Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, ~~WG, ~Gay - Will a festival of food be what it takes for a control freak to give in to the pleasures of overindulgence?
I leaned back in the chair. Try as I might, I couldnt fasten the jeans that I had unbuttoned (and unzipped) almost without thinking somewhere before dessert. Before two large slices of pumpkin pie. Which wouldnt have been so damaging all alone except that the disgraceful amount of dessert was landing on top of an awful lot of turkey. And ham, asparagus, corn pudding, Brussels sprouts, crescent rolls, orange-nut bread, broccoli au gratin, scalloped potatoes, cranberries, mashed potatoes, stuffing lots of stuffing gravy, and three tall glasses of lemonade.
I was stuffed to the brim. My achingly distended stomach now that Id stopped shoveling food into it was sending out serious distress signals. My poor tummy was aching, and no wonder, Id pounded an awful lot of holiday dinner into it. My sides tugged and stretched as though hard at work forming love handles; my belly, bloated and tender, sagged, warm and heavy, and at the same time firmly taut, my shirt straining to cover the bulge.
Now Eric was perched on the arm of the chair, laughing at me.
What? I said, piteously. I hiccupped.
Poor Evan, he said, prodding at the swollen circumference. I was stuffed so full that my belly didnt even wobble, as it usually did just a little, around the navel, I should cut back on the beer but was protruding mercilessly out beyond my undone jeans, gorged and taut. My go-to weight of 190 was probably well past 200 at the moment.
Atehictoo much, I mumbled, stating the obvious.
Well, why ever? He stopped prodding thank God and leaned into me, draping his arm around the top of the chair.
Didnt mean to, did I? I could hear the whine in my voice. Hic. Just sort of happened.
Eric snorted. Then dont. How hard is that? Unconsciously, he laid a hand against his own, still flat, belly. He was vainly proud of keeping his weight at 175 and not a tick higher.
Eric and I had been together for more than a year, and most of the time I loved him so much I could scarcely stand it. But he did have the occasional moment of a total lack of sympathy, and this was one of them.
I was so stuffed I was half-asleep, so I suppose I wasnt thinking too clearly. But some tiny part of my brain thought about wondering if hed ever been in a situation where he had eaten more than he meant to. Was it possible? One of the aspects of Erics personality that I loved was also one that occasionally drove me bats: Regardless of the circumstances, he was always in control. I loved the confidence and level head it gave him, and occasionally I hated the fact that he seemed never to lose it like the rest of us mortals.
My mind began to work. It would be difficult, I knew that. Wed just survived Thanksgiving dinner, and on that day famous for gorging, Eric had restrained himself. If Id been foolish enough to ask him, he would have said (a little smugly) that he had eaten just enough, and then stopped.
I continued to mull over the possibilities for quite a while. (Im a patient man by nature.) We both picked up a little pudge around the middle in December, where tins of cookies appear out of thin air and holiday parties sprout and multiply. Christmas dinner at Erics parents house (my mother, widowed several years, always traveled at Christmas), was a rerun of Thanksgiving. I ate far, far too much, seemingly incapable of stopping even as I could tell I was becoming uncomfortably full but the tempting foods that appeared so seldom were so delicious I needed one more taste and one more and one more.
Eric was quiet, though I dont think he was quite as gorged and sated as I was, but he was visibly stuffed. He was sprawled out in a corner of the sofa, hands resting lightly on his holiday-softened belly, occasionally suppressing a belch.
January came and Eric slipped off his extra holiday weight like shucking off a winter coat. February and March plodded along. I was still mulling. (You thought Id forgotten, didnt you?)
Finally it dawned on me. The food festival! Our city held a huge one on the second Saturday in April every year, and every year we attended. One way or another, I would get Eric to sample far more than he usually did. A bite of pappadam, a tiny, harmless potsticker, a little cup of leek soup, a gulp or two of avgolemono, a few little microbrews hed be full without knowing it. If he would admit to eating more than hed intended, I would at last have a comeback.
