Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BBW, ~BHM, ~MWG. When a crowded deli makes a shy professor share a table with colleagues, it leads to big changes for a widower ready to come out of his shell.
People don't die of a broken leg. Except when they do.
My wife of six months had broken her leg skiing. I still remembered the shock and the sinking heart as the red-vested ski patrol guys found me, the race to the hospital, the inevitable TV in the corner of the waiting room, the too-stout coffee from the machine, the puzzlement when the doctor said they wanted to keep her overnight for “observation.”
The hasty half-naps in the chair. The desperation and hordes of scrub-wearing staff, all bellowing “Code Blue” over and over just in case someone in the entire medical complex hadn't heard. The way the doctor cleared his throat while saying “I'm sorry.” The buzz in my ears through which I heard “clot … extremely rare … too quick … nothing ….”
The welcoming, all-embracing numbness that followed. The look in the eyes of the ski lodge staff as they canceled the balance of our vacation. The surprising strength of my resentment when they insisted on refunding our stay, as if that somehow invalidated Katya's existence.
Then the wild swings between that numbness and deep, debilitating pain. Grief. Storms of weeping. Even anger at Katya for dying. Therapy. Clearing out her belongings. Repainting the rooms of the house that had been ours, rearranging the stuff on the walls, trying subconsciously to rub out her presence. Then, gradually, the realization that the rubbing out wasn't going to work. That not only the house and the neighborhood but the whole damn city reminded me of her. The searching, idly at first, for work somewhere else. The move from Alameda to San Rafael.
All of the above happened in the year that followed Katya's death. If Ray Milland had had his “lost weekend,” I'd had a “lost year.” I remembered it as a blurred photograph, simultaneously too close up and too far away to see anything well.
Packing up my belongings preparatory to moving did bring one thing into focus. In the interest of streamlining that packing, I weeded through my clothes … and tossed 90 percent of them. I'd lost twenty pounds, largely through suppressed appetite. I hit up the Goodwill store and scored enough clothes to get by, then with a huge lump in my throat and a simultaneous feeling of a burden lifting from and settling on my shoulders, I drove away.
Three months later, with no warning, my appetite came back. It was as though a pet had gone missing and suddenly showed up again. I'd attended, out of obligation, a reception for new faculty members at Pacific Lutheran University, since I were one. As per usual, I'd eaten hardly anything that day – a slice of toast in the morning, half of a six-inch sub at noon. I beheld the table of heavy hors d'oeuvres … and my stomach growled.
Understand, now. My stomach had not growled in … when? Months. If not longer. Suddenly I was hungry, and everything looked good. I loaded up one of those little clear plastic plates with mini quiches, meatballs, cheese cubes, crackers and pretentious dip. Scarfed the lot. Went back again. And again. And again. And on the way home hit up a Jack in the Box drive-through for a big burger, curly fries, Coke, and an order of churros. Devoured every scrap while channel surfing. And afterward stretched, long and satisfyingly, and felt full.
God, that felt good! How long had it been since I'd wanted to stretch like that? How long since I'd stood and arced, arms up, groaning with pleasure? How long since I'd rubbed my belly and felt it warm, stretched, satisfyingly heavy?
I sank back into the chair, numbly watching television and lazily massaging my aching stomach, savoring the unfamiliar sensations: plenitude, drowsiness, satiety. Eventually I ambled off to bed and slept well for the first time in over a year.
The next morning, I'd eaten my toast, but my stomach was demanding more. I ate a peach, then, en route to work, stopped at a fast-food drive-through, which wares finally quieted the beast. At noon I startled the hell out of a colleague down the hall by asking if he wanted to grab some lunch.
“You're coming out of your shell,” Toby said tentatively.
“I guess so,” I mumbled through a mouthful of chicken parmesan sub. “Maybe it's time.” I swallowed. “Been a widower for fifteen months, now.”
“Grief has its own timetable,” Toby replied, which was par for the course in the English department. We were always crafting sentences, saying things that sounded as though we were quoting someone.
“Hi guys.”
We both looked up. Suzanne Lesseps, history department, stood by our table. Toby inclined his head gravely. I sat there with a mouthful of sandwich and sauce on my chin looking stupid.
“Mind if I join you? Sorry --” she blushed appealingly -- "it's a little busy in here."
I looked around. She was right, every table was full.
“By all means.” I finally was able to speak, and wiped my chin vigorously. Suzanne had a reputation for being very nice but also pretty shy and introverted, preferring silence and solitude to company and conversation – but who was I to argue with a cute redhead?
We chatted. By the time we headed back to campus, I discovered to my shock that I had been carrying on a casual conversation with a woman for forty-five minutes and had enjoyed it. No resentment that she was alive while Katya was not. No overwhelming sense of loss. No unusual emotions at all. Just … pleasure at socialization. Look Ma, no hands.
We started to exchange small talk over the coffee urns in the bookstore. Greeted each other in the library. It only took until fall break for me to ask her out on a real live date.
