Meaning Well

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

PLEASE READ THIS NOTE BEFORE READING STORY. Like "The Seven-Year Itch," this is also a gay-themed BHM WG story. Please do not read if this offends you. Otherwise, enjoy! BBD

Jack was so absorbed in the rhythm of the waves that he didn’t hear someone coming up beside him.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” the stranger said.
Jack started, then turned. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “It is.”
“Good party,” the stranger offered. “How long have you known Zach and Will?”
“Um.” Jack stammered. How long had he known Zach and Will? Oh, duh. “Will and I met in med school,” he said. He wasn’t usually so tongue-tied, but he didn’t usually run into such good-looking guys.

The stranger looked to be in his mid-twenties. Tall, maybe six feet, he had short black hair, damp and tousled, and rosy cheeks, like a kid’s in summer. He wore a blue button-down shirt unbuttoned at the top and cuffs and tucked in to a pair of dark blue trousers. His face was appealingly plump, round cheeks and a modest double chin, and his abdomen protruded, a bulge that curved downward, cinctured by his waistband. He stuck out his hand. “My name’s Morgan O’Connell,” he said.
“Jack Tillson,” Jack offered.
“What kind of doctor are you?” Morgan asked. “Hey, where are my manners.” He gestured toward Jack’s empty cup. “Get you a refill?”
“Thanks,” Jack replied. “Rum and Coke.”
When Morgan returned, Jack took the cup. “Thanks,” he said again. “Gastroenterologist.”
Morgan laughed. “Say that after a few of those.” He paused. “Zach and I go to the same gym,” he offered.
Jack raised his eyebrows, recognition dawning. “Oh. Morgan O’Connell!” he said. “When Will invited me, he said to be sure to meet you.”
Morgan frowned. “Why so?”
Jack blushed and looked into his cup. “Cause Will, uh, knows I really like big guys.” He looked up. “Will let me cry on his shoulder after I broke up with a guy we both knew in med school. That’s when I told him. It’s the first time I ever told anyone. It just sounds so ….”

“Weird?”
“Yeah,” Jack exhaled. “Weird.”
“Why?” Morgan said straightforwardly. “You like what you like.” He paused. “Want to go somewhere quieter?”
“Jack drained his cup. “Sure.”
They meandered down the beach to Morgan’s small cottage, filled with books. “I’m a lexicographer,” Morgan explained. “I work for Webster’s.”
“The dictionary people?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s that pay?”
Morgan snorted. “Not that well. I have a kind of a trust fund.”
He sat down next to Jack on the sofa, letting his soft hand rest on Jack’s thigh. “Like movies?”
“Love them.”
Morgan rose and put “Bagger Vance” in. He flopped back down, puffing a little, and they settled in to watch. Jack dozed off and on. When he awoke, fully awoke, dawn was hinting and Jack was horizontal, a blanket covering him and his shoes off.

Morgan padded out wearing boxer shorts and a tantalizingly snug T-shirt. The sight made Jack’s morning woody stiffen even further.
“Um, good morning,” he offered, embarrassed.
“Morning,” Morgan said cheerfully. “Do you like to do the Sunday Times crossword?”
“No,” Jack replied. “I like to make a balls-up of doing the Sunday Times crossword.”
Delighted, Morgan laughed, throwing back his head, belly shaking. “The paper’s on the stoop,” he said. He crossed over and dropped a kiss lightly on Jack’s tousled head before heading into the kitchen to make coffee.

Over English muffins, fruit and strong coffee, Morgan spilled out a little of his biography. “My father died five years ago, and my mother – Social Register all the way – has finally reconciled herself to having a gay son, even though she can’t quite say the word. “Morgan’s just different, she says.” He took a swallow of coffee. “I think it insults her that I’m fat too. But she’s a good soul at heart. She means well.”
Jack choked on his coffee. “Pat Robertson means well.”