Notice I didnt mention peeling off my holiday weight. I didnt. Once pounds find me, they stay and invite friends. While Eric can sneeze and lose three pounds, I could subsist on a microscopic intake for a week and gain half a pound. Id long ago accepted that I was going to hover somewhere between pudgy and stout. Eric loved me, I loved Eric, and that was okay. But I would enjoy getting one up on the man who Never Lost Control.
Luckily, Eric loved our tradition as much as I did. Time I padded out for a cup of coffee on the Saturday in question, he was showered, shaved and dressed. He looked so good I immediately got hard just by walking into the kitchen and seeing him perched on a stool at the island.
Eric is tall and slender, with broad shoulders and a mop of dark hair. Today he wore retro shorts you remember those white-piped cotton shorts from the early 80s? and a T shirt that fitted him very well, thank you.
I sluggishly got my act together and shlumped my way into jeans I could still just button and a shirt that used to be looser.
It was a perfect day sunny, a cool breeze, and the park wall to wall booths. Eric grinned at me. I grinned at him. Neither of us had to say a word, but went straight to our work, very methodically.
Fried pickles. Pickled beets. Beet soup. Souper potato bites. Bite-you-back poppers. Popcorn shrimp. Shrimp-and-grits. Grits cakes. Cakes of crab, cakes of vegetables, cakes of fried conch, a dizzying spread. And just a bite here, a nibble there, each booth offering tiny samples. Would those samples add up? More to the point, would we manage to take a sample from all 100 booths? Wed always pooped out somewhere in the 70s before.
Eric and I were both up to the challenge. At least I knew I was. Wasnt I?
By noon, though, I had to admit I was feeling a little queasy. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead and my already-swollen tummy was rumbling and rolling. My lips stung with a mélange of flavors, and my jeans, which had done me no favors, were pinching unmercifully.
I glanced at Eric, who was happily downing a cruller.
Full yet? I made my tone light and teasing.
Eric patted his belly, which, I had to admit, looked pretty full.
Not even close, he boasted, and strode with deliberate quickness to the next booth, which offered full-sized egg rolls.
Take, take, the tiny woman urged, and Eric downed two in a breath, while I was puffing, needing a minute, waiting for an overdue belch to rumble up before taking another bite.
I finally finished it off, only to see Eric quickly downing one, two, three, four samples of different microbrews at the next booth and laughing at me. The man was never going to falter. I wasnt sure I could make the rounds, never mind getting Eric to just once admit having overeaten.
Somewhere around the churros, we ran into an old friend of mine, Amy Santos. Eric had never liked her, and consequently wed lost touch. But we fell right into conversation. Eventually Eric tapped my shoulder.
Im going ahead. Catch up?
Yeah, go. I patted his back as he loped on, then Amy and I continued chatting.
By the time we parted, Eric was a good half dozen booths ahead of me. I trotted from booth to booth, forgetting my increasing fullness in my race to catch up.
Or almost forgetting.
By this time, wed visited more than 80 booths, and my stomach, unmistakably gorged and aching, kept reminding me that even it had limits, limits upon which I was encroaching.
I determinedly plowed through the samples, finally reaching Eric. He swallowed a bite of pickled eel and paused to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. Then he grimaced.
What? I asked.
Mm. Hic. Those egg rolls, he said, a little sheepishly. He thumped his sternum. He rested his hand on his stomach as I worked up the courage to taste the eel.
A surreptitious glance told me what I wanted to know. The well-fitting T shirt was now definitely snugged over a bulging belly. I thought I could detect a little strain in the waistband of his shorts. He was not just full he was stuffed. This was past the point at which he would usually announce that hed eaten all he wanted to and was I finished? I would give in and we would stroll out of the fair together.
I pushed the envelope.
Had enough?
I am full, he said. I should probably stop. For Eric, I should probably was invariably followed by, Yup, Im whatever-it-was.
