# High School Redux



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 4, 2012)

~BHM, ~~WG, Romance. _She didn't give him the time of day in high school, and he was too busy trying to blend in to notice. What happens now that they're all grown up?_

*High School Redux*​*by Big Beautiful Dreamer​*
The minute I walked into the country club I knew Id made a mistake.

Twenty years ago, I had been an average shlub who had survived the pitiless jungle of high school the way all smaller and weaker animals do: with effective camouflage and the ability to freeze and blend in.

Now I was 38, still an average shlub, only instead of being 5 foot 7 and 150 pounds, I was 5 foot 10 and 200 pounds: twenty years older and fifty pounds heavier, with chubby cheeks, a wobbly chin, and a paunch that pouched out over gabardine trousers. And if that werent enough, add one dead marriage and one boring-ass job. I was about to turn right back around and leave.

Ryan?

Crap, Id been spotted. Reluctantly I turned. Squinted at the name tag. 

Uh  Tiffany?

Tiffany Keeler, formerly Tiffany Richardson, grinned, and I recognized her then. She had always had a gorgeous smile, huge and genuine and frequent.

She said, You look great! She sounded a little awed, which was off-key, but maybe shed been drinking. 

Tiffany Richardson had been average like me in high school, only instead of depending on stealth and camouflage to get through, she bounced along as though life was excellent, thanks. Her looks were okay but not hot; she was in the Book Club and the Latin Club; she rode an old-school Raleigh bicycle and worked at the drugstore on weekends.

She was waving her hand in front of my face.

I said, Would you like to go outside and talk?

Now: Whats wrong? she asked, as soon as we sat down on a bench flanked by low shrubs.

Wrong? Nothing

She laughed, her nose crinkling. Her dark hair was a cap framing her heart-shaped face, the cut an improvement, I thought on the Dorothy Hamill wedge shed worn in school, but then, in our junior year Id gotten a _perm_.

Word of advice? Dont play poker, buddy. She clapped a hand on my shoulder, lowered her head, and lifted her eyes to meet mine.

Tell me the truth, please. What are you thinking right now?

I swallowed hard. I would get out of this mess, then leave. Quickly. 

That you didnt used to be malicious. Id hoped to sting her, but her face and eyes registered no change.

You feel that Im being malicious, she said.

I dont think its very funny for you to pretend that you think I look good, that youre attracted to me.

But you do. And I am, she said. She leaned in, and now her eyebrows were furrowed and her dark eyes wide.

I laughed shortly. Where were you twenty years ago?

Tiffany shrugged. Twenty years ago you werent that good-looking.

I kissed her, hard, taking both of us by surprise.

Neither were you, I said, when we came up for air.



I was never a Tiffany, she said. By now it was after 11 oclock, and we were ambling along the cart paths of the golf course. Tiffany had her high-heeled sandals off, dangling by the straps from an index finger.

So when I left for college, I started going by my middle name, Megan.

I nodded absently and returned to the question I still hadnt gotten answered to my satisfaction.

How. Can. You. Find. Me. Attractive, I asked for the fifth or sixth time, chopping the air with my hands.

How does anybody explain what appeals, what attracts, why does one person find Robert Pattinson hot and another prefer, say, Russell Crowe?

Um, because Robert Pattinson is sparkly?

She giggled. Seriously, attraction is literally something thats felt, on a number of sub-aware levels, and so while we can speak about symmetry of facial features, or why were evolutionarily predisposed to find certain physical aspects attractive relative to a mans or womans ability to perform certain life-critical actions, its not something that can easily be put into words, if at all, she said didactically.

Whoa. Who are you in real life? I asked.

She giggled again. I got a masters degree in psychology and counseling, worked in a practice for four or five years, then went back and got a doctorate. Now Im a marriage counselor.

Married? I blurted.

Widowed.

Oh. I bit my lip. She slid her arm around me and rubbed her hand up and down my back, which felt marvelous.

Its all right. This was ten years ago, she said quietly. It was an aneurysm. No one had any idea, and the whole thing took less than half a day from the time he fell over in the bathroom to the time they pronounced him at the hospital.

She stopped, so I stopped too. She turned and patted my belly as though it were a teddy bear  or a puppy  and then we resumed strolling.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 5, 2012)

A quarter hour later, when we were on a bench with my jacket around her shoulders, I finally decided to change tactics in hopes of getting a satisfactory answer.

TiffMegan. You cant possibly find me attractive, I said flatly.

Tell me why you feel that I could not find you attractive.

I closed my eyes. Duh, Im fat. I patted the back of my hand under my chin to make it wobble, squeezed my gut to prove I could pinch a lot more than an inch.

