Lions on television and half-dozed.

The next morning, I had an, ahem, epic session in the bathroom. My jeans were a hair snug, but I was sure I was fine.

Except that all my trousers continued to be a little snug even as Thanksgiving inched toward Christmas. Sometimes more than a little snug.

At Christmas, I was at risk even before sitting down, because my jeans were pinching me at the waist and crotch. Did I take care to eat only in moderation? Did I pass on big helpings of stuffing and sweet potatoes? Did I leave half my (first) slice of pie on my plate?

Is the Pope a Mormon?

Ha.

As before, I thudded onto the sofa. As before, undid my jeans and slid down my underwear. And as before, lay unmoving until the sharp stretched ache of a bloated and distended full belly finally eased enough that I risked going to bed.

With the turn of the calendar, the newspaper, magazines, and television were full of weight-loss ads. I avoided the gym because I knew for six or eight weeks, it would be full of New Year's Resolution types. I bided my time.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Jun 9, 2016)

Ironically, it was the day after Valentines Day that we met. I was passing through a drugstore aisle to the front with a box of Band-Aids and I noticed a sign reading, "Valentine's Day Candy - 75% off." Why not? I picked up several packages of Reese's hearts. For some reason, the seasonal shaped Reese's Cups always tasted a lot better than the regular ones.

"Oh, I like those too," a voice said. I glanced over. A woman a couple of inches shorter, with an hourglass figure. I did a double take.

"Sorry," I said, "You didn't happen to go to St. Olaf College, did you?"

"Actually, yeah," she said. "Sheila Janssen, class of 13." She held out her hand.

"Gerald Price, ditto," I said.

We stared at each other for a second.

"Oh, hey, there's a bakery down the market," I added belatedly.

Ten minutes later, we were at the bakery, each with a cup of coffee and a cupcake. Hers was dulce de leche with cinnamon icing, mine was red velvet with cream cheese icing.

"How come you never gave me a tumble in college?" I teased, after we'd covered jobs and family.

She blushed, a beautiful dusky rose. "You, um, you looked different in college."

"Different? No, I really didn't. Oh," as recognition dawned. "Oh. In college I wasn't fat."

She laughed. "You're not fat. You've got a cute little belly. I wouldn't call it _fat."_ She looked down for a couple of beats, then took a deep breath and looked at me again. "Although I could help you with that."

"With what, losing weight?"

"No, silly. With getting fat."

We talked for three hours. We walked back to our cars scarfing Reese's hearts. Sheila explained that she found 'cuddly men,' as she put it, very appealing and attractive. 

"I know it's countercultural," she said. "I don't care. I find men who are built like teddy bears to be warm, soft, welcoming, cuddly, and very, very sexy."

I sighed. "It's going to take me some time to get my head around this," I said. "But let's give going out a try, and I will not actively try to lose weight for a start. Okay?"

"Okay," she agreed. We parted with a kiss that made my knees go weak. I drove home by way of the drive-through and watched television while devouring two burgers, a large order of fries, and a large pop. I knew I wasn't going to eat like that every day, the stuff was terrible for you, but I wanted that full feeling I'd had at Christmas and Thanksgiving. Honestly, it felt good - glutted and warm, sleepy and satiated, my belly stretched and aching. It felt safe. And it made me think of Sheila.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Jun 10, 2016)

I don't know how much time passed while I stretched out on the sofa, lazily rubbing my belly. My stomach was stuffed full, a little uncomfortably full, to be honest. I coaxed up a belch or two. It felt strangely satisfying to be this full. Let's be real: I had never once experienced food insecurity. Food had always been available when I wanted it; I'd had a balanced diet while growing up; and on occasion there had been treats; cake or a candy bar, a Slurpee or a McDonald's ice cream cone. I wasn't filling some deep aching need by filling my gut, but at the same time, I was. I was meeting a need I hadn't even known I had until now. 

Starting hungry and eating and overeating felt good. As though I were the master of something. And it felt good to be not just satisfied but really full. Some evolutionary button was pushed; some proto-human ancestor felt safe, warm, and protected by my having consumed enough food to store up and stay fueled until the next mastodon was felled.

And now there was Sheila added to the mix. A girl I'd known but was meeting again for the first time. A girl who _liked_ the little holiday pudge that lapped over my belt. A girl who said she preferred big guys. A girl who wanted me to get bigger. Finally I jerked myself upright and managed to stumble dopily to the bedroom, strip, and fall into bed. As I dozed off, I resolved to eat healthily, but to eat more. Or, maybe I would just not consciously try to lose weight. Or something.