Those chocolate things at the next booth look awfully good, he said slowly. And theres beer-smoked sausage a few booths down. How do they even do that?
I bit my tongue. His desires were at war with his control. Et tu, Eric? Et eighty-tu?
He slid his arm around my waist. Cmon. You love chocolate.
It was after two by the time we finally staggered away from the last booth. Wed walked the eight blocks to the fair that morning, but by mutual silent consent we returned by taxi. Back in the apartment, we kicked off our shoes and in a daze made to sit down. I sank onto the old, comfortably worn leather sofa, and Eric into the club chair.
I waited.
Eric, eyes half closed, was steadily rubbing his belly, which looked swollen and tender, bulging tautly below his T shirt.
Mmm. Hic. Oh. Might have overdone-hic-a little. Ufhhh, he moaned.
Any desire I had for one-upmanship was tucked away for now, on two counts. One, Eric really did look a little green around the gills; and two, I was sluggishly stuffed myself.
Grunting with effort, I stood up. We should go lie down. Mrp. Eric obediently followed me. Wordlessly we stripped down, turned on the ceiling fan, and carefully lowered ourselves onto the king-sized bed. Invariably, what started as solicitous attention to our own gorged and swollen tummies turned to tending to each others poor stuffed bellies. By the time we coupled, languidly, logy and sated both with desire and food, it felt as though we were moving underwater.
It was only after it was over and we lay snuggled together that we considered the phenomenon.
Eric hiccupped. Mm. Hic. Ate too much, he grunted, gently patting his bloated and bulging stomach.
Mmmh? I tried to sound uninterested.
Kind of fun, wasnt it.
Mmmyeah Noncommittal.
I should have stopped somewhere around the egg rolls hic! but I really wanted to try those chocolate things. And the sausages. He hiccupped again, pressing a hand to his distended belly.
Here, let me. I turned onto my side and gently began massaging his belly, finding pleasure and arousal in the taut heaviness of it, the warm engorgement. Wordlessly he turned onto his side and I pressed my own aching and tender gut against his back, shuddering in the pleasant distress the mild pressure produced.
When we coupled again it was not languid but almost frantic, fast and grasping, gasping, desperate, as though we were grabbing something lovely and elusive.
Afterward, as our breathing slowed, I laid my hand on his belly. Still bloated and firm, still warmly full, and now slick with perspiration.
It can be fun sometimes not being in control, I said, tentatively.
Silence. He knew I wasnt talking about the sex.
It can feel good, he said, his hand gliding as if on its own up and down my own swollen and aching stomach.
That Thanksgiving, Eric needed no prompting. He matched me plate for plate and afterward, khakis undone, he sank onto the sofa next to me and groaned in replete bliss.
Of course, by now it took a lot more Thanksgiving dinner for either of us to have stuffed ourselves to bursting. The 175 pounds Eric had once so stubbornly held to were history, long eclipsed. These days, he clocked in somewhere around 215. Erics handsome face now boasted apple cheeks and hints of a second chin. His still-firm pecs had a layer of appealing softness, and his once-taut belly was now invitingly cushioned, a double stack of love handles, a cute paunch.
Also eclipsed was his fanatical control. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, he had become over the last six or eight months far less restrained and measured and much more cheerfully impulsive. Since the day of the food fair, God bless it, wed taken no fewer than six spur-of-the-moment weekend vacations.
And you know that one always puts on just a little weight on vacations. I still outweighed Eric, although I figured he would catch up eventually. I now toted around 240, depending on the season. My chin had a mate; my pecs were now soft and cuddly, Eric said and demonstrated often; and my gut flowed gravid and soft, a round protrusion resting on a good grabbable pair of love handles, which Eric, bless him, grabbed early and often.
Not to mention, that memorable food fair had brought us another unexpected gift: a new code phrase, the mere utterance of which stirred our arousal.
Eric tilted his head toward mine and murmured it now into my ear.
I think I would like to lose control.
Full as we both were, in record time we were up off the sofa and headed for the bedroom.