She opened her door, and we both stood and gazed at each other, a permissible taking stock. She saw, I supposed, your basic six-foot male, shaggy dark hair, slightly Slavic looks, wearing a dark green turtleneck, camel blazer, and khakis. Roughly one hundred and eighty pounds conventionally clothed and wearing a harmless, hopeful expression.
I saw your basic five-four female, curly chestnut hair, chin-length, a round face, a full-standard figure clothed in a fitted blouse worn over a gray skirt. Patent-leather pumps. Nice legs. Maybe a hundred and fifty pounds at a guess.
And we were off to the races.
Once we'd got to the restaurant and ordered drinks, I found myself discussing entrees and side dishes and being pleasantly infected by her enthusiasm. We wound up with an appetizer, which we devoured, and I was in time served a big bowl of seafood Alfredo over broad noodles, while Suzanne enjoyed a 12-ounce steak, broccoli au gratin, and garlic mashed potatoes. We talked and ate, ate and talked, enjoying each other's company. Finished off with a shared chocolate cake-syrup-ice cream thing, then coffee to help us digest.
As I drove her back to her apartment, I found myself going under the speed limit, prolonging the evening, but all too soon she was back behind her door and I was back behind mine. I peeled off my clothes, then gave vent to a long and satisfying groan and stretch. Naked, I massaged my stomach, which was tautly full. Warm. Heavy. Stuffed and aching. It felt wonderful. I sank into bed and, half-dozing, daydreamed about Suzanne. Was she also naked between the sheets, massaging a rosily rounded tummy?
We were discreet, because campus gossip is swift and vicious. Fortunately, while Berkeley and its colleges constitute a small town, San Francisco is large, and there are plenty of weekend destinations in easy driving distance. We explored wine country, we strolled along Fisherman's Wharf and meandered through Chinatown, we explored Carmel and Monterey and San Luis Obispo.
And we ate. Lord, did we eat. Suzanne was an amateur chef with a wide-reaching and lively interest in food, which she shared with me. Wharfside oyster bars, artisan breads, Alice Waters' Chez Whatever, chop suey joints, occasionally some more upscale stuff. Taste this, try that … it was becoming standard procedure for me to return from those weekends to discover on Monday morning that my khakis were more snug than I remembered. From time to time I gave in and bought larger ones. Goodwill is a haven for khakis and I could always find what I needed, even as the waist size kept going up.
I developed love handles, then a modest spare tire. Some flabbiness to my chest, a softening backside, increased fullness to the face.
Suzanne, for her part, was filling out as well, but more modestly. Her bottom was even more appealing to me now, soft and full, looking blooming in skirts or jeans. Her waist was a little thicker, her tummy softer and rounder below breasts that struck me as steadily ripening. I longed to pluck the fruit, longed to fill my hands with the sweet fullness of womanhood.
We were once again in San Francisco when harvest time arrived. We had dined at Zuni on home-cured anchovies, strip steak and German potatoes for me, sole with sauerkraut and Riesling butter for her, at least two emptyings of the bread basket, then finished with crème brulee and brandy. Stuffed to the brim, a little tipsy, we were waddling slowly back to the hotel, arms round each other. My hand rested on her sweater-clad and swollen tummy, roundly bloated and gurgling mildly. Hers in turn lay on my turtleneck-covered belly, distended and aching, my belt let out a couple of notches, my trousers hook straining, and me mostly succeeding at stifling spectacular belches.
In companionable silence we made our way up to the room and without a word I tugged the sweater over her head. She began to reach back to undo her bra, grunted, stopped.
“Too full,” she groaned, sounding sheepish. I went round and unhooked it for her, releasing what, as I had suspected, was a pair of gorgeous breasts. Round, brimming handfuls, which I caught up and bobbled gently, feeling a shudder run through me.
“Mmmm,” she groaned; then: “My skirt?”
I undid the button and zipper and tugged both it and pantyhose downward. She hiccuped as she bent to finish the job, then straightened up, slightly flushed. Another hiccup as she began to wrestle the turtleneck free. She undid the belt and trousers and shoved them down.
I groaned in my turn and this time did not succeed in stifling the belch, loud and satisfying.
Then we found ourselves in bed. Slowly, but confidently, we traced each other's contours. I found myself staggered by her unclothed and unadorned body. Rose and cream and peach, warmth and fold and softness and curve. Suzanne was all woman, warm and welcoming. I nuzzled and snuggled, traced, cradled, burrowed, filled my hands with her.
When she traced the circumference of my own midsection, though, I stiffened with embarrassment.
“Put on some weight,” I mumbled. “Getting a little pot there.”
Suzanne flattened her hand and rotated her palm on the distended stretch of belly, heavy and tightly stuffed, and poked gently, provoking a baby belch.
“Food is meant to be enjoyed,” she murmured. “And so is this.”
And I forgot about my stomach.
Later, as we snuggled, she said, “If your weight bothers you...”
“Didn't say it did,” I replied.
“Not in words.”