You feel that being fat causes you to be unattractive? she asked.

I knew she was using therapist language with me, but therapists frame their responses the way they do because it works, and somehow knowing what she was doing made me feel clever and comfortable at the same time. Clever and comfortable enough to forget that this was a woman, and I liked being in her company, and not get tongue-tied and insecure enough to mess it up.

Yeah. Yeah, I do. I was only ever okay-looking, but now Im just another middle-aged fat shlub with a busted marriage and a boring job, I blurted out, thankful that in the dark she could scarcely see me blush.

Busted marriage, she repeated.

Married two years, divorced ten, I said.

And you feel that being fat causes you to be unattractive? she repeated.

Yes, Megan, I feel that being fat causes me to be unattractive.

Remember when I said that attraction is a multi-layered complexity?

Um maybe? I guessed. There went that giggle again.

I find large men attractive, she said simply. Carl weighed three hundred and ten pounds.

Jesus. Ohum, really? I said lamely.

Yup, she said simply.

How can you find me attractive when I dont find me attractive?

We can work on that  and we can talk about that  but right now Ive had enough walking and talking. Can we stop by the hotel and let me change and then go out and find something to eat, please? she said.

Wow! A woman who knew what she wanted and said what she wanted, directly and pleasantly. That was a new experience for me.

It turned out that we were only four rooms apart from each other at the Holiday Inn. When we met up again in the lobby, I was wearing an untucked XL polo shirt over jeans that were at least one size too snug, and Tiffany  whoops, Megan  was wearing an untucked, dark green button-down shirt and dark blue jeans. Her figure had thickened a little in middle age. I would guess that she carried a hundred and fifty or so pounds on her five-five frame, but she was rocking that shirt. And those jeans.

Without any discussion, I drove us to a Waffle House.

Oh, goodie, Megan said. Without even glancing at the menu, she told the waitress, Large sweet tea, please, a waffle, and an order of eggs scrambled with cheese.

You want grits and raisin toast, hon?

Sure, Megan said cheerfully.

Still scrambled up myself about Megans comments, I asked for fried eggs, hash browns scattered, smothered, and covered, bacon and toast. It also came with grits.

By the time the orders arrived, Id realized that I was starving, too. We both plowed in and I confessed to being a CPA and even to liking it. We talked about my ex and her late, about the old home town, and laughed together about having managed to effectively miss the reunion altogether.

Megan pushed her plate away. Oof, Im stuffed, she said ruefully. She had heaped her eggs onto her buttered waffle and eaten half of it, and the grits and toast were untouched. 

She gave me a mildly flirtatious look. Finish it for me?

By then, I had cleaned my plate, but I dutifully reached for hers and managed to polish off the remains. I drained my Coke and stifled a belch. Now _I_ was full. I slid, grunting a little, from the booth, grabbing the check before Megan could. She squabbled half-heartedly at the register and finally insisted on leaving the tip.

I stifled another belch as we walked out into the pleasant cool air of one oclock in the morning.

We were both quiet as I drove us through the empty streets and back to the hotel, and outside her door she hesitated.

Come on in?

In I went.


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## fatmac (Apr 5, 2012)

A new story. Thank you so much.
Mac


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 9, 2012)

The drive back home afforded plenty of time for reflection, five hours on the interstate while I pondered. The weekend had gone nothing, and I mean nothing, like what I had expected, and I still wasn’t sure what to make of that. 

Tiffany, um, Megan, had been a shock. I hadn’t expected anything out of the reunion. I certainly hadn’t expected to meet a woman. And the concept of meeting a woman who found me attractive as I was, was exponentially unexpected.

In a daze I drove the five hours and change from Lebanon, Missouri (“Friendly People. Friendly Places”) to Wichita (“Slightly Less In the Middle of F*ing Nowhere”), where I worked in cost development in the accounting department for Cessna. My dad had worked as an accountant for G3, which made boats, since it had opened its doors in 1974, about the time he’d graduated from junior college with a degree in accounting. Tiffany. Megan! Megan! _Megan!
_

He was now “semi-retired” at 57, which meant he did taxes for six or eight longtime friends. Ma taught home ec (now called “Domestic Science”) at the high school and was looking forward to retiring on a teacher’s pension at 60, five years from now.

I was the baby, with a sister three years older and a set of brother/sister twins five years my senior. I also lived, at two hundred and twenty-six miles away, the farthest out. _Megan!_

Joanne lived just over the line in Fort Scott; Teresa lived up in Lee’s Summit; and Scott lived in Kansas City &#8211; the Missouri one. The way Ma carried on, you’d think I lived in California.

_Megan!_

And Megan … Megan lived in Jefferson City, Missouri’s capital, more than three hundred miles northwest of Wichita.

_Megan!_

So we emailed. Which wasn’t even close to being satisfactory, but it’s what we had. Besides, in a way it was old-fashioned and romantic, as if we were exchanging actual letters. 

Conversation and polite chit-chat quickly moved into long paragraphs confiding hopes and dreams, roads not taken, philosophies, outlooks, fears and peeves. We made plans to spend time in the same ZIP code again. Meanwhile, in spite of Megan’s explicit declaration that she liked big guys, I buckled down and managed to pare off 15 pounds before her scheduled arrival in Wichita.

Which she noticed.

I was waiting outside my apartment building and we walked into an embrace the second she was fully clear of the car door, a long, wordless hug like someone deeply and instinctively taking in water after a dangerously long drought. 

We finally came up for air, and she stepped back and looked me over, disappointment instantly and unmistakably registering on her face.

“You’ve lost weight!” she exclaimed.

“Um, yeah,” I said, suddenly feeling sheepish. “Uh, fifteen pounds.” I tried to sound proud, but it didn’t come out right.

Megan let out a small sigh, then turned away to get her bag out of the trunk. I grabbed it and she followed me up the stairs.

Once we were settled on my tiny balcony, lemonade in hand, she tried to explain, and I tried to understand.

“Everybody finds different physical features attractive … yes?” she began.

“Well, yeah.” I relaxed a little.

“I find … big guys … attractive.”

“Fat,” I said slowly. “You find fat guys attractive?”

“Yeah… yeah, I do.”

“Okay. … … … Why?” I blurted.

Megan’s face twisted as she tried to put into words something that just was.

“I love to lie in bed and spoon with my guy and have my hands full of his tummy,” Megan said slowly. “To snuggle with him and let my hand rest on the softness and the warmth of a thick belly, to walk along next to him and feel like I’m under the protection of his size and solidity, to …” here she blushed fiercely … “to be in the shower with him and soap up his middle and feel those rolls slipping through my fingers, to lean my head against his chest and be embraced by my very own big teddy bear.”

She stopped, blushing again. “Love it. I just … love it.”

Then it dawned on her that she was leaving something out.

“Oh. Hey. Ryan. _Ryan_! I love _you_. I love your humor, I love the way you say things, I love your level-headedness, I love the way we can talk together about anything, I love your approach to life, I love you! I love you no matter what size you are, I love you any way you look.” She stopped again, blushing again, and buried her face in her hands.

I stood and gently peeled her hands away, lifting her face and cupping her chin. 

“I love you, Tiffmeg,” I said, coining a nickname on the spot. “I guess I don’t have to completely understand this thing, but hey, you like your guys big, I am your guy, and … um … I suppose I could gain weight.” It felt really weird saying it out loud, countercultural. 

Megan clapped her hands gleefully. “Really really?”

“Um. Sure,” I said, feeling oddly liberated.

By the time I collected our glasses and got back inside, Megan was already slamming cupboard doors, surveying the pitiful contents of my pantry and refrigerator.

“To the Dillons!” she announced. “Charge!”

What else could I do? I followed her to the car. 

Two hours later I was sprawled in a corner of the sofa, seriously doubting whether this was a good idea after all. I was stuffed to the eyeballs and feeling slightly sick besides. My stomach ached from the top of my ribcage all the way down to my navel, the skin of my belly pulled taut over my gut, distended and sore. Every shallow breath, the most I could manage, caused a surge of discomfort, as my midsection was already stretched so tight. I was so full I was about to pop, and the waistband of my jeans, loose that morning, was straining to cover the bloated swell of my aching belly and threatening to carve a permanent red mark around my abdominal equator from the pressure. My head felt too heavy to hold up, and I was stupid with drowsiness. I could sleep for a week, if only I weren’t so painfully stuffed. The pull and warm heaviness of my stomach, packed to the brim, was keeping me from completely nodding off.

Then Megan was bending over me. Gently and patiently she worked at the button of my straining jeans and got it undone. Tugged the zipper down against the pressure of my swollen midriff. Pushed down the waist of my boxer shorts. Climbed up onto the sofa next to me, where I lay, beached and comatose, faintly sweaty.

And with warm soft hands began to massage, ever so gently, the tautly bloated and painfully stuffed protrusion that was my stomach. I groaned aloud at the sensation, which hurt, but in a good way. Oh, I was _so damn full_…Oh, ow, ah, mmmm…that felt _so damn good_…

Megan’s three-day stay was like something out of a very strange dream. She prepared vast amounts of food, and I ate hugely, stuffing myself till I could not swallow another bite, then slowly wallowing in recovery with her able assistance. And enjoying every minute.

As soon as her car was out of sight, however, guilt, doubt, and confusion washed over me. What had I done? What was I doing? I was already something of a fat middle-aged shlub, and I had just shaved off fifteen pounds, which hadn’t been all that easy, thank you very much. In one weekend with Megan, I’d probably put back at least five of those pounds. Already the khakis I tugged on before heading to work fit differently. Of course, I was still reflecting a net loss, at least I hoped I was, but all I could feel was the weight of my paunch, sagging soggily and distorting my waistline.

When I wasn’t exchanging long emails with Megan, frankly ambivalent about this whole big-guy thing, I was doing research online and discovering that Megan was far from the only woman out there who preferred, well, big guys. They called themselves FAs, for Fat Admirers, or sometimes FFAs, for Female Fat Admirers, and there were more than I would have guessed. At the same time, I also found a lot of articles and columns that “analyzed” these “otherwise inexplicable” relationships and concluded that when a woman was with a big guy, it had to be because the guy had so many other redeeming qualities that the woman was willing to overlook his size &#8211; which, by implication, had to be a downer.

I remember sitting in front of the computer looking as perplexed as a duck confronting a package of marshmallow Peeps.

I was embarrassed about having a potbelly. I had been trying to lose the weight. The only reason I had for that was that I liked a woman, and some inborn societal impulse told me that I could not be desirable unless I conformed to a certain standard. These articles had essentially confirmed my view, while at the same time being so patently ridiculous as to make it clear that my view was messed up. 

Furthermore, the woman I liked &#8211; okay, _loved_ &#8211; liked me big. Her emails were laced with explanations, reassurances, and flat-out urging me to eat more. She asked me to detail what I’d eaten, and how much, and chided me when it wasn’t enough. She wanted to see me again, she wanted to spend more time with me, and she wanted &#8211; her new favorite phrase &#8211; _to see more of me_. In both senses.

I gradually stopped trying to eat dietetically. Ate “normally,” as though I were trying neither to lose nor gain. My weight crept up slowly but steadily. With Megan’s urging, I made snacks and desserts my friends. My weight ticked up from 200 to 220. I started to get some ribbing at work. Jokes about not having to worry if I ever got a flat tire, because I always had a spare. Jokes about ordering a gravy cocktail at lunch. Jokes about trying to get promoted by volunteering to play Santa Claus at the office Christmas party. The kind of roughly good-natured male joking-around that has a hidden barb if you let yourself feel it. 

Megan was coming back, this time for a week’s vacation. And she let slip that she’d started the paperwork to get her counseling licensure transferred to Kansas.


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## Matt L. (Apr 9, 2012)

This a very enjoyable story, everything works, the pacing, the dialogue, the descriptions. Nice work.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 11, 2012)

At our family’s annual Labor Day gathering, Dad took one look at me, now hauling around two hundred and thirty-five pounds, and raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. Par for the course. Dad was a man of few words.

Ma, in the kitchen fussing over the beet slaw, stopped and wiped her hands on her apron to give a proper hug to her far-flung-est child. Then she stepped back, getting a good look at me for the first time.

“Oh. Ryan,” she said tentatively. “Sweetie. Oh, my…”

Bull by the horns time. “Yup, I’ve put on some weight,” I said.

The silence that followed was really loud.

“Well, okay, then,” Ma said finally, and turned back to her beet slaw.

I grabbed a beer and wandered out to the back yard to get it over with, with Joanne, Teresa, Scott, and Teresa's and Scott’s spouses.

Scott, predictably, guffawed when he saw me. “Jeez, Rye, what the hell? Is Cessna payin’ you by the pound?” 

Scott’s wife, Ruthann, smacked him on the shoulder. “Hush, Scott. Really.” She came over and gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek. “It’s nice to see you, Ryan.”

Teresa, like Dad, raised her eyebrows but said nothing, and Teresa’s husband, Greg, choked on a mouthful of beer when he turned and caught sight of me.

“Well, damn,” he said mildly. “Stockin’ up, are ya?” He patted me on the back, as though to cancel out his comment. 

Greg and Teresa’s children erupted out of the house about then and came trotting over to greet their uncle. 

“Uncle Ryan! You’re fat!” Madison blurted cheerfully. Her brother, Jordan, clocked her on the head.

“You’re not s’posed to say that, stupid,” he said. Madison shrieked and hit back, and they raced off, happily chasing each other and ending up in a combination game of tag/wrestling match a few yards distant.

I decided that I could either spend the foreseeable future being evasive and taking their crap or I could lay it all out on the table, even though it still seemed mystifying to me.

I cleared my throat. “Hm. I’m seeing someone … and she actually finds big guys attractive …” I paused, not sure what to say next.

Ruthann’s face cleared at once. “Oh!” she said. “Oh. I’ve heard that there are some people who prefer their sweeties big. There’s a name for it, or something…”

Scott opened his mouth to make a wisecrack, hesitated, and shut it again. 

“Big guys. Huh,” he said. He strolled over and clapped me on the back. “Well, more power to ya,” he said, and returned to his conversation with Greg about the Cards’ pitching staff, which my appearance had interrupted.

Teresa came over and slipped her arm around me. “I’m glad you explained,” she said simply, then added, “Just stay healthy, okay? Cause…”

I sighed. “I will. I will.”

Later, as the adults were all squeezed around the long picnic table and Scott’s and Teresa’s kids had abandoned the card table for a game of freeze tag, Ma cast a worried glance at me.

“Ryan. Sweetie…”

Teresa jumped to her baby brother’s defense.

“Ma,” she said, chuckling. “Ryan’s got a girlfriend. She likes big men.”

“Oh, a girlfriend,” Ma exclaimed. Score one for Teresa! Ma was now Officially Diverted.

And so the weekend with the family was got through. The jokes at work continued, though, feeding my ambivalence. 

When Megan came for the week, with the stated goal of finding a job and an apartment in Wichita, my happiness at seeing her was visibly muted by the way I still couldn’t get my head around everything.

Over a long dinner at the Timberline Steakhouse, we talked. It took the hot cheese fries and the wedge salad to reassure me that she was perfectly happy with moving to Kansas and that transferring her licensure was not a big deal.

“Now,” she said as I cut into my Big Sky T-bone. “The big guy thing.”

I made a face. “I’m working on it,” I said with my mouth full.

“Ryan,” she said patiently. “I don’t mean that. I mean you’re still wrestling with the whole idea.”

“Is it that obvious?”

She giggled. There was that grin again. “Um, yeah?”

“Intellectually I can understand it,” I said, and paused for another bite. Man, this steak was good. “I think I’m wrestling with the social-subconscious stuff. All my life society’s made it clear to me … mmf …” I took another bite. “Made it clear to me that fat is bad and thin is good.”

“The thinner is the winner,” Megan said softly.

“Uh, come again?”

“Something I read,” Megan said, waving a hand dismissively. “Never mind.”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “The thinner is the winner. Like you’re a loser if you’re fat. Like it means that you’re sloppy and you have no discipline because you’re a person of size. And what if you choose to be a big guy, or a big lady? What if that’s what you want, and it’s a choice? Like being tattooed or having green hair or dressing all in black or always wearing a hat, or having a beard, or … or … whatever?”

Megan leaned over and patted my hand. “Love bug. You win the wrestling match. Now eat your steak.”

I ate my steak. Somehow, in trying to put it into words, it had clicked for me. My ambivalence stemmed from a low-level resentment that I had been buying into an entirely false social construct, and somehow in that speech, accompanied by waving a bite of steak around on a fork, I had begun to come to terms with choosing to slough off that social construct. Maybe even find pleasure in ignoring it.

And so the conversation shifted to more pleasant matters, like persuading Megan to abandon her apartment search and let it be a question of the two of us together searching for a place we could share (clearly not my one-bedroom flop). And how nice it would be for us to be together all the time.

And after I’d stashed away the wedge salad and two-thirds of the cheese fries, and the Timberline’s eighteen-ounce steak plus fried green beans and loaded garlic mashed potatoes, Megan persuaded me to the Sno-Cap Apple Dumpling, and then I had to have coffee.

Stuffed to the brim, my belly heavy and aching, I waddled ponderously out of the restaurant and was puffing by the time we reached the car. Megan plucked the keys from my hand and gave me a gentle push toward the passenger side, and drove us home.

Then she slowly and lovingly undressed me and guided me into the bed. I lay on my back, stifling hot belches, and groaned with pleasure as a naked Megan, warm and rosy in the lamplight, massaged my tautly swollen abdomen, easing my immediate discomfort, and gradually moved her skilled fingers southward.

We made love slowly and tenderly, and I reveled in the new sensation of her weight on my full belly, the gentle steady pressure creating a lovely swooping feeling like very pleased butterflies. It added an indefinable dimension to our intimacy and I wanted to experience it again and again and again.