Losing Control
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
"I'm about to lose control,
and I think I like it..."
--Trevor Lawrence and the Pointer Sisters
I leaned back in the chair. Try as I might, I couldnt fasten the jeans that I had unbuttoned (and unzipped) almost without thinking somewhere before dessert. Before two large slices of pumpkin pie. Which wouldnt have been so damaging all alone except that the disgraceful amount of dessert was landing on top of an awful lot of turkey. And ham, asparagus, corn pudding, Brussels sprouts, crescent rolls, orange-nut bread, broccoli au gratin, scalloped potatoes, cranberries, mashed potatoes, stuffing lots of stuffing gravy, and three tall glasses of lemonade.
I was stuffed to the brim. My achingly distended stomach now that Id stopped shoveling food into it was sending out serious distress signals. My poor tummy was aching, and no wonder, Id pounded an awful lot of holiday dinner into it. My sides tugged and stretched as though hard at work forming love handles; my belly, bloated and tender, sagged, warm and heavy, and at the same time firmly taut, my shirt straining to cover the bulge.
Now Eric was perched on the arm of the chair, laughing at me.
What? I said, piteously. I hiccupped.
Poor Evan, he said, prodding at the swollen circumference. I was stuffed so full that my belly didnt even wobble, as it usually did just a little, around the navel, I should cut back on the beer but was protruding mercilessly out beyond my undone jeans, gorged and taut. My go-to weight of 190 was probably well past 200 at the moment.
Atehictoo much, I mumbled, stating the obvious.
Well, why ever? He stopped prodding thank God and leaned into me, draping his arm around the top of the chair.
Didnt mean to, did I? I could hear the whine in my voice. Hic. Just sort of happened.
Eric snorted. Then dont. How hard is that? Unconsciously, he laid a hand against his own, still flat, belly. He was vainly proud of keeping his weight at 175 and not a tick higher.
Eric and I had been together for more than a year, and most of the time I loved him so much I could scarcely stand it. But he did have the occasional moment of a total lack of sympathy, and this was one of them.
I was so stuffed I was half-asleep, so I suppose I wasnt thinking too clearly. But some tiny part of my brain thought about wondering if hed ever been in a situation where he had eaten more than he meant to. Was it possible? One of the aspects of Erics personality that I loved was also one that occasionally drove me bats: Regardless of the circumstances, he was always in control. I loved the confidence and level head it gave him, and occasionally I hated the fact that he seemed never to lose it like the rest of us mortals.
My mind began to work. It would be difficult, I knew that. Wed just survived Thanksgiving dinner, and on that day famous for gorging, Eric had restrained himself. If Id been foolish enough to ask him, he would have said (a little smugly) that he had eaten just enough, and then stopped.
I continued to mull over the possibilities for quite a while. (Im a patient man by nature.) We both picked up a little pudge around the middle in December, where tins of cookies appear out of thin air and holiday parties sprout and multiply. Christmas dinner at Erics parents house (my mother, widowed several years, always traveled at Christmas), was a rerun of Thanksgiving. I ate far, far too much, seemingly incapable of stopping even as I could tell I was becoming uncomfortably full but the tempting foods that appeared so seldom were so delicious I needed one more taste and one more and one more.
Eric was quiet, though I dont think he was quite as gorged and sated as I was, but he was visibly stuffed. He was sprawled out in a corner of the sofa, hands resting lightly on his holiday-softened belly, occasionally suppressing a belch.
January came and Eric slipped off his extra holiday weight like shucking off a winter coat. February and March plodded along. I was still mulling. (You thought Id forgotten, didnt you?)
Finally it dawned on me. The food festival! Our city held a huge one on the second Saturday in April every year, and every year we attended. One way or another, I would get Eric to sample far more than he usually did. A bite of pappadam, a tiny, harmless potsticker, a little cup of leek soup, a gulp or two of avgolemono, a few little microbrews hed be full without knowing it. If he would admit to eating more than hed intended, I would at last have a comeback.