She had a point. We both knew how I'd been ashamed of my body, which now carried something in the neighborhood of two hundred and ten pounds, most of it new belly swell from all that good food and domestic tranquility.
“If,” she repeated, “your weight bothers you … how, um … how do you feel about mine?”
“Yours?”
“Yes, mine... the other person in the bed...”
I sighed, momentarily distracted by the pleasurable sensation of my full stomach expanding and deflating with my deep breath, and slid my hand from her shoulder along the lyric swoop and flare of her side, waist, hip, nestling the sweet warm cheek of her bottom.
“You are gorgeous,” I said with conviction. “Here … and here … and here ...” I demonstrated my words, drawing her closer and sliding my hand up and down her back, lingering where little love handles were beginning to form. “One thousand percent beautiful.”
“I'm fat.” Muffled in my chest.
“Define fat,” I said, stalling for time.
“I'm five four,” she pointed out. “I'm supposed to weigh … oh … one-thirty.”
“And you weigh...”
“One sixty.”
“Says who?”
“Duh, the scale,” she replied.
“No, says who you're supposed to weigh one-thirty.”
“Oh, you know, charts, tables....”
I shrugged. “I happen to think you are gorgeous.” Being an English professor, I elaborated and reiterated. “I love that you have actual hips, I love your bottom, it's round and soft, the way a bottom is supposed to be. I find your breasts breathtaking, classical, historic even. And your tummy...” I gently rearranged her in the bed and traced my finger around on the area in question.
“Your tummy … is splendiferous. Rose and peach and cream, my favorite flavor combination. It's a little pillow of welcome cradling that adorable belly button, there's something to you, which is one of the beautiful differences between women and men, you're supposed to be women. I love every inch of you and if there are more inches down the road then I will love those inches too.”
After a pause, Suzanne said firmly, "And back at you, mister."
It might have been the silliness of talking about loving inches and it might have been the places I put my hands after that, but there was no more self-hate in that bed, or, as it turned out, in the relationship.
Campus gossip began to retail that Suzanne was becoming “friendlier.” Well, she had never been unfriendly, just shy; but those tightly furled petals were slowly beginning to open up. She began to refer to outings and coffee dates with this or that friend in the department. From time to time we had to cut our weekends short because she was going shopping with someone.
She was going to her parents' house in Seattle for Thanksgiving and invited me to join her. We took separate flights to avoid running into colleagues at the airport who might suss out our relationship, and so she met me at the Sea-Tac Airport with coffee and a warm Cinnabon waiting.
Her parents were standard-issue mom and dad, in their early seventies, polite and friendly, both retired. Also there were a brother and sister-in-law and a couple of children and a sister.
And I found out where Suzanne got her cooking and food jones.
Oh. My. God.
Turkey and stuffing, sure. Also ham, deviled eggs, pea salad, Brussels sprouts, sweet potato casserole, fried squash, two kinds of homemade bread, home-canned green beans, creamed potatoes, creamed corn, caramelized onions and mushrooms, two kinds of cranberry stuff.
Thanksgiving dinner started somewhere around 1:30 and it was 4 o'clock by the time we finally, slowly, hauled ourselves up from the table. I know it was 4 o'clock because the Detroit football game was just beginning.
I sank with extreme caution onto the sofa in the den by Suzanne's dad and brother-in-law. I don't think I had ever been so full in my life. My khakis were long since unbuttoned and unzipped and I suspected I would not be able to do them up again in this lifetime.
My belly was gloriously stuffed and aching, stretched to capacity and then some. I slid my hand under my turtleneck and rested the hand on my hugely distended stomach. I was glutted and half-conscious, stoned on dinner, sated and hugely full. I hadn't been this contented since my honeymoon with Katya. Blinking, I realized that I missed Katya, I would always miss Katya, but that I was … happy. I had fulfilled some deep and primal longing within me, some evolutionary urge, I had stocked up for the winter, I had provided well for myself. My stuffed and swollen gut, gurgling and groaning with the efforts of digestion, was giving me an absurd sense of pride.
Suzanne came in, her hands damp from kitchen duty, and sank onto the sofa next to me. Her dad, grunting with effort, scooted over to make room for her.
“Ohh,” Suzanne groaned. She blinked slowly, dazedly, and laid both her hands atop a visibly full tummy. Her shirt was stretched skintight over her belly, tautly round and straining the fabric, and the waistband of her skirt was doing a job of work. One too-quick move and that puppy was history.
“Ooh, I ate too much,” Suzanne said happily. She patted her midsection, producing a light, hollow thunk and some related gurgles. That was a very full tummy indeed.
Suzanne's brother belched and wriggled around in the recliner. “Stuh-uffed,” he contributed. He poked at his belly, his sweatshirt tugging at the swell. Suzanne's father had just that second dozed off, his belt undone, and her sister came in, flopped into another chair, and grimaced at the result.
“Ow. Hic,” she said. She fumbled her jeans undone and leaned back, groaning in relief at the easing of pressure. She rubbed her hand along her stomach, which responded with digestive barks and grumbles. “God. Oh, my stomach hurts.” She hiccuped again.