Breakfast was two egg-white, spinach, and feta wraps from Starbucks, along with a cold-brewed iced coffee. Yum. Midmorning, I had a couple of granola bars and another iced coffee. For lunch I had a club sandwich, together with a Greek salad, and added a piece of baklava. In the afternoon, I found it prudent to walk to other people's offices to deliver messages and questions rather than e-mail, so that I didn't fall asleep.

I stopped by the supermarket deli and got some takeout spaghetti, garlic bread, and a big green salad. I finished with a couple of oranges. See? Balanced, but bigger meals than I was used to having. And I would continue to go to the gym three days a week. Half an hour on the treadmill, half an hour on the weight machines.

Well, the spaghetti, garlic bread, salad and oranges filled me just right. I wasn't painfully stuffed, but I didn't want any more food.

Then came the knock on the door.

It was Sheila, blushing, and bearing a plate holding half a dozen big brownies.

I let her in, of course, and brewed some decaf. We talked. I filled her in on my plan: I would eat more, but make healthy choices; I would still go to the gym; and I would not at all try to lose weight. 

"I suspect," I said, "that if I follow this plan, over time my weight will creep up. Not too fast, but I'll keep being, well, teddy-bearish."

I had to say that twice, because the first time, my mouth was full of brownie. Rich, dark chocolate brownie with Hershey's syrup in the mix. Did I mention that it was my third? Sheila had one. She said the two remaining brownies would go well with my lunch tomorrow. Then she busied herself with packing up a good-looking sandwich on a Kaiser roll, a salad, and the brownies.

"You're hired," I said, embracing her from behind. "_Hic."_

She turned in my loose embrace. Without a moment of pause or trace of embarrassment, she gave me a quick, sweet kiss.

I hiccupped again and winced, pressing a hand to my sternum.

"I was just full enough," I said, "but now-_hic_-I'm stuffed. _Hic_!"

"Here, let me tend to that," Sheila said gently. She led me to the sofa. She undid my belt and trousers, then sat me down. I was sleepy and unprotesting as she unbuttoned my shirt, then tenderly massaged my belly. Her feather-light touch tickled over my now-taut midsection, relieving my immediate discomfort and making something else taut.

I dimly remember her kissing me again and letting herself out.

I woke up an hour later with a sore neck and stumbled to bed. This was becoming a habit.

_A lovely habit_, my inner voice prompted.

_Shut up_, I answered.


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## Zorgothe (Jun 11, 2016)

Awesome story!


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Jun 14, 2016)

It was surprisingly liberating, I was realizing, to eat what I wanted without feeling guilty. I'd been so conditioned to think, or say, "Oh, I shouldn't," or, "I'm being bad." I'd been subconsciously influenced by seeing impossibly buff superheroes on the screen and in magazines and on television: Ioan Gruffudd shirtless in that TV show, _Forever_, that Sheila liked. But at the same time, she wasn't urging me to look like the smoldering Welshman, she was making me deep-dish apple crumb pie and serving it up with vanilla bean ice cream, _yum._

At 5 foot 10, I had clocked in at 180 P.S. pre-Sheila. Now after some three months, the scale at the Y was telling me that I was up to 196. I had gone up a jeans size, and I was subliminally aware of the softening of my pecs and the increase in squishiness around my midsection. It was becoming habitual to want to let out my belt a notch after eating. Any concern I might have had about gaining weight were knocked out of my mind by the attention administered by my sweetie pie.

Sheila, enjoying the foreplay I gave her, reciprocated by cuddling, snuggling, and fondling my chest and belly. Smooching, squishing, and running her hands around my real estate, my slowly increasing real estate.

Of course, Sheila's enabling behavior was affecting her real estate as well. To my mild surprise, I was enjoying her expansion. Her generous breasts had become slightly rounder and fuller, and I quite enjoyed bobbling them, either in the hammock of her bra or _au naturel._ Her tummy had softened and become a little fuller and rosier, and her bottom was lushly ripe. The swoop and curves of her thighs and calves were frankly lyrical, and the increased softness of her face highlighted her large green eyes and cushioned lips. I was having the time of my life.

Memorial Day brought a family gathering at my folks' house in Edina. Dad's a retired accountant, and Mom is semi-retired, working at a florist's shop twice a week. Sheila was greeted warmly and welcomed into the family very matter-of-factly. Family, fun, and food was the order of the day, and I partook of all of the above.