Notice I didnt mention peeling off my holiday weight. I didnt. Once pounds find me, they stay and invite friends. While Eric can sneeze and lose three pounds, I could subsist on a microscopic intake for a week and gain half a pound. Id long ago accepted that I was going to hover somewhere between pudgy and stout. Eric loved me, I loved Eric, and that was okay. But I would enjoy getting one up on the man who Never Lost Control.
Luckily, Eric loved our tradition as much as I did. Time I padded out for a cup of coffee on the Saturday in question, he was showered, shaved and dressed. He looked so good I immediately got hard just by walking into the kitchen and seeing him perched on a stool at the island.
Eric is tall and slender, with broad shoulders and a mop of dark hair. Today he wore retro shorts you remember those white-piped cotton shorts from the early 80s? and a T shirt that fitted him very well, thank you.
I sluggishly got my act together and shlumped my way into jeans I could still just button and a shirt that used to be looser.
It was a perfect day sunny, a cool breeze, and the park wall to wall booths. Eric grinned at me. I grinned at him. Neither of us had to say a word, but went straight to our work, very methodically.
Fried pickles. Pickled beets. Beet soup. Souper potato bites. Bite-you-back poppers. Popcorn shrimp. Shrimp-and-grits. Grits cakes. Cakes of crab, cakes of vegetables, cakes of fried conch, a dizzying spread. And just a bite here, a nibble there, each booth offering tiny samples. Would those samples add up? More to the point, would we manage to take a sample from all 100 booths? Wed always pooped out somewhere in the 70s before.
Eric and I were both up to the challenge. At least I knew I was. Wasnt I?
By noon, though, I had to admit I was feeling a little queasy. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead and my already-swollen tummy was rumbling and rolling. My lips stung with a mélange of flavors, and my jeans, which had done me no favors, were pinching unmercifully.
I glanced at Eric, who was happily downing a cruller.
Full yet? I made my tone light and teasing.
Eric patted his belly, which, I had to admit, looked pretty full.
Not even close, he boasted, and strode with deliberate quickness to the next booth, which offered full-sized egg rolls.
Take, take, the tiny woman urged, and Eric downed two in a breath, while I was puffing, needing a minute, waiting for an overdue belch to rumble up before taking another bite.
I finally finished it off, only to see Eric quickly downing one, two, three, four samples of different microbrews at the next booth and laughing at me. The man was never going to falter. I wasnt sure I could make the rounds, never mind getting Eric to just once admit having overeaten.
Somewhere around the churros, we ran into an old friend of mine, Amy Santos. Eric had never liked her, and consequently wed lost touch. But we fell right into conversation. Eventually Eric tapped my shoulder.
Im going ahead. Catch up?
Yeah, go. I patted his back as he loped on, then Amy and I continued chatting.
By the time we parted, Eric was a good half dozen booths ahead of me. I trotted from booth to booth, forgetting my increasing fullness in my race to catch up.
Or almost forgetting.
By this time, wed visited more than 80 booths, and my stomach, unmistakably gorged and aching, kept reminding me that even it had limits, limits upon which I was encroaching.
I determinedly plowed through the samples, finally reaching Eric. He swallowed a bite of pickled eel and paused to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. Then he grimaced.
What? I asked.
Mm. Hic. Those egg rolls, he said, a little sheepishly. He thumped his sternum. He rested his hand on his stomach as I worked up the courage to taste the eel.
A surreptitious glance told me what I wanted to know. The well-fitting T shirt was now definitely snugged over a bulging belly. I thought I could detect a little strain in the waistband of his shorts. He was not just full he was stuffed. This was past the point at which he would usually announce that hed eaten all he wanted to and was I finished? I would give in and we would stroll out of the fair together.
I pushed the envelope.
Had enough?
I am full, he said. I should probably stop. For Eric, I should probably was invariably followed by, Yup, Im whatever-it-was.