“Did ya get enough to eat?” Suzanne asked, grinning at Teri.
Teri hiccuped. “Ow, I'm so full.” She shifted, trying to find the best position to placate her bulging tummy, which protruded beyond the edges of her jeans. Undoubtedly they had fit better a few hours ago.
One by one, groaning and griping about how full we were and how fat we were becoming, we drifted into heavy, restless sleep, blinking awake around six when Suzanne's mother announced that it was time for pie.
Pumpkin, mince, or both, we were asked, and with butter pecan ice cream, with whipped cream, or with both.
I followed the crowd and had a large wedge of both, with ice cream, and whipped cream. Slowly, slowly, sipping coffee, and afterward staggering slowly up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Without a word we helped each other out of our clothes – that zipper was a doozy to get down – and grunted our way up on to the bed.
Then we groaned, long and in unison.
I lay on my back, legs splayed, and reveled in contentment. My eyelids were heavy and I was cozily half-asleep. I slid my hands down my softening chest and let them come to rest on my gloriously protruding belly. It was hugely swollen, tight as a drum, warm and heavy and aching. I felt sated, as if I'd met some need deep within myself. My stomach was stuffed to bursting and it felt so very good.
Beside me, Suzanne lay on her side, knees drawn slightly up, cradling her own triumphantly bloated tummy. I slid my bleared gaze sideways and beheld my love. Her face was flushed, her curls damp around the edges of her lovely face. She was blinking slowly, dopily, and her lips curved in a smile.
Her right hand was tucked under the pillow, but her left hand was draped on her firmly distended belly, pale and taut. Gurgles and squeaks of digestive effort emanated from within, and it was clear that Suzanne was as stupefyingly glutted as I was.
No words were needed. With grunts of effort, I turned on to my own side and began to gently massage her stretched and roseate flesh, and she nuzzled into my chest. We were both achingly full, moving cautiously, but it didn't take long to discover that it feels much better when someone else is massaging that aforementioned achingly full gut. And other areas.
That weekend was fabulous. Terrific, memorable meals at which we all ate far too much; long walks with Suzanne and me hand in hand or hip to hip; the companionable drive home.
Once back on campus we returned (sigh) to discretion, which meant not nearly enough face time, but Christmas break loomed only two weeks off. According to the official line that I put out, I was to spend the break with my brother in Portland. (I did have a brother in Portland, but he wasn't getting a month of my time.) Suzanne was “going back to Seattle.” (She wasn't.) We'd found a house for sale in Redding that the owners, now living in New Mexico, were willing to let us lease for a month. We were going to have a month (less a few days of familial obligation) together, far from interested campus gossips.
It was heavenly. We made our plans for the coming semester, we took long hikes, we snuggled in front of the fire, we watched DVDs and holiday specials, we stayed busy between the sheets.
And we ate. Did we ever. Suzanne busied herself turning out cookies of all description, and since there was no one to share them with, we were obligated to dispose of them ourselves. Not to mention breakfast, lunch, and dinner (those long walks have a way of cranking up the appetite). With great longing, we parted to go to our respective families and our respective Christmas dinners, at which, we later reported to each other, we had each eaten ourselves into a coma.
Bottom line (ha), when we returned to campus in January, Suzanne was standing around one-eighty, and I clocked in at a solid two-and-a-quarter. We escaped comment about our weight because everyone gains weight over the holidays. We escaped comment about our relationship because we were still being very, very discreet.
Until spring break. It only took a word in the email inboxes of a few individuals to spread the word to the rest of the English and history departments and thence to most of the liberal arts arena. We were Engaged. Surprise. Awe, even. Both at Suzanne's blossoming and at how no one had had a clue.
Laughing, we fled campus for the airport and a week in Baja California. While the Christmas break in Redding had been heavenly, a week in the sun at the beach was stratospheric. I took deep delight in the view of my beloved in a bikini, rocking the two-piece and showing off two hundred and fifteen gorgeous pounds. Breasts spilling forth below an invitingly soft chin; gently lapping folds of tummy concealing that adorable navel; glorious hips – hips unparalleled in history – hips that defined womanhood; a sweetly rounded bottom, soft and welcoming. Temptingly velvet thighs, swooping curves of calf, freshly pedicured little piggies to tickle and nibble.
Suzanne swore in return that she delighted in every one of my two hundred sixty pounds: my chubby cheeks and double chin, a hammock of flesh snuggling below my dimpled jaw; my pecs, cushioned atop firm muscles, on which she liked to pillow her curly head; my smooth round belly that folded into spare tires when recumbent; my backside, which she termed “lovely squashy”; my tree-trunk thighs emerging from my swim shorts. When I was wearing them.
It was with reluctance that we parted from the sun, the sand, the beach Cali-Mex cuisine, and returned to campus... but with not as much reluctance as one might imagine, because in just a few weeks we would be married in the campus chapel.
And so we were. Beneath the rose window streaming in the May sunlight; the slender steeple pointing heavenward; the flowers exploding into bloom. As had Suzanne.