It wasn't until late afternoon that anyone said anything. Dad, my brother and I were relaxing in the old-school webbing-and-aluminum lawn chairs under the shade of the huge old tree in the front yard, watching the kids play Frisbee. We were all stuffed to bursting with brats, chili, slaw, pickled beets, and countless chocolate-frosted bars kept cool in the cooler. Now we were nursing Leinenkugels and half-fighting the urge to doze.

"Can't move like that anymore," Dad grunted, watching my niece Michelle leap for the disc. He glanced over. "Not sure you can either, Gerald."

I raised my eyebrows. "Hmnmn?"

Dad jerked a thumb. "Put on a few, have ya, then?"

I blinked slowly and made a face. "Yup, I have." Pause, swallow, pause. "Sheila, Sheila likes me bigger."

"Oh, she does, huh?"

Alan spoke up. "I've actually seen some of that." Alan is a counselor.

"Some of what?" Dad asked.

"There are some folks who have a thing for, uh, plus-size partners," Alan said. "Sometimes one of them loses weight and it disrupts the relationship." He winked at me, fished in the cooler, tossed me a bar.

"Better not _disrupt the relationship_, pal."

I ate it very slowly. I was achingly full, so stuffed that it hurt to breathe. My belly felt as though it was tautly distended - I suspect that if I'd hauled my shirt up I would see a pale tight balloon - and I was dopy and a little queasy. I finished the bar, abandoned the beer, and lumbered into the house to get some rest in the air conditioning.

By the Fourth of July, I was over 200 pounds, in the neighborhood of 210 most days, and my belly was pudgy even on an empty stomach. A spare tire lapped over my waistband, and when I sat down it gained a twin. My pecs had developed into little moobs, maybe half an A cup. The sight of Sheila in a swimsuit, playing with my nieces, stiffened them but good. Rosy, creamy rolls of breast and belly, hip and thigh, made everything hard but my belly. Dear God, I loved her.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Jun 17, 2016)

A few weeks later, I woke up inexplicably early, and thought I would go for a walk in the woods. I drove the few miles to the state park nearby and started walking along the dirt trails, eager to enjoy the sunrise and the cool air and the birdsong. I went a few yards off the path to get a closer look at a nuthatch and _whoomp!_ One leg was up to my crotch in a hole and I was doing a split.

A gopher hole. Son of a -

I called 911 and described my problem and location. Fifteen minutes later, two EMTs were gently lifting me out. Gentle as they were, though, it hurt like nothing I'd ever known before. I managed to call Sheila and tell her they were taking me to St. John's Minneapolis. I started to call my parents, but by then the pain was blinding and the EMT took away my phone.

"Call parents," I mumbled.

It must have worked, because when I woke up, Sheila and my folks were by my bed. I was clearly on the good drugs, because no pain. But the news was less good. A very messy break indeed, a cast up to my hip, and at least a week in the hospital with my leg up in the air. 

Hospital food is better than it was, I guess, but still unappealing, and I just had no appetite. So that week pared ten pounds off me. 

"We'll build you up," said Sheila confidently, and moved herself into my apartment for my recovery period.

Sheila is a fabulous cook, but I was just not hungry. I couldn't make myself care about anything. Didn't want to go anywhere, do anything, watch anything, read anything, or eat anything. The Dispos-all in the sink got a workout as I scraped down it beef Stroganoff, chicken pot pie, lasagna, rosemary chicken, meat loaf.

My depression must have been airborne, because it was affecting Sheila too. She became quiet and irritable, snapping and bursting into tears at seemingly nothing.

After two weeks of this - and the loss of another ten pounds - she packed her bags.

"I'm sorry, Gerald," she said, her face pale with the aftermath of tears. "You're not the person I fell wildly in love with. I think we need a break."

Well. Damn.

Just like that, I was alone again, and nearly back to my starting weight.

I guessed that I might as well keep peeling it off until I got back to 180 or 175.

Suddenly my stomach growled hugely.


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## durapril (Jun 19, 2016)

I am so glad to see a new BBD story.


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## GordoNegro (Jun 19, 2016)

Enjoying the realism this story seems to convey.


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## growinluvhandles (Jun 20, 2016)

As always, you are an amazing writer. I never tire of reading your stories, BBD!


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## Zorgothe (Jun 23, 2016)

I can't wait to read more!


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Jun 24, 2016)

It's surprising - and depressing - what loneliness feels like. For several years, I'd been alone and perfectly happy. Now, having tasted several months of togetherness, being alone felt utterly unhappy. Like I would never be happy again. Cue the Dementors. 

You know how to get over a Dementor attack, right? Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Food became my pal, my comfort, my friend. I vaguely knew the theory about serotonin and carbs, but I didn't care. All I knew was that food was making me happy. 

My weight inched up. My folks were diplomatic enough not to mention that there was no reason to be fat in the absence of Sheila.

Brownies kept me company in the evening instead of cuddling. Snacks took the place of hand-holding at the movies. French fries replaced having someone to talk to at a meal in a restaurant.

My waistline mushroomed. The moobs returned. The spare tire came back and brought friends.

It was Halloween, and I was browsing the Reese's pumpkin-shaped chocolates, and there was Sheila.

"Hi," she stammered.

"Hi," I said coolly.

"You look great," she said, blushing.

I nodded. "Thanks."

"Could we talk?"

I sighed. I owed her that at least. But I was going to talk first.

"When I lost weight - and you left - that really hurt," I said. "It felt like you loved my fat, and not who I was. Real love should transcend appearances. Do you love me, or did you just consider me a carrier for my weight?"

Sheila looked down and studied her shoes for long seconds. "You've got a point," she admitted. "I thought I loved you. You, you. The person you were. And that the weight was like a bonus.

"When you started losing weight, and not having any appetite, it surprised the heck out of me that I found my feelings changing. It scared me and it made me sad.

"I thought I loved you. And it upset me that my feelings were depending so much on your appearance."

I cleared my throat. "Well. Thanks for being honest." I stood up.

"Wait!"

I sat back down and fixed her with a look.

"After I left, I did some hard thinking. I made a list," she said, and that made me smile. Sheila was a great one for list-making.

She pulled a piece of paper out of her bag. Sure enough, there was a list.

GERALD/GERALD'S BODY

On the left was a long list: Humor, intelligence, compassion, thoughtfulness, hard worker, spontaneous, flexible, aware, broad-minded.

On the right was another list: Warm, cuddly, comforting.

"I love you," Sheila said. "I love all those attributes I listed, no matter what the package looks like. Your body is just a bonus."

"It's gravy," I suggested. She laughed.

"Well, let's go out to eat to celebrate finding each other again," I said.

"You're not mad?"

"I was, but I'm over it."

"Dinner is my treat," Sheila said firmly.

We went to a Carl's Country Buffet.

"Theyre gonna regret this," Sheila said, her eyes dancing. I goosed her cushiony bottom, making her squeal.

Well.

Round one was Brussels sprouts, lima beans, corn, ribs, and a yeast roll.

Round two was a big salad topped with sesame seeds and a creamy vinaigrette, with some honeydew melon on the side.

Round three was fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn on the cob, and a baked sweet potato.

I was getting comfortably full. I drained my water and let out my belt a notch.

Eyed the buffet and settled for fruit, a yeast roll, and another couple of pieces of fried chicken.

Slowly drank off another glass of water, let my belt out another notch, and tackled the plate of watermelon Sheila brought back.

"Dessert?" Sheila suggested. I groaned and mopped my forehead.

"Dessert," I agreed.

Only amateurs use the little plates for dessert. We got clean dinner plates and continued.

Blackberry cobbler, red velvet cake, German chocolate cake, chess pie, pound cake with soft-serve ice cream, and two large brownies.

I savored each bite. Savored the swell of my aching belly. Savored the increasing shortness of breath. Savored looking at Sheila, the perspiration in the hollow of her throat, the flush on her round cheeks, the tightening of the fabric of her dress across her rosily rounded tummy. Imagined our bodies unclothed and in bed a short while hence.

Slowly, slowly, in a trance, I finished the last brownie. My stomach felt tautly distended, convexly arched from sternum to pelvis. I was puffing. Glutted and dopey, sated and sore, I could hardly move. I caught Sheila's eye. She looked dreamily half-asleep, her hand on the rounded balloon of her tummy.

"Sheila," I puffed. "If I could move, I would get down on one knee."

Sheila smiled, started to laugh, then clutched her bloated midriff. "Ooh."

"Will you - _urrrp -_ marry me?"

Sheila grinned. "_Hic!_ Yes. _Hic."_

"And no wedding cake," she added, wagging a forefinger. "Pie."


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## fatmac (Jun 24, 2016)

Just like the last bite of a brownie. Great chapter


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