The next morning, Megan brought me an enormous breakfast in bed, helped me stuff myself to the brim, and then bedded me again before heading off to a job interview. She bounced back in two hours later, gleefully announcing that Resolutions Therapy had a new marriage counselor on its staff.

“We have to celebrate!” she insisted, pushing me toward the shower. “Let’s go out to lunch.”


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## 2ful2mi (Apr 11, 2012)

Another great chapter!


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## fatmac (Apr 11, 2012)

Nice easy pace. Like gaining over time. Comfortable and welcomed.
Thank you


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## Matt L. (Apr 12, 2012)

Very entertaining, a pleasure to read.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 12, 2012)

I took a week of vacation in October and drove up to Jefferson City to help Megan pack up and get ready to move. Of course, I broke up the drive with an overnight with the family in Lebanon. 

This time I was facing just Ma and Dad, not the whole fam-damily, but still I braced myself. Wed talked about it, sure, but that was before I was clocking in at two hundred and fifty pounds. The teasing at work had become so habitual I was almost inured to it, but Id added fifteen pounds since Labor Day and I wasnt just pudgy anymore but undeniably fat.

My pecs sat loosely on my torso, and in fairness I would have to describe them as man-boobs. Below them, my midsection rounded out and down, sloping over my waistband and lapping around into a visible spare tire. My arms, when resting loosely, hung slightly out from my sides, in part because my biceps had thickened, and my face was now dominated by full apple cheeks that led to a definite double chin, crease and all. 

I almost wished, as soon as I walked in, that Id planned this stopover for the return trip, when I would have had Megan with me, because the parents would have been far more circumspect in her presence.

As it was, Ma saw me and involuntarily sucked in her breath between her teeth.

Oh, sweetie, she exclaimed, but the usual gladness was absent and she sounded flat, if not downright dismayed. Sweetie.

Ma, I replied. Glad to see me, are you? Okay, that was harsh. But  really?

Ryan, she clucked. Course Im glad to see you. She hesitated, about to say something else, then held out her arms for a hug. Afterward she held me at arms length, looking me over.

Yes, Ma, I have gained weight since Labor Day, I said. Megan likes big guys. I left it at that, determined not to say anything else I might regret.

Oh, my, Ma said softly. She looked me up and down again. Well she pursed her lips and turned back to the stove.

Dad was out back, deadheading asters with a pair of little snippers. He straightened at my footfall on the deck.

Oh. Hiya, he said, almost concealing his involuntary intake of breath, like Mas.

I nodded. Good to see you, Dad.

So. Gonna live with Megan now. He was skirting the subject, but like Ma, looking me over.

Yup.

When we get to meet her?

Actually, that was a good question. No reason we couldnt stop here on the way back, I guess.

A pause. Good, good. Another pause. So how much you carryin now?

I had to smile at the phrasing. Two-fifty, Dad.

Well. You just watch out for your heart, now. I know that gal likes you big, you said, but its gonna take a toll on your heart and such, youre not careful. He sniffed and turned back to the asters.

The news that Ma would finally get to meet Megan on our return trip distracted her from other issues, and, enjoying home cooking, I put away four big pieces of chicken, a mountain of mashed potatoes, and another mountain of fried squash and onions. Finished with a big helping of cobbler.

Then I went up to my room, the one Id shared with Scott, and sank into the rocker now in one corner. Undid my jeans, rested my hands on my tautly full belly, and brooded.

I had thought I was really over my issues. I had thought I was beginning to enjoy being a deliberately big guy. I had figured that not minding the teasing at work was a step along the way to really, truly not caring what co-workers said because I would be secure in my size. 

And if Ma and Dad, with their cautious reactions, had stirred me up I was starting to dread the coming holidays.

As we packed, sorted, tossed, and set aside for charity, Megan and I talked.

Of course youre still ambivalent, Megan said calmly. Its like an aircraft carrier trying to turn around, its going to take time.

Gee, thanks.

She pinched one of my side rolls. Tsk.

I know what you mean, I said, but when will I stop feeling defensive? When will I be secure enough in my size that this sort of crap really, really stops bothering me?

Theres no magic date or episode, she said. But it will help when were together all the time. So long as you keep being open and communicating with me.

I paused, hands full of newspaper and framed photos, and kissed her.

I think I can do that.

Funny thing was, my Tiffmeg was right.

By Halloween, we were entirely unpacked and settled in an airy two-bedroom apartment at Village Park Cedarbrooke, a pretentious name but also a lot nicer than where Id been living. We happily handed out candy to neighborhood imps and, with equal pleasure, disposed of the leftovers.