California Dreaming
Big Beautiful Dreamer
People don't die of a broken leg. Except when they do.
My wife of six months had broken her leg skiing. I still remembered the shock and the sinking heart as the red-vested ski patrol guys found me, the race to the hospital, the inevitable TV in the corner of the waiting room, the too-stout coffee from the machine, the puzzlement when the doctor said they wanted to keep her overnight for “observation.”
The hasty half-naps in the chair. The desperation and hordes of scrub-wearing staff, all bellowing “Code Blue” over and over just in case someone in the entire medical complex hadn't heard. The way the doctor cleared his throat while saying “I'm sorry.” The buzz in my ears through which I heard “clot … extremely rare … too quick … nothing ….”
The welcoming, all-embracing numbness that followed. The look in the eyes of the ski lodge staff as they canceled the balance of our vacation. The surprising strength of my resentment when they insisted on refunding our stay, as if that somehow invalidated Katya's existence.
Then the wild swings between that numbness and deep, debilitating pain. Grief. Storms of weeping. Even anger at Katya for dying. Therapy. Clearing out her belongings. Repainting the rooms of the house that had been ours, rearranging the stuff on the walls, trying subconsciously to rub out her presence. Then, gradually, the realization that the rubbing out wasn't going to work. That not only the house and the neighborhood but the whole damn city reminded me of her. The searching, idly at first, for work somewhere else. The move from Alameda to San Rafael.
All of the above happened in the year that followed Katya's death. If Ray Milland had had his “lost weekend,” I'd had a “lost year.” I remembered it as a blurred photograph, simultaneously too close up and too far away to see anything well.
Packing up my belongings preparatory to moving did bring one thing into focus. In the interest of streamlining that packing, I weeded through my clothes … and tossed 90 percent of them. I'd lost twenty pounds, largely through suppressed appetite. I hit up the Goodwill store and scored enough clothes to get by, then with a huge lump in my throat and a simultaneous feeling of a burden lifting from and settling on my shoulders, I drove away.
Three months later, with no warning, my appetite came back. It was as though a pet had gone missing and suddenly showed up again. I'd attended, out of obligation, a reception for new faculty members at Pacific Lutheran University, since I were one. As per usual, I'd eaten hardly anything that day – a slice of toast in the morning, half of a six-inch sub at noon. I beheld the table of heavy hors d'oeuvres … and my stomach growled.
Understand, now. My stomach had not growled in … when? Months. If not longer. Suddenly I was hungry, and everything looked good. I loaded up one of those little clear plastic plates with mini quiches, meatballs, cheese cubes, crackers and pretentious dip. Scarfed the lot. Went back again. And again. And again. And on the way home hit up a Jack in the Box drive-through for a big burger, curly fries, Coke, and an order of churros. Devoured every scrap while channel surfing. And afterward stretched, long and satisfyingly, and felt full.
God, that felt good! How long had it been since I'd wanted to stretch like that? How long since I'd stood and arced, arms up, groaning with pleasure? How long since I'd rubbed my belly and felt it warm, stretched, satisfyingly heavy?
I sank back into the chair, numbly watching television and lazily massaging my aching stomach, savoring the unfamiliar sensations: plenitude, drowsiness, satiety. Eventually I ambled off to bed and slept well for the first time in over a year.
The next morning, I'd eaten my toast, but my stomach was demanding more. I ate a peach, then, en route to work, stopped at a fast-food drive-through, which wares finally quieted the beast. At noon I startled the hell out of a colleague down the hall by asking if he wanted to grab some lunch.
“You're coming out of your shell,” Toby said tentatively.
“I guess so,” I mumbled through a mouthful of chicken parmesan sub. “Maybe it's time.” I swallowed. “Been a widower for fifteen months, now.”
“Grief has its own timetable,” Toby replied, which was par for the course in the English department. We were always crafting sentences, saying things that sounded as though we were quoting someone.
“Hi guys.”
We both looked up. Suzanne Lesseps, history department, stood by our table. Toby inclined his head gravely. I sat there with a mouthful of sandwich and sauce on my chin looking stupid.
“Mind if I join you? Sorry --” she blushed appealingly -- "it's a little busy in here."
I looked around. She was right, every table was full.
“By all means.” I finally was able to speak, and wiped my chin vigorously. Suzanne had a reputation for being very nice but also pretty shy and introverted, preferring silence and solitude to company and conversation – but who was I to argue with a cute redhead?
We chatted. By the time we headed back to campus, I discovered to my shock that I had been carrying on a casual conversation with a woman for forty-five minutes and had enjoyed it. No resentment that she was alive while Katya was not. No overwhelming sense of loss. No unusual emotions at all. Just … pleasure at socialization. Look Ma, no hands.
We started to exchange small talk over the coffee urns in the bookstore. Greeted each other in the library. It only took until fall break for me to ask her out on a real live date.
She opened her door, and we both stood and gazed at each other, a permissible taking stock. She saw, I supposed, your basic six-foot male, shaggy dark hair, slightly Slavic looks, wearing a dark green turtleneck, camel blazer, and khakis. Roughly one hundred and eighty pounds conventionally clothed and wearing a harmless, hopeful expression.
I saw your basic five-four female, curly chestnut hair, chin-length, a round face, a full-standard figure clothed in a fitted blouse worn over a gray skirt. Patent-leather pumps. Nice legs. Maybe a hundred and fifty pounds at a guess.
And we were off to the races.
Once we'd got to the restaurant and ordered drinks, I found myself discussing entrees and side dishes and being pleasantly infected by her enthusiasm. We wound up with an appetizer, which we devoured, and I was in time served a big bowl of seafood Alfredo over broad noodles, while Suzanne enjoyed a 12-ounce steak, broccoli au gratin, and garlic mashed potatoes. We talked and ate, ate and talked, enjoying each other's company. Finished off with a shared chocolate cake-syrup-ice cream thing, then coffee to help us digest.
As I drove her back to her apartment, I found myself going under the speed limit, prolonging the evening, but all too soon she was back behind her door and I was back behind mine. I peeled off my clothes, then gave vent to a long and satisfying groan and stretch. Naked, I massaged my stomach, which was tautly full. Warm. Heavy. Stuffed and aching. It felt wonderful. I sank into bed and, half-dozing, daydreamed about Suzanne. Was she also naked between the sheets, massaging a rosily rounded tummy?
We were discreet, because campus gossip is swift and vicious. Fortunately, while Berkeley and its colleges constitute a small town, San Francisco is large, and there are plenty of weekend destinations in easy driving distance. We explored wine country, we strolled along Fisherman's Wharf and meandered through Chinatown, we explored Carmel and Monterey and San Luis Obispo.
And we ate. Lord, did we eat. Suzanne was an amateur chef with a wide-reaching and lively interest in food, which she shared with me. Wharfside oyster bars, artisan breads, Alice Waters' Chez Whatever, chop suey joints, occasionally some more upscale stuff. Taste this, try that … it was becoming standard procedure for me to return from those weekends to discover on Monday morning that my khakis were more snug than I remembered. From time to time I gave in and bought larger ones. Goodwill is a haven for khakis and I could always find what I needed, even as the waist size kept going up.
I developed love handles, then a modest spare tire. Some flabbiness to my chest, a softening backside, increased fullness to the face.
Suzanne, for her part, was filling out as well, but more modestly. Her bottom was even more appealing to me now, soft and full, looking blooming in skirts or jeans. Her waist was a little thicker, her tummy softer and rounder below breasts that struck me as steadily ripening. I longed to pluck the fruit, longed to fill my hands with the sweet fullness of womanhood.
We were once again in San Francisco when harvest time arrived. We had dined at Zuni on home-cured anchovies, strip steak and German potatoes for me, sole with sauerkraut and Riesling butter for her, at least two emptyings of the bread basket, then finished with crème brulee and brandy. Stuffed to the brim, a little tipsy, we were waddling slowly back to the hotel, arms round each other. My hand rested on her sweater-clad and swollen tummy, roundly bloated and gurgling mildly. Hers in turn lay on my turtleneck-covered belly, distended and aching, my belt let out a couple of notches, my trousers hook straining, and me mostly succeeding at stifling spectacular belches.
In companionable silence we made our way up to the room and without a word I tugged the sweater over her head. She began to reach back to undo her bra, grunted, stopped.
“Too full,” she groaned, sounding sheepish. I went round and unhooked it for her, releasing what, as I had suspected, was a pair of gorgeous breasts. Round, brimming handfuls, which I caught up and bobbled gently, feeling a shudder run through me.
“Mmmm,” she groaned; then: “My skirt?”
I undid the button and zipper and tugged both it and pantyhose downward. She hiccuped as she bent to finish the job, then straightened up, slightly flushed. Another hiccup as she began to wrestle the turtleneck free. She undid the belt and trousers and shoved them down.
I groaned in my turn and this time did not succeed in stifling the belch, loud and satisfying.
Then we found ourselves in bed. Slowly, but confidently, we traced each other's contours. I found myself staggered by her unclothed and unadorned body. Rose and cream and peach, warmth and fold and softness and curve. Suzanne was all woman, warm and welcoming. I nuzzled and snuggled, traced, cradled, burrowed, filled my hands with her.
When she traced the circumference of my own midsection, though, I stiffened with embarrassment.
“Put on some weight,” I mumbled. “Getting a little pot there.”
Suzanne flattened her hand and rotated her palm on the distended stretch of belly, heavy and tightly stuffed, and poked gently, provoking a baby belch.
“Food is meant to be enjoyed,” she murmured. “And so is this.”
And I forgot about my stomach.
Later, as we snuggled, she said, “If your weight bothers you...”
“Didn't say it did,” I replied.
“Not in words.”
She had a point. We both knew how I'd been ashamed of my body, which now carried something in the neighborhood of two hundred and ten pounds, most of it new belly swell from all that good food and domestic tranquility.
“If,” she repeated, “your weight bothers you … how, um … how do you feel about mine?”
“Yours?”
“Yes, mine... the other person in the bed...”
I sighed, momentarily distracted by the pleasurable sensation of my full stomach expanding and deflating with my deep breath, and slid my hand from her shoulder along the lyric swoop and flare of her side, waist, hip, nestling the sweet warm cheek of her bottom.
“You are gorgeous,” I said with conviction. “Here … and here … and here ...” I demonstrated my words, drawing her closer and sliding my hand up and down her back, lingering where little love handles were beginning to form. “One thousand percent beautiful.”
“I'm fat.” Muffled in my chest.
“Define fat,” I said, stalling for time.
“I'm five four,” she pointed out. “I'm supposed to weigh … oh … one-thirty.”
“And you weigh...”
“One sixty.”
“Says who?”
“Duh, the scale,” she replied.
“No, says who you're supposed to weigh one-thirty.”
“Oh, you know, charts, tables....”
I shrugged. “I happen to think you are gorgeous.” Being an English professor, I elaborated and reiterated. “I love that you have actual hips, I love your bottom, it's round and soft, the way a bottom is supposed to be. I find your breasts breathtaking, classical, historic even. And your tummy...” I gently rearranged her in the bed and traced my finger around on the area in question.
“Your tummy … is splendiferous. Rose and peach and cream, my favorite flavor combination. It's a little pillow of welcome cradling that adorable belly button, there's something to you, which is one of the beautiful differences between women and men, you're supposed to be women. I love every inch of you and if there are more inches down the road then I will love those inches too.”
After a pause, Suzanne said firmly, "And back at you, mister."
It might have been the silliness of talking about loving inches and it might have been the places I put my hands after that, but there was no more self-hate in that bed, or, as it turned out, in the relationship.
Campus gossip began to retail that Suzanne was becoming “friendlier.” Well, she had never been unfriendly, just shy; but those tightly furled petals were slowly beginning to open up. She began to refer to outings and coffee dates with this or that friend in the department. From time to time we had to cut our weekends short because she was going shopping with someone.
She was going to her parents' house in Seattle for Thanksgiving and invited me to join her. We took separate flights to avoid running into colleagues at the airport who might suss out our relationship, and so she met me at the Sea-Tac Airport with coffee and a warm Cinnabon waiting.
Her parents were standard-issue mom and dad, in their early seventies, polite and friendly, both retired. Also there were a brother and sister-in-law and a couple of children and a sister.
And I found out where Suzanne got her cooking and food jones.
Oh. My. God.
Turkey and stuffing, sure. Also ham, deviled eggs, pea salad, Brussels sprouts, sweet potato casserole, fried squash, two kinds of homemade bread, home-canned green beans, creamed potatoes, creamed corn, caramelized onions and mushrooms, two kinds of cranberry stuff.
Thanksgiving dinner started somewhere around 1:30 and it was 4 o'clock by the time we finally, slowly, hauled ourselves up from the table. I know it was 4 o'clock because the Detroit football game was just beginning.
I sank with extreme caution onto the sofa in the den by Suzanne's dad and brother-in-law. I don't think I had ever been so full in my life. My khakis were long since unbuttoned and unzipped and I suspected I would not be able to do them up again in this lifetime.
My belly was gloriously stuffed and aching, stretched to capacity and then some. I slid my hand under my turtleneck and rested the hand on my hugely distended stomach. I was glutted and half-conscious, stoned on dinner, sated and hugely full. I hadn't been this contented since my honeymoon with Katya. Blinking, I realized that I missed Katya, I would always miss Katya, but that I was … happy. I had fulfilled some deep and primal longing within me, some evolutionary urge, I had stocked up for the winter, I had provided well for myself. My stuffed and swollen gut, gurgling and groaning with the efforts of digestion, was giving me an absurd sense of pride.
Suzanne came in, her hands damp from kitchen duty, and sank onto the sofa next to me. Her dad, grunting with effort, scooted over to make room for her.
“Ohh,” Suzanne groaned. She blinked slowly, dazedly, and laid both her hands atop a visibly full tummy. Her shirt was stretched skintight over her belly, tautly round and straining the fabric, and the waistband of her skirt was doing a job of work. One too-quick move and that puppy was history.
“Ooh, I ate too much,” Suzanne said happily. She patted her midsection, producing a light, hollow thunk and some related gurgles. That was a very full tummy indeed.
Suzanne's brother belched and wriggled around in the recliner. “Stuh-uffed,” he contributed. He poked at his belly, his sweatshirt tugging at the swell. Suzanne's father had just that second dozed off, his belt undone, and her sister came in, flopped into another chair, and grimaced at the result.
“Ow. Hic,” she said. She fumbled her jeans undone and leaned back, groaning in relief at the easing of pressure. She rubbed her hand along her stomach, which responded with digestive barks and grumbles. “God. Oh, my stomach hurts.” She hiccuped again.
“Did ya get enough to eat?” Suzanne asked, grinning at Teri.
Teri hiccuped. “Ow, I'm so full.” She shifted, trying to find the best position to placate her bulging tummy, which protruded beyond the edges of her jeans. Undoubtedly they had fit better a few hours ago.
One by one, groaning and griping about how full we were and how fat we were becoming, we drifted into heavy, restless sleep, blinking awake around six when Suzanne's mother announced that it was time for pie.
Pumpkin, mince, or both, we were asked, and with butter pecan ice cream, with whipped cream, or with both.
I followed the crowd and had a large wedge of both, with ice cream, and whipped cream. Slowly, slowly, sipping coffee, and afterward staggering slowly up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Without a word we helped each other out of our clothes – that zipper was a doozy to get down – and grunted our way up on to the bed.
Then we groaned, long and in unison.
I lay on my back, legs splayed, and reveled in contentment. My eyelids were heavy and I was cozily half-asleep. I slid my hands down my softening chest and let them come to rest on my gloriously protruding belly. It was hugely swollen, tight as a drum, warm and heavy and aching. I felt sated, as if I'd met some need deep within myself. My stomach was stuffed to bursting and it felt so very good.
Beside me, Suzanne lay on her side, knees drawn slightly up, cradling her own triumphantly bloated tummy. I slid my bleared gaze sideways and beheld my love. Her face was flushed, her curls damp around the edges of her lovely face. She was blinking slowly, dopily, and her lips curved in a smile.
Her right hand was tucked under the pillow, but her left hand was draped on her firmly distended belly, pale and taut. Gurgles and squeaks of digestive effort emanated from within, and it was clear that Suzanne was as stupefyingly glutted as I was.
No words were needed. With grunts of effort, I turned on to my own side and began to gently massage her stretched and roseate flesh, and she nuzzled into my chest. We were both achingly full, moving cautiously, but it didn't take long to discover that it feels much better when someone else is massaging that aforementioned achingly full gut. And other areas.
That weekend was fabulous. Terrific, memorable meals at which we all ate far too much; long walks with Suzanne and me hand in hand or hip to hip; the companionable drive home.
Once back on campus we returned (sigh) to discretion, which meant not nearly enough face time, but Christmas break loomed only two weeks off. According to the official line that I put out, I was to spend the break with my brother in Portland. (I did have a brother in Portland, but he wasn't getting a month of my time.) Suzanne was “going back to Seattle.” (She wasn't.) We'd found a house for sale in Redding that the owners, now living in New Mexico, were willing to let us lease for a month. We were going to have a month (less a few days of familial obligation) together, far from interested campus gossips.
It was heavenly. We made our plans for the coming semester, we took long hikes, we snuggled in front of the fire, we watched DVDs and holiday specials, we stayed busy between the sheets.
And we ate. Did we ever. Suzanne busied herself turning out cookies of all description, and since there was no one to share them with, we were obligated to dispose of them ourselves. Not to mention breakfast, lunch, and dinner (those long walks have a way of cranking up the appetite). With great longing, we parted to go to our respective families and our respective Christmas dinners, at which, we later reported to each other, we had each eaten ourselves into a coma.
Bottom line (ha), when we returned to campus in January, Suzanne was standing around one-eighty, and I clocked in at a solid two-and-a-quarter. We escaped comment about our weight because everyone gains weight over the holidays. We escaped comment about our relationship because we were still being very, very discreet.
Until spring break. It only took a word in the email inboxes of a few individuals to spread the word to the rest of the English and history departments and thence to most of the liberal arts arena. We were Engaged. Surprise. Awe, even. Both at Suzanne's blossoming and at how no one had had a clue.
Laughing, we fled campus for the airport and a week in Baja California. While the Christmas break in Redding had been heavenly, a week in the sun at the beach was stratospheric. I took deep delight in the view of my beloved in a bikini, rocking the two-piece and showing off two hundred and fifteen gorgeous pounds. Breasts spilling forth below an invitingly soft chin; gently lapping folds of tummy concealing that adorable navel; glorious hips – hips unparalleled in history – hips that defined womanhood; a sweetly rounded bottom, soft and welcoming. Temptingly velvet thighs, swooping curves of calf, freshly pedicured little piggies to tickle and nibble.
Suzanne swore in return that she delighted in every one of my two hundred sixty pounds: my chubby cheeks and double chin, a hammock of flesh snuggling below my dimpled jaw; my pecs, cushioned atop firm muscles, on which she liked to pillow her curly head; my smooth round belly that folded into spare tires when recumbent; my backside, which she termed “lovely squashy”; my tree-trunk thighs emerging from my swim shorts. When I was wearing them.
It was with reluctance that we parted from the sun, the sand, the beach Cali-Mex cuisine, and returned to campus... but with not as much reluctance as one might imagine, because in just a few weeks we would be married in the campus chapel.
And so we were. Beneath the rose window streaming in the May sunlight; the slender steeple pointing heavenward; the flowers exploding into bloom. As had Suzanne.
