paternosteele
Member
~BHM, Stuffing, Intrigue, ~SWG - a free lance writer learns what it is to join the society of BBW/BHM and learns something about himself in the process..
Chapter One - First Saturday
The pilot signaled that we were about to land in Los Angeles; it was 11:39 local time, and I was about to begin a new adventure.
I had planned on this being a simple writing assignment, but in retrospect, my experiences this week have caused a sea change in my attitude about fat people. This is the story of that transition.
I’m a free lance writer, and several months ago, I heard that the editor of a certain size positive lifestyle magazine was looking for a writer to do a story on what it was like to be fat from the inside out.
The plan would not be to wear a fat suit for an afternoon, but really become fat. It intrigued me because I’d never understood why any woman could say “I believe I am pretty no matter what size I am. I love my body,” like someone did in the magazine’s forum recently.
The culmination of the assignment was to be attendance as a full-fledged, active participant in an upcoming “Rounders’ Roundup”. This California-based fat acceptance association called itself the Rounders, and it was their annual conference to seek new members and to have fellowship with each other. I was going to attend, not as a magazine reporter but as a fledgling member.
The magazine’s editor–as cheap as everyone knows he is–laid off the cost of this assignment through a contract with a somewhat dubious advertising producer. All my expenses would be underwritten by a company wanting “before” and “after” photos for its weight loss elixir. However, the photos would be taken in reverse order, the skinny (so-called “after”) ones at the beginning of the assignment and the corpulent (so-called “before”) shots at the end.
The company wanted a dramatic change. I was assured that my name would not be associated with this, and that there would be only a slight actual weight gain, even though for all intents and purposes, I would actually appear to be pretty fat. We had a week to replicate what was supposed to be a seven week regimen of the expensive weight loss product, although we were going to do it backwards.
I took the early morning flight from Richmond, where I live. I had spoken to my guide in this process, Gwen, a free lance photographer hired by the advertising producer. She explained that this was her fourth such assignment this year. She told me I was to carry a light jacket and wear a pair of well fitting jeans and a polo shirt, but that I didn’t need any other clothing, since she would supply what I needed. For the return trip, I would need a whole new outfit anyway. She also told me not to eat that morning. Since I had to be up at 4:00 am to make the flight, by the time we arrived in Los Angeles, I was really starved.
After the flight landed I made my way from the “steerage” section (remember the editor is really cheap) to the exit and met Gwen, 5'2"and looking maybe 100 lb., not what I had expected as a guide to getting fat. She had explained that she had been divorced a few years. Her ex-husband, she said, was about my height but considerably heavier. I’d weighed myself at 175 lb. before I left for the airport. She had told me that there was still quite a lot of his clothing at the house, which I could tap into as needed. She explained that there was a routine process for this advertising campaign.
We first went to a commercial building near the airport, where she showed me her main studio. First, we determined my dimensions. Height 5'10"; weight 172 (down from that morning), waist size 35". She had me pose for pictures in various ways, with and without my shirt on, but wearing the 35" jeans I arrived in. In a number of the photos I was holding today’s paper. Then she brought out a collection of other blue jeans, in sizes ranging to 56". They literally swallowed me.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “by the end of the week, you’ll fill most of these, and you’ll actually mushroom out of some of the pairs!” She had me stand, proudly smiling and wearing each pair, holding the waist band out in front of me to demonstrate how little of it I filled.
By this time it had become mid afternoon, and my stomach was growling loudly. It had been many, many hours since I had supper the night before; she told me the prolonged absence of food made my stomach contract to be as small as it could possibly be. “This is the last time we’ll be trying for small!”
“One more stop before dinner”, she said, after she had printed three 8 X 10 sized photographs of me in my regular 35" jeans, holding today’s newspaper. We went to the office of a notary public in the same building, where I signed an affidavit accurately stating that each of these photos was taken today and that I was the person depicted in them. I also signed the usual model release for Gwen’s agency. For the next week, by her contract, she owned every image of me that was created, and I was in her hands.
Back up to the studio, she handed me a pair of what appeared to be enormous cargo shorts. They were size 40, five inches larger than I normally wore.