Morgan lived in a small but airy studio apartment in the Chelsea section of New York – only six blocks from Jack, it turned out. He gave Jack a ride back to the city, pulling up as the sun set. Both wanted to keep company some more, but both were tired. They parted with a kiss and a promise to call.
It was Tuesday before Jack had time. Morgan answered on the third ring, breathless. “I was in the shower,” he explained, and Jack’s lower parts contracted pleasurably at the thought of Morgan’s soft pink body naked.
They agreed to meet at a pizzeria where the food was cheap but good, the thin slices of New York pizza heavy with oil and homemade tomato sauce.
Jack wasn’t a big eater, but he encouraged Morgan. Pleased to have an audience that was not only not disapproving of his size but in fact attracted to it, Morgan managed six big slices and three large tumblers of Coke.
It took him three tries to manage to stand. His polo shirt strained over a hugely distended belly, swollen taut and heavily sagging over his overworked waistband. His face shone and his cheeks were reddened. He pressed a hand to his bulging midriff, trying to stifle a belch but failing. “Overfilled the tank,” he said, half-apologetically.
”And a very nice tank it is,” Jack responded, coming around behind him and slipping his arm around Morgan’s waist. He gently poked the edge of the bloated tummy beside him, surprised at how little give there was.
Automatically, they held hands as they strolled – slowly, out of deference to Morgan’s aching stomach – back to Morgan’s apartment. There, they talked for hours as though they’d known each other forever, and it was the most natural thing in the world for them both to climb into the king-size bed. For Morgan, it was ecstasy; for Jack, it was like coming home.

It was only six weeks later, on the beach outside Morgan’s cottage, that Jack felt bold enough to speak up. “Morgan,” he said, “if we could get married, would you?”
Morgan, half-asleep, sat up, blinking. “Yes,” he said without hesitation. Then, “But I keep thinking you’ll leave me if I get any fatter.”
“As a doctor,” Jack said, “I should encourage you to lose weight. But you work out regularly and vigorously, and your numbers are all pretty good. You probably don’t want to get too big, but personally, I’d like to see that gorgeous tummy get rounder.” He patted the tummy in question, the waistline perceptibly thicker since they’d started going out.
“You mean it?” Morgan said. He laid his hand over Jack’s on his belly. “Cause I’d really like to get up to 300.”
“I do mean it,” Jack said. “All of it.”
Morgan was now fully awake. “I’ve been offered a job in Boston,” he said slowly. “We could get married there. If … you didn’t mind … moving.”
“I’d go anywhere to be with you,” Jack said. “I’m a doctor. There’s always work.”

The rest happened with surprising swiftness. They bought a house in Cambridge and Jack got a job at a gastroenterology clinic. They took their time planning a ceremony and were married the Saturday before Thanksgiving. Jack’s family had cut him off when he came out of the closet, and he hadn’t spoken to any of them in years. Morgan’s mother attended the ceremony, have them a very nice coffee maker, and invited them to Thanksgiving dinner. Morgan’s brother and sister and their families were all matter-of-fact about it, and the day turned out to be a surprisingly enjoyable one.

Jack took proprietary pleasure in Morgan’s plate, keeping it full, and Morgan, feeling freer than he ever had, steadily emptied it. Afterward, alone on the sun porch, they sank back, feet up. Morgan had loosened his belt two notches and unbuttoned his pants. He patted his swollen and aching belly, producing a loud belch. Jack beamed. “Good air in, bad air out,” he said.
Morgan belched again. “Ate too much.” His distended abdomen made a hollow thudding sound.
“You can get to 300,” Jack said encouragingly. “Where are you now?”
”Before or after (hic!) dinner?”
Jack laughed. “Before.”
“Two-fifty,” Morgan admitted. “Thirty pounds since we met in May.”
“You can do it,” Jack repeated.
“You sure (urrp) you (urp) want me to?”
“I told you,” Jack said. “Back in May. I, uh, I like big guys.” He stretched a hand out and lovingly patted Morgan’s growing tummy.