Those chocolate things at the next booth look awfully good, he said slowly. And theres beer-smoked sausage a few booths down. How do they even do that?
I bit my tongue. His desires were at war with his control. Et tu, Eric? Et eighty-tu?
He slid his arm around my waist. Cmon. You love chocolate.
It was after two by the time we finally staggered away from the last booth. Wed walked the eight blocks to the fair that morning, but by mutual silent consent we returned by taxi. Back in the apartment, we kicked off our shoes and in a daze made to sit down. I sank onto the old, comfortably worn leather sofa, and Eric into the club chair.
I waited.
Eric, eyes half closed, was steadily rubbing his belly, which looked swollen and tender, bulging tautly below his T shirt.
Mmm. Hic. Oh. Might have overdone-hic-a little. Ufhhh, he moaned.
Any desire I had for one-upmanship was tucked away for now, on two counts. One, Eric really did look a little green around the gills; and two, I was sluggishly stuffed myself.
Grunting with effort, I stood up. We should go lie down. Mrp. Eric obediently followed me. Wordlessly we stripped down, turned on the ceiling fan, and carefully lowered ourselves onto the king-sized bed. Invariably, what started as solicitous attention to our own gorged and swollen tummies turned to tending to each others poor stuffed bellies. By the time we coupled, languidly, logy and sated both with desire and food, it felt as though we were moving underwater.
It was only after it was over and we lay snuggled together that we considered the phenomenon.
Eric hiccupped. Mm. Hic. Ate too much, he grunted, gently patting his bloated and bulging stomach.
Mmmh? I tried to sound uninterested.
Kind of fun, wasnt it.
Mmmyeah Noncommittal.
I should have stopped somewhere around the egg rolls hic! but I really wanted to try those chocolate things. And the sausages. He hiccupped again, pressing a hand to his distended belly.
Here, let me. I turned onto my side and gently began massaging his belly, finding pleasure and arousal in the taut heaviness of it, the warm engorgement. Wordlessly he turned onto his side and I pressed my own aching and tender gut against his back, shuddering in the pleasant distress the mild pressure produced.
When we coupled again it was not languid but almost frantic, fast and grasping, gasping, desperate, as though we were grabbing something lovely and elusive.
Afterward, as our breathing slowed, I laid my hand on his belly. Still bloated and firm, still warmly full, and now slick with perspiration.
It can be fun sometimes not being in control, I said, tentatively.
Silence. He knew I wasnt talking about the sex.
It can feel good, he said, his hand gliding as if on its own up and down my own swollen and aching stomach.
That Thanksgiving, Eric needed no prompting. He matched me plate for plate and afterward, khakis undone, he sank onto the sofa next to me and groaned in replete bliss.
Of course, by now it took a lot more Thanksgiving dinner for either of us to have stuffed ourselves to bursting. The 175 pounds Eric had once so stubbornly held to were history, long eclipsed. These days, he clocked in somewhere around 215. Erics handsome face now boasted apple cheeks and hints of a second chin. His still-firm pecs had a layer of appealing softness, and his once-taut belly was now invitingly cushioned, a double stack of love handles, a cute paunch.
Also eclipsed was his fanatical control. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, he had become over the last six or eight months far less restrained and measured and much more cheerfully impulsive. Since the day of the food fair, God bless it, wed taken no fewer than six spur-of-the-moment weekend vacations.
And you know that one always puts on just a little weight on vacations. I still outweighed Eric, although I figured he would catch up eventually. I now toted around 240, depending on the season. My chin had a mate; my pecs were now soft and cuddly, Eric said and demonstrated often; and my gut flowed gravid and soft, a round protrusion resting on a good grabbable pair of love handles, which Eric, bless him, grabbed early and often.
Not to mention, that memorable food fair had brought us another unexpected gift: a new code phrase, the mere utterance of which stirred our arousal.
Eric tilted his head toward mine and murmured it now into my ear.
I think I would like to lose control.
Full as we both were, in record time we were up off the sofa and headed for the bedroom.