“Wear these tonight,” she said. “The goal is to retrain your body. You have spent your entire life holding your stomach in, and we want you to relax those muscles. Just push out your tummy.”
According to Gwen, the first few days would involve exercises in letting my stomach expand to its natural size.
“There will be some real weight gain and actual stomach expansion,” she said, “but most of your new appearance will be due to simply to the way you hold your belly.”
I found that if I concentrated on pushing out with my belly, the 40" shorts were loose, but would stay precariously up. As we walked to the car, a couple of times I thought about something else, and immediately they started to slide down. Fortunately, I had two free hands because we’d left my regular jeans in the closet in her office, along with my wallet and travel papers which were locked in her safe. Everything I needed until I attended the Rounders Roudup was to be covered by the contract.
Since nothing is near anything else in Los Angeles, it took 45 minutes to get to an all-you-can-eat steakhouse she had in mind. I felt a little conspicuous in my shorts and dress shoes and socks, but she said “get used to it. You’re dressing for comfort now. While it is possible to look stylish, that is secondary and will come later.”
Little did I know that this would become my mantra for the week–comfort before style.
We ordered at the counter. I planned to get the largest steak on the menu but she ordered for me–a large bowl of chili (extra mild) and chicken nuggets for her. As we were walking to the salad bar with our trays, I realized that I was using both my hands to hold the tray with my drink and plastic ware. I concentrated extra hard on keeping my stomach extended since my safety grip was gone.
I’m not sure I had ever been this aware of my stomach; I had certainly never purposefully stuck it out. I was self conscious, both of my clothing choices and my appearance, but I kept thinking about my stomach and the waist band of those shorts. It was interesting to be concentrating on my own stomach, and it was an unusual feeling to be trying to push it out instead of holding it in.
Even with it extended, I was, by far, not the thickest person in the restaurant. With my stomach protruding, I felt conspicuous, even though, for the most part, no one seemed to pay me any second notice. I did see a couple of younger people looking at my dress shoes and dark socks. As the days went on, I tried to learn to ignore these looks, but I was never completely at ease with so-called normal people staring at me.
As we walked through the restaurant, Gwen explained that it was important that I eat foods that were easy to get down quickly. “Although everyone is different, it usually takes about twenty minutes for your brain to register that your stomach is full. Since our goal is to encourage your tummy to reach its full potential and even expand a little bit, it is important for you to get as much volume in as you can during that twenty minute window of opportunity. Forget slow, fine dining. You’re aiming for quantity and speed.”
During the next week, she said, I should expect to be eating softer, blander foods than I was used to.
At the salad bar, we both filled our plates. Although I was gravitating towards the lettuce and crunchy vegetables, she steered me to the potato salad and cole slaw sections. She filled her plate the same way, but her portions were much larger than mine. I had to really concentrate to keep my shorts up while carrying the tray with both hands. We sat in a booth, side by side.
The restaurant must have been used to large people (and I noticed a huge couple at the next table) because the booth bench was sturdy and there was plenty of room between the seat and the table. It probably could have accommodated three people, side by side, and while it felt unusual to be against the wall, with Gwen outside, I didn’t feel crowded.
“Our goal” Gwen said, “is to finish these plates by the time our meals arrive.”
Shee switched plates with me and put her watch on the table where we could both see it. “Get started; twenty minutes!”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. As hungry as I was, I quickly polished off both salads. Thinking back, neither the potato salad nor the cole slaw was particularly good, but it went down easily, and as hungry as I was, all I noticed was that I was less frantically hungry.
She had gone back for a refill when our meals arrived. As she sat back down, I noticed that her new salad plate was actually filled with more food–mainly macaroni salad, cottage cheese and a marshmallow-concoction salad–than before. Within a few minutes, I had finished my chili, half her nuggets and was starting on that salad refill. I was starting to feel a little filled up, but not “full”. This surprised me since it was two or three times as much food as I was used to eating.
As I worked on the salad, she excused herself to get dessert, returning with two large soup bowls, each a double serving. One was deep dish apple pie, and the other was strawberry pie filling shortcake.
“I’m not sure I can handle this,” I said worriedly. There was whipped topping on both.
“Just try”, she said.
As I polished off the last of the desserts, