Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, ~BBW, ~~WG - A bookstore owner finds herself falling for a guy who helps her write a new description of beauty.
Okay, so maybe it’s a stereotype. Hell – it’s definitely a stereotype – but my gay friend James is the best cook I’ve ever known. Every year he throws a ginormous Thanksgiving dinner party. My only job is to bring the wine. Which I do. We make up a loose confederation of a dozen or so strays. From year to year the cast changes a little, but there’s always enough overlap for familiarity.
As always, the dinner was laid out along James and Nick’s pride and joy, an antique dining table that seated eighteen. They’d moved away the extra chairs to give us all a little elbow room, but as for space on the table itself, forget it. James got everyone’s attention, decreed that the dishes should be passed counterclockwise, and we dove in.
I ate happily, slowly, savoring food and conversation. Dipped into a debate about Congress, took some more stuffing, listened happily to a conversation about rugby, my knowledge of which was zero, grabbed some more cranberry relish as it went by, argued amiably with my right-hand neighbor, an estate jeweler, about the estate tax, and subconsciously felt myself becoming full.
My jeans began to pinch, which they hadn’t that morning. I shifted in my chair, conscious that my stomach was already pretty full, but everything was so good I wanted the tastes in my mouth. My belly was saying, “No, stop, ow” and my mouth was saying, “Stuffing, yams, gravy.”
My mouth won.
I ate my way through several platefuls of mind-bendingly yummy stuff while finding myself deep in conversation with a newbie, a bookstore owner named Margo. We agreed that yes, James Frey was a sham, but David Sedaris’ pitiless honesty was poignant, funny and sad at the same time, mmmmm stuffing accidentally mixing with cranberry relish. I confessed that I was a sucker for memoirs, whether they were by someone famous for other things or just someone with an interesting life story ohgod gravy swirling into the yams and a few shreds of dark meat clinging to the fork.
By the time everyone slowed down and began to drift into the living room, I was past full, past stuffed, lightheaded with the swollen ache of my gorged belly. Having gotten, with a grunt of effort, to my feet, I couldn’t face the idea of sitting down again and having that suddenly tight waistband slicing into my bloated and tender gut. I undid the button and tugged the zipper down, conscious of a sweet moment of relief even as it registered that the liberation didn’t make my aching stomach any less distended or any less stuffed.
I sank into a large easy chair and unthinkingly rested a hand on my belly. Bulging, firm, warm, it felt like a lead weight, but in a good way, too heavy but also satisfyingly replete.
Margo, of course, had noticed that I had to undo my jeans.
“You’re not the only one,” she said, her full mouth quirking into a grin. She glanced around. “We’re all stuffed.” She was wearing a mulberry cotton dress, and though it was loosely cut, I could see a taut mound of tummy below the fabric. I had followed her glance and seen that several others had indeed undone their trousers or at least their belts.
My overloaded stomach gurgled audibly and without thinking I pressed down, as if that would stifle the noise.
“Oof. Hic. Ohhh.” Now that I had stopped actually eating, my aching stomach was sending up distress signals. My whole belly was stretched and sore, and I could feel all that turkey and stuffing jostling for space like the dishes on the table. Margo stood up and tugged me too my feet, and obediently I followed her out to James and Nick’s balcony, where the cool evening air was crisp enough to ensure us a little privacy.
“Here. Hic. Ooh. Here. Lie back,” she urged.
I sank onto a lounge chair and Margo sat on a footstool she’d pulled up next to it. Suddenly her soft, capable fingers were gently massaging my gorged and swollen belly, prompting a symphony of embarrassing noises she didn’t seem to hear, or if she did hear, didn’t mind.
Tacitly given permission to feel sorry for myself, I carried on groaning.
“Ohh … I’ve really got-hic-a stomach ache … oh, oh, right there … ow, not so hard … hic … mmm … oh, yeah, right there, that helps … urrp … urp … ohhh …”
I dozed off, a little ten-minute hibernation, and when I blinked into consciousness, I saw Margo leaning with her back to the balcony and one hand lazily massaging her own tummy bulge, the fabric sliding around and highlighting and hiding the evidence of her gluttony all at once. A surge of arousal coursed through me. I slammed my eyes shut and waited for it to ebb and then hauled myself upright, suddenly shivering in the cold.
“I smell coffee,” Margo said. I didn’t even bother to try to do up my jeans – I was still way too stuffed – but we went back in and opted for Russian tea instead, and, after a while, dreamily swallowed large heavenly slices of chocolate cream pie.
On Tuesday, after work, I hunted up Margo’s bookstore. The neat sign in the window proclaimed it to be open from noon to 9 p.m. Tuesdays through Saturdays.
“Hi! Um, um, Cameron, right?” Margo was beaming at me from behind the counter. She was perched on a stool, doing something, accounts probably, on a laptop.
“Right. And you’re Margo. No, no,” I said hastily, “I want to browse.” She went back to her accounts.
Bookstore patrons have their own unspoken courtesy. You don’t disrupt other patrons’ browsing, reading, or drifting. Celtic music played in the background. Patrons managed to avoid bumping into each other. From time to time I heard the beeps and chunks of a sale being rung up.
By 8:15 I was deep in an easy chair and deep into a memoir by a pimp’s daughter. Margo suddenly appeared by the arm of the chair. One look and, quite by accident, I was incapable of standing up.
True, Margo hadn’t just gorged on Thanksgiving dinner. But her pink top clung in all the right places, and her jeans were just a smidgen too snug, and I would have to call that a muffin top pooching at her waist.
She noticed my glance. “Yeah … these jeans will have to go, soon,” she said, a trace of regret in her voice.
Impulsively, I stood up, embraced her from behind, and slid a finger along the modest fold of tummy as I growled in her ear, “I’d love to see you without those jeans.”
She caught my unsubtle double meaning and giggled, laying a hand atop of mine and arresting the movement.
“Can I buy a starving bookseller some takeout after you close?” Oh, graceful, Cameron, graceful.
“Yes, please,” and then a customer came in, dammit.
One for the Books
By Big Beautiful Dreamer
Okay, so maybe it’s a stereotype. Hell – it’s definitely a stereotype – but my gay friend James is the best cook I’ve ever known. Every year he throws a ginormous Thanksgiving dinner party. My only job is to bring the wine. Which I do. We make up a loose confederation of a dozen or so strays. From year to year the cast changes a little, but there’s always enough overlap for familiarity.
As always, the dinner was laid out along James and Nick’s pride and joy, an antique dining table that seated eighteen. They’d moved away the extra chairs to give us all a little elbow room, but as for space on the table itself, forget it. James got everyone’s attention, decreed that the dishes should be passed counterclockwise, and we dove in.
I ate happily, slowly, savoring food and conversation. Dipped into a debate about Congress, took some more stuffing, listened happily to a conversation about rugby, my knowledge of which was zero, grabbed some more cranberry relish as it went by, argued amiably with my right-hand neighbor, an estate jeweler, about the estate tax, and subconsciously felt myself becoming full.
My jeans began to pinch, which they hadn’t that morning. I shifted in my chair, conscious that my stomach was already pretty full, but everything was so good I wanted the tastes in my mouth. My belly was saying, “No, stop, ow” and my mouth was saying, “Stuffing, yams, gravy.”
My mouth won.
I ate my way through several platefuls of mind-bendingly yummy stuff while finding myself deep in conversation with a newbie, a bookstore owner named Margo. We agreed that yes, James Frey was a sham, but David Sedaris’ pitiless honesty was poignant, funny and sad at the same time, mmmmm stuffing accidentally mixing with cranberry relish. I confessed that I was a sucker for memoirs, whether they were by someone famous for other things or just someone with an interesting life story ohgod gravy swirling into the yams and a few shreds of dark meat clinging to the fork.
