Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM (Multiple), Gay, Romance
An unfortunate glance startled me into wakefulness. Since losing my job in the latest round of layoffs at Corning, I had admittedly gone downhill.
For several months I had diligently made job-hunting my full-time employment. I had scoured Web sites, networked, talked to people who knew people who might know something, had my resume professionally overhauled, the works.
As summer waned, and the weather turned cooler and the days grew perceptibly shorter, I grew increasingly discouraged. I had retreated into my cave and now spent most of my days in undershirt and boxers, sitting at the computer, not job hunting but playing stupid games. I bathed and shaved a few times a week when I became too gross for even my own company.
Once upon a time, I had had normal eating habits — breakfast, lunch, dinner, an occasional dessert or midmorning pastry. Now, since I was home all the time, I tended toward grazing. My pantry held a constant supply of foods that had to be unwrapped. And most of my time on the computer was spent with food in my hand (if some of that stuff could be called food).
Something or other had caused me to glance downward that morning. Where I was accustomed to the view being that of my lap, I now noticed a small but unmistakable spare tyre pooching into view.
Momentarily distracted, I rolled the chair back and stood up. I looked down. Normal. I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my midsection. A bit soft. Cautiously I felt for my side. Was that ... could that be classified ... a love handle? My gaze lit on the open foil-lined bag into which I’d been steadily dipping. Maybe I should ease up on the snacks. Maybe I’d have a salad for lunch.
Of course, there was nothing remotely salad-like in the fridge – the only green in sight was on the edge of a wedge of cheese. Not attractive.
My bank account was, miraculously, reasonably healthy. I was single and had been well paid and habitually skimmed a fifth of my take off the top and socked it away, on advice from my late parent upon my college graduation. Therefore, I had a tidy, interest-fattened sum on which I’d been thriftily drawing along with my severance. I could shop.
I closed my eyes again and sighed. Wasn’t it bad advice to shop while hungry? Time for a shower anyway, it was Wednesday. I showered and shaved. Fortunately the mirror was steamed over enough to stop me having a good look at my belly. Then I pulled on a pair of khakis for the first time in more than a month and noticed the tug and pinch round the waist. I left the polo shirt untucked and added a sport coat for camouflage.
The restaurant was crowded and I stood, salad in hand, and scanned the place for an untenanted table. A brunet gave me a flick of a glance, moved on, then caught my gaze again.
“Simon Gentry! Isn’t it.” He stood up. “Benjamin Martin, remember? We met at Nick and Treva’s party last Christmas.”
“You must have been more sober than I,” I said with a wink. “I’m sure I’d remember meeting such a ... memorable fellow.”
He blushed. “Are you meeting someone?”
“No.”
“I hope you’ll share my table. Lunch is more fun with company.”
I sat. Initial awkwardness dissipated. Ben sympathised with me about job loss. “It’s bad everywhere,” he said soberly. His own job as a college admissions director was safe. He promised to network among people he knew to see if he could sniff out an opening.
At length I finished my salad and idly fiddled with the plastic knife and fork.
“Hasn’t your sandwich come yet?” Ben said in some surprise.
“Sandwich,” I echoed. “Oh. Oh, no, I just had the salad.”
“Why ever?” His green eyes widened. “That’s hardly a proper lunch.”
I pulled a face. “Too much idle snacking lately,” I admitted. “Getting a bit of a spare tyre.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Oh, puh-lease,” he groaned. “Go on – look,” he urged. “I can’t be bothered with taking this back to the office and then carting it home.” He slid his takeaway foam carton toward me. “Finish it off, be a love.”
Obediently I popped the lid, beholding the half a large sandwich and pile of leftover chips I’d seen him scoop in there a few minutes ago. My stomach traitorously grumbled and Ben smirked a little.
My mouth watered. I took up the sandwich and took a large bite. Oh, was that good. I almost moaned out loud. Chicken with a creamy pesto mayonnaise, cucumber, sprouts, crisp bacon, all on fresh toasted sourdough. Mmmmm. Without even a second thought I popped the chips into my mouth as I went. The carton was emptied all too soon and I finished up by draining my plastic tumbler of diet drink.
“Uh, thank you,” I mumbled. Ben patted my hand.
“Salad. Tch. Honestly,” he chided. Then, “Look – as it happens I’ve a boring cocktail do to attend tonight. Come with, and we’ll both put your name about as the going chap for the job.”
“What job?”
“Any job.” He winked. I felt my breath hitch and my heartbeat speed up. I swallowed. He handed me a business card. “Come by here at seven and we’ll stroll over together. It’s a necktie sort of thing, I’m afraid.” Unconsciously he patted his own rep tie.
I did what any sane, sensible job hunter would do. I beat a path for home and immediately dived into my closet.
I will not repeat the words with which I filled the bedroom. Every pair of trousers that was remotely acceptable was snug, some would not even do up. I sighed, put the khakis and polo of lunchtime back on, and trudged out to do some shopping.
Of course the 32's wouldn’t fit. The 34's fit, but there wasn’t nearly as much of a gap as I’d been expecting. I bought a new shirt for good measure.
At 7:04, which I had deliberately and carefully timed, I knocked on the jamb of Ben’s office door.
“Simon! Well done.” He switched off his computer, stood up and put on his blazer. He looked me up and down. “You do clean up well. Here, come along and we’ll see if we can’t find you some honest work for a change.” He sounded supremely confident.
The cocktail party was even duller than usual as I conscientiously stuck to soda water, not wanting to possibly meet a job lead while half in the bag. About the time I was wondering if I could decently leave without ticking off Ben, he pulled up with a friendly-looking bearded redhead in tow.
“Simon, I’d like you to meet Tim Garza,” he said. “Tim is our financial aid director for the graduate programmes, and actually his good right hand has just done a bunk to be a stay-at-home papa. Tim,” he continued cheerily, “meet my friend Simon Gentry, who was up the ladder in accounting at Corning until they foolishly eliminated his position.”
We shook hands. “Simon, tell me a little about yourself,” Tim said. I was being spot interviewed, I was. I was heartily glad for my sobriety. Ben, blast him, had melted away.
After about ten minutes, Tim glanced at his watch, said, “Oh!,” and fished out a card.
“Come round in the morning and bring your resume if that’s convenient for you,” he said. “I think it’ll do us both some good.”
By the time Ben came back round, I had downed two whiskies in quick succession – both in celebration and to calm my suddenly jumpy nerves – and was feeling high as a kite.
“I don’t have to ask if you hit it off with Tim,” Ben said, grinning. “It’s written all over that non-poker face of yours. Come on,” he threw his arm round my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here and find some real food and celebrate.”
Ben led me to a nearby diner and we sat down to huge portions of spaghetti and salad and red wine. Ben overrode my halfhearted objections and ordered up sinfully rich pudding – chocolate cake for me and a huge wedge of cheesecake for him – and we swapped tastes.
Our plates were quickly emptied and I realised that I was suddenly, achingly full. It had been some time since I had eaten that much all in one go, and I admit I had been enjoying the hors d’oeuvres at the party a good bit. I leaned back in the booth, stifling a belch and acutely aware of the pull and tenderness of my belly, which was straining the buttons of my new shirt.
Ben opened his mouth, started to say something, and belched instead. “Whoops.” Blushing faintly, he stood, and I followed him. Over my feeble protests, he paid and led the way outside.
He clearly had the metabolism of a hummingbird, because we’d both eaten hugely, but while my belly was aching and swollen, his showed no evidence of his ever having eaten; his waistband showed no strain round his flat stomach.
His eyes were bright and he glanced quickly this way and that, then leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“After you see him, hunt me up and we’ll celebrate,” he assured me.
Then he was gone, striding down the pavement like a conqueror.
In a daze I made for the bus stop.
I slept soundly, to my mild surprise, then rose, made myself presentable, and went to a coffee shop for a hearty breakfast. I didn’t want my stomach making any funny noises later.
I dawdled, reading every scrap of the newspaper and doing the crossword until it was finally half past ten. Then I caught a bus for the campus and found my way to Tim Garza’s office.
He seemed glad to see me and we had a proper interview. At the end of it, I heard myself as from a distance accepting his salary offer and making myself say that I could start Monday week, about ten days hence, so as not to seem moronically eager.
Then, my heart thudding, I found my way to Ben’s office. Instead of leaning in and knocking on the door jamb, I strolled in and dropped into a wing chair. Ben glanced up. He is a quick study.
“Hey! Major congratulations! It is celebration time.” He pulled me into a hug. It felt wonderful.
We went to a Chinese buffet. Ben, it seemed was an avocational Orientalist, and kept insisting that I try this or that. “You don’t have to play the starving fellow on the dole any more,” he chided. “Eat, celebrate, c’mon.”
By the time we finally waddled out of there I was ready to burst. My good new trousers – the size 34's – were straining at the seams and I was dying to undo them. Ben, dammit, was as slender as ever, with no hint that he had put away half a dozen heaping platefuls.
He didn’t even bother to look round before he kissed me. On the mouth. Fireworks went off in my head.
He pulled out a business card and scribbled an address on the back.
“Be there at seven,” he murmured. “It’s your turn to make dinner.”
Admissions
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
An unfortunate glance startled me into wakefulness. Since losing my job in the latest round of layoffs at Corning, I had admittedly gone downhill.
For several months I had diligently made job-hunting my full-time employment. I had scoured Web sites, networked, talked to people who knew people who might know something, had my resume professionally overhauled, the works.
As summer waned, and the weather turned cooler and the days grew perceptibly shorter, I grew increasingly discouraged. I had retreated into my cave and now spent most of my days in undershirt and boxers, sitting at the computer, not job hunting but playing stupid games. I bathed and shaved a few times a week when I became too gross for even my own company.
Once upon a time, I had had normal eating habits — breakfast, lunch, dinner, an occasional dessert or midmorning pastry. Now, since I was home all the time, I tended toward grazing. My pantry held a constant supply of foods that had to be unwrapped. And most of my time on the computer was spent with food in my hand (if some of that stuff could be called food).
Something or other had caused me to glance downward that morning. Where I was accustomed to the view being that of my lap, I now noticed a small but unmistakable spare tyre pooching into view.
Momentarily distracted, I rolled the chair back and stood up. I looked down. Normal. I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my midsection. A bit soft. Cautiously I felt for my side. Was that ... could that be classified ... a love handle? My gaze lit on the open foil-lined bag into which I’d been steadily dipping. Maybe I should ease up on the snacks. Maybe I’d have a salad for lunch.
Of course, there was nothing remotely salad-like in the fridge – the only green in sight was on the edge of a wedge of cheese. Not attractive.
My bank account was, miraculously, reasonably healthy. I was single and had been well paid and habitually skimmed a fifth of my take off the top and socked it away, on advice from my late parent upon my college graduation. Therefore, I had a tidy, interest-fattened sum on which I’d been thriftily drawing along with my severance. I could shop.
I closed my eyes again and sighed. Wasn’t it bad advice to shop while hungry? Time for a shower anyway, it was Wednesday. I showered and shaved. Fortunately the mirror was steamed over enough to stop me having a good look at my belly. Then I pulled on a pair of khakis for the first time in more than a month and noticed the tug and pinch round the waist. I left the polo shirt untucked and added a sport coat for camouflage.
The restaurant was crowded and I stood, salad in hand, and scanned the place for an untenanted table. A brunet gave me a flick of a glance, moved on, then caught my gaze again.
“Simon Gentry! Isn’t it.” He stood up. “Benjamin Martin, remember? We met at Nick and Treva’s party last Christmas.”
“You must have been more sober than I,” I said with a wink. “I’m sure I’d remember meeting such a ... memorable fellow.”
He blushed. “Are you meeting someone?”
“No.”
“I hope you’ll share my table. Lunch is more fun with company.”
I sat. Initial awkwardness dissipated. Ben sympathised with me about job loss. “It’s bad everywhere,” he said soberly. His own job as a college admissions director was safe. He promised to network among people he knew to see if he could sniff out an opening.
At length I finished my salad and idly fiddled with the plastic knife and fork.
“Hasn’t your sandwich come yet?” Ben said in some surprise.
“Sandwich,” I echoed. “Oh. Oh, no, I just had the salad.”
“Why ever?” His green eyes widened. “That’s hardly a proper lunch.”
I pulled a face. “Too much idle snacking lately,” I admitted. “Getting a bit of a spare tyre.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Oh, puh-lease,” he groaned. “Go on – look,” he urged. “I can’t be bothered with taking this back to the office and then carting it home.” He slid his takeaway foam carton toward me. “Finish it off, be a love.”
Obediently I popped the lid, beholding the half a large sandwich and pile of leftover chips I’d seen him scoop in there a few minutes ago. My stomach traitorously grumbled and Ben smirked a little.
My mouth watered. I took up the sandwich and took a large bite. Oh, was that good. I almost moaned out loud. Chicken with a creamy pesto mayonnaise, cucumber, sprouts, crisp bacon, all on fresh toasted sourdough. Mmmmm. Without even a second thought I popped the chips into my mouth as I went. The carton was emptied all too soon and I finished up by draining my plastic tumbler of diet drink.
“Uh, thank you,” I mumbled. Ben patted my hand.
“Salad. Tch. Honestly,” he chided. Then, “Look – as it happens I’ve a boring cocktail do to attend tonight. Come with, and we’ll both put your name about as the going chap for the job.”
“What job?”
“Any job.” He winked. I felt my breath hitch and my heartbeat speed up. I swallowed. He handed me a business card. “Come by here at seven and we’ll stroll over together. It’s a necktie sort of thing, I’m afraid.” Unconsciously he patted his own rep tie.