Megan had developed the habit of asking me over dinner what, if anything, anyone had said about my weight at work, and just naming the gibes and talking about them took away their sting, so that I found myself gradually edging closer to the state of mind Id been hoping for. The sort of John Travolta self-confidence of strutting down the Brooklyn sidewalk in the white disco suit, where the crude and by now old jokes about spare tires and whale sightings merely made me chuckle.

And then it was Thanksgiving.


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## fatmac (Apr 12, 2012)

What fun, a new chapter when I got home.
Thanks
Mac


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 14, 2012)

Megan and I arrived at my parents about one-thirty. Scott and Ruthann had arrived about ten minutes ago, Joanne the night before. Greg and Teresa were coming in the day after, since they were spending the day with Gregs parents.

Megan was happily received and politely grilled. Scott and I retreated to the den, where Dad was watching the dog show.

Really, dude? Scott began as soon as we were sitting down. I know you said she likes big guys, but  damn.

Scott, Dad said mildly. 

I took a deep breath. Yeah, Megan likes big guys. So. I put my hands behind my head and tried to keep my expression unconcerned. I was feeling every ounce of my two hundred sixty-three pounds (this morning) and stealthily released the breath I discovered I was holding.

Wow, so  wow. Okay then, Scott said. He glanced at Dad, who was keeping out of this one, then studiously turned back to the television. Joanne came in and plopped down next to me.

Megans still hanging out with Ma in the kitchen, she informed me. She eyed me up and down, but whatever she thought, she didnt say anything, to me at least. She patted me on the knee and kept her eyes on the television.

I like her, Wye-wye, she said, using the nickname that was a closely guarded sibling secret, and which only they used. 

Shes nice, shes very together, and I like her hair. And her purse, she added.

Yeah, well, Wye-wye likes her too, I said dryly. I rested my hand on hers, which was still on my knee. I stopped caring so much about my weight.

Just as well, because at 4:30 Ma called us to the table. Megan made the mashed potatoes, she announced, beaming.

Megan rolled her eyes, clearly pleased and embarrassed. Well she demurred.

We found our places, and we plunged in, and the conversation batted back and forth between food and catching up on each others lives.

Joannes principalship was discussed, the mashed potatoes praised, Scotts new fishing boat analyzed down to the last nut and bolt while Ruthann and Joanne discussed Ruthanns recipe for pumpkin crunch cake, which she had brought along, and which we would be enjoying later, and somehow we avoided directly discussing Megan-and-me. 

Meanwhile I was refilling my plate for the third time, at least I think it was the third time. I was growing pretty full, but I didnt care. I was enjoying being among my family with Megan, and the idea of Megan being a part of the family, and sharing spousal status with Ruthann, and the food was so good and so familiar, and dreamily I emptied my plate yet again and indulged in just one more taste and then the meal was definitively over.

The combatants retreated from the field, Megan helping Ma with the cleaning up and the rest of us sinking into semi-hibernation.

Ohhh, Joanne groaned. She unsnapped her jeans and rubbed her stomach. Ooh, I ate too much. She hiccupped and smiled drowsily.

Dude, Scott groaned. Scott was over 40, and it would seem to be time for him to stop saying dude, but it was so much a part of his vocabulary that really none of us noticed.

My _stomach_ hurts, Scott continued, as if caught by surprise. He rested his hands on his belly, stretched visibly full of dinner, and made a face. He belched, only half-stifling the sound, and groaned again. Mmmm.

Dad had let out his belt a couple of notches and had his hand slid down the front of his corduroys. Good dinner, he allowed.

I debated contributing to the conversation. I was stupendously, achingly stuffed to bursting, every crevice of my increasingly big belly filled, my soft gut tautly distended and my sides and stomach aching with the pull and heaviness of a hugely satisfying feast. On the other hand, I outweighed everyone in the room by at least eighty pounds, and if I made a seemingly casual comment about how full I felt, would I just be drawing attention to my size, which had already been discussed?

It occurred to me that I owed it to Megan, and more, I owed it to myself.

Yeah, I said slowly. I patted my belly, protruding roundly below my shirt and well beyond my long-undone jeans. Yeah, Im full. 

Megan came in just then and claimed a seat beside me. She settled in, grunting in satisfaction, and rubbed her own tummy, which was, I could see, bulging and firm. It was driving me crazy knowing that she would be sleeping in the basement rec room and I would be in Scotts old room tonight. 