By the time everyone slowed down and began to drift into the living room, I was past full, past stuffed, lightheaded with the swollen ache of my gorged belly. Having gotten, with a grunt of effort, to my feet, I couldn’t face the idea of sitting down again and having that suddenly tight waistband slicing into my bloated and tender gut. I undid the button and tugged the zipper down, conscious of a sweet moment of relief even as it registered that the liberation didn’t make my aching stomach any less distended or any less stuffed.
I sank into a large easy chair and unthinkingly rested a hand on my belly. Bulging, firm, warm, it felt like a lead weight, but in a good way, too heavy but also satisfyingly replete.
Margo, of course, had noticed that I had to undo my jeans.
“You’re not the only one,” she said, her full mouth quirking into a grin. She glanced around. “We’re all stuffed.” She was wearing a mulberry cotton dress, and though it was loosely cut, I could see a taut mound of tummy below the fabric. I had followed her glance and seen that several others had indeed undone their trousers or at least their belts.
My overloaded stomach gurgled audibly and without thinking I pressed down, as if that would stifle the noise.
“Oof. Hic. Ohhh.” Now that I had stopped actually eating, my aching stomach was sending up distress signals. My whole belly was stretched and sore, and I could feel all that turkey and stuffing jostling for space like the dishes on the table. Margo stood up and tugged me too my feet, and obediently I followed her out to James and Nick’s balcony, where the cool evening air was crisp enough to ensure us a little privacy.
“Here. Hic. Ooh. Here. Lie back,” she urged.
I sank onto a lounge chair and Margo sat on a footstool she’d pulled up next to it. Suddenly her soft, capable fingers were gently massaging my gorged and swollen belly, prompting a symphony of embarrassing noises she didn’t seem to hear, or if she did hear, didn’t mind.
Tacitly given permission to feel sorry for myself, I carried on groaning.
“Ohh … I’ve really got-hic-a stomach ache … oh, oh, right there … ow, not so hard … hic … mmm … oh, yeah, right there, that helps … urrp … urp … ohhh …”
I dozed off, a little ten-minute hibernation, and when I blinked into consciousness, I saw Margo leaning with her back to the balcony and one hand lazily massaging her own tummy bulge, the fabric sliding around and highlighting and hiding the evidence of her gluttony all at once. A surge of arousal coursed through me. I slammed my eyes shut and waited for it to ebb and then hauled myself upright, suddenly shivering in the cold.
“I smell coffee,” Margo said. I didn’t even bother to try to do up my jeans – I was still way too stuffed – but we went back in and opted for Russian tea instead, and, after a while, dreamily swallowed large heavenly slices of chocolate cream pie.
On Tuesday, after work, I hunted up Margo’s bookstore. The neat sign in the window proclaimed it to be open from noon to 9 p.m. Tuesdays through Saturdays.
“Hi! Um, um, Cameron, right?” Margo was beaming at me from behind the counter. She was perched on a stool, doing something, accounts probably, on a laptop.
“Right. And you’re Margo. No, no,” I said hastily, “I want to browse.” She went back to her accounts.
Bookstore patrons have their own unspoken courtesy. You don’t disrupt other patrons’ browsing, reading, or drifting. Celtic music played in the background. Patrons managed to avoid bumping into each other. From time to time I heard the beeps and chunks of a sale being rung up.
By 8:15 I was deep in an easy chair and deep into a memoir by a pimp’s daughter. Margo suddenly appeared by the arm of the chair. One look and, quite by accident, I was incapable of standing up.
True, Margo hadn’t just gorged on Thanksgiving dinner. But her pink top clung in all the right places, and her jeans were just a smidgen too snug, and I would have to call that a muffin top pooching at her waist.
She noticed my glance. “Yeah … these jeans will have to go, soon,” she said, a trace of regret in her voice.
Impulsively, I stood up, embraced her from behind, and slid a finger along the modest fold of tummy as I growled in her ear, “I’d love to see you without those jeans.”
She caught my unsubtle double meaning and giggled, laying a hand atop of mine and arresting the movement.
“Can I buy a starving bookseller some takeout after you close?” Oh, graceful, Cameron, graceful.
“Yes, please,” and then a customer came in, dammit.