I did what any sane, sensible job hunter would do. I beat a path for home and immediately dived into my closet.
I will not repeat the words with which I filled the bedroom. Every pair of trousers that was remotely acceptable was snug, some would not even do up. I sighed, put the khakis and polo of lunchtime back on, and trudged out to do some shopping.
Of course the 32's wouldn’t fit. The 34's fit, but there wasn’t nearly as much of a gap as I’d been expecting. I bought a new shirt for good measure.
At 7:04, which I had deliberately and carefully timed, I knocked on the jamb of Ben’s office door.
“Simon! Well done.” He switched off his computer, stood up and put on his blazer. He looked me up and down. “You do clean up well. Here, come along and we’ll see if we can’t find you some honest work for a change.” He sounded supremely confident.
The cocktail party was even duller than usual as I conscientiously stuck to soda water, not wanting to possibly meet a job lead while half in the bag. About the time I was wondering if I could decently leave without ticking off Ben, he pulled up with a friendly-looking bearded redhead in tow.
“Simon, I’d like you to meet Tim Garza,” he said. “Tim is our financial aid director for the graduate programmes, and actually his good right hand has just done a bunk to be a stay-at-home papa. Tim,” he continued cheerily, “meet my friend Simon Gentry, who was up the ladder in accounting at Corning until they foolishly eliminated his position.”
We shook hands. “Simon, tell me a little about yourself,” Tim said. I was being spot interviewed, I was. I was heartily glad for my sobriety. Ben, blast him, had melted away.
After about ten minutes, Tim glanced at his watch, said, “Oh!,” and fished out a card.
“Come round in the morning and bring your resume if that’s convenient for you,” he said. “I think it’ll do us both some good.”
By the time Ben came back round, I had downed two whiskies in quick succession – both in celebration and to calm my suddenly jumpy nerves – and was feeling high as a kite.
“I don’t have to ask if you hit it off with Tim,” Ben said, grinning. “It’s written all over that non-poker face of yours. Come on,” he threw his arm round my shoulder. “Let’s get out of here and find some real food and celebrate.”
Ben led me to a nearby diner and we sat down to huge portions of spaghetti and salad and red wine. Ben overrode my halfhearted objections and ordered up sinfully rich pudding – chocolate cake for me and a huge wedge of cheesecake for him – and we swapped tastes.
Our plates were quickly emptied and I realised that I was suddenly, achingly full. It had been some time since I had eaten that much all in one go, and I admit I had been enjoying the hors d’oeuvres at the party a good bit. I leaned back in the booth, stifling a belch and acutely aware of the pull and tenderness of my belly, which was straining the buttons of my new shirt.
Ben opened his mouth, started to say something, and belched instead. “Whoops.” Blushing faintly, he stood, and I followed him. Over my feeble protests, he paid and led the way outside.
He clearly had the metabolism of a hummingbird, because we’d both eaten hugely, but while my belly was aching and swollen, his showed no evidence of his ever having eaten; his waistband showed no strain round his flat stomach.
His eyes were bright and he glanced quickly this way and that, then leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“After you see him, hunt me up and we’ll celebrate,” he assured me.
Then he was gone, striding down the pavement like a conqueror.
In a daze I made for the bus stop.
I slept soundly, to my mild surprise, then rose, made myself presentable, and went to a coffee shop for a hearty breakfast. I didn’t want my stomach making any funny noises later.
I dawdled, reading every scrap of the newspaper and doing the crossword until it was finally half past ten. Then I caught a bus for the campus and found my way to Tim Garza’s office.
He seemed glad to see me and we had a proper interview. At the end of it, I heard myself as from a distance accepting his salary offer and making myself say that I could start Monday week, about ten days hence, so as not to seem moronically eager.
Then, my heart thudding, I found my way to Ben’s office. Instead of leaning in and knocking on the door jamb, I strolled in and dropped into a wing chair. Ben glanced up. He is a quick study.
“Hey! Major congratulations! It is celebration time.” He pulled me into a hug. It felt wonderful.
We went to a Chinese buffet. Ben, it seemed was an avocational Orientalist, and kept insisting that I try this or that. “You don’t have to play the starving fellow on the dole any more,” he chided. “Eat, celebrate, c’mon.”
By the time we finally waddled out of there I was ready to burst. My good new trousers – the size 34's – were straining at the seams and I was dying to undo them. Ben, dammit, was as slender as ever, with no hint that he had put away half a dozen heaping platefuls.
He didn’t even bother to look round before he kissed me. On the mouth. Fireworks went off in my head.
He pulled out a business card and scribbled an address on the back.
“Be there at seven,” he murmured. “It’s your turn to make dinner.”