Megan unhesitatingly reached over and patted my belly, prompting a grunt of surprise from yours truly. I was achingly full, my stomach tender and sore, and I was too stuffed to move at the moment, and the gentle touch of her hand on the stretched surface sent a jolt of electricity through me.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 15, 2012)

Never mind what transpired in the night. By the next day, when Greg and Teresa and their children joined us, I had discovered a small but fundamental shift in my outlook. 

I had eaten hugely in front of my family; I had confessed to being full; my enjoyment of the meal had been on display; and just as I had had the  what? The emotional balls to speak up, Megan had patted my stomach in front of everybody. The combination of finding my voice in those circumstances and Megans visible approval of my size had worked a change in the way I thought about who I was and set me farther along the road of being at ease with myself as a big guy.

Therefore, when Madison  clearly having been reminded of her manners beforehand  gave me a long and considering stare, I was able to make it easier for her by grinning and saying, Give your big old Uncle Ryan a hug, and she giggled and embraced my legs before scampering off.

When Greg greeted me with a slap on the back and a Hiya, big guy, it didnt bother me, even a little. I merely returned the slap on the back and said: How bout them Rams, knowing him to be a Chiefs fan, and knowing that the Rams were having a better season.

I gave Teresa a big hug, and when she stood back and looked me over, she only said, Well now, and patted my chest.

And when Ma spread the table with leftovers, I dug in as eagerly as I had the day before, positively enjoying the sensation of filling my stomach to the brim and then some. Yes, I was full, my jeans undone already, my sides groaning and the pressure increasing against my ribs. My normally soft belly, twin spare tires, was inflating steadily with every fresh helping, the gravy and the cranberry sauce and the lemonade easing into the cracks.

An occasional surreptitious glance showed me two things: One, everyone was chowing down as happily and eagerly as I was. Two, while I was putting it away, no one was saying anything. In fact, no one was staring; no one was raising an eyebrow. Whatever my parents, siblings, and sibs-in-law thought, it was slowly becoming accepted fact that Wye-Wye was a big guy. Ha, that rhymed.

And then lunch was over, and once again we hauled ourselves, grunting, to our feet and staggered off to the den. Greg and Teresa repaired to the deck to supervise Madison and Jordans game of tag, Megan again volunteered for kitchen duty, and I sank onto the sofa next to Joanne.

_Ooohh_, Joanne groaned. How did I manage to eat more today than yesterday? _Hic_. Ow. She rested her hands on her belly, visibly swollen beneath her lavender shirt.

This time I didnt hesitate. I leaned back a little farther, rubbed my aching and hugely gorged tummy, coaxed up a decent belch, and said drowsily, Yup, me too. _Urp_.

Joanne rolled her eyes and poked my roundly protruding belly. You pig, she said fondly, and it was a comment she might have made on any Thanksgiving, regardless of my size; and her tone of voice made it clear that it was a _pro forma _comment on male behavior in general.

I belched again, and Joanne giggled, then clutched her stomach. Ow, dont make me_hic_laugh. She stood and stretched as Megan came in, standing aside to let my girl sit down next to me.

Megan rested her hand on my tautly swollen gut, lightly patting it and making my hormones surge with the electric sensation of fingertips on aching and tender flesh. 

I was massively, groaningly stuffed, too full to move. My sides ached, my belly was stretched tight, and I was thick-headed, dopy and satiated, my stomach warmly packed to the brim, my whole body engaged in a concentrated effort at digestion. I had stocked up, I had fulfilled some primal desire, and my girlfriend couldnt be happier; in fact, unless I was mistaken, my full belly was arousing her pretty well.

Secure and stuffed, I drifted into a light doze.

When I awoke an hour or so later, my immediate discomfort had eased to the point that I was able to get up, tug Megan to her feet, and sneak into Ma and Dads bedroom to make a phone call.

And so it was on New Years Eve that Megan and I stood in my parents living room, flanked (as we had insisted on) only by Greg and Teresa, Madison and Jordan, Scott, Ruthann, Joanne, and Ma and Dad; holding hands, we were grinning hugely as the pastor invited me to kiss the bride.

I turned to Megan. She leaned in, across my two-hundred-seventy-five pounds (that morning), standing on tiptoe. I let my hands slide from her sturdy waist to her delightfully soft bottom, giving it the gentlest of squeezes through her lace-and-satin tea-length (whatever that was) gown.

The chubby shlub who had trudged into the country club that spring was gone forever, exorcised by my Tiffmeg, who had created me big and bold and sure of myself, as confident in my size and build as I was in our love for one another.

I could hardly wait for the honeymoon.


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## fat hiker (Apr 16, 2012)

Another fabulous story! Thank you very much for writing it!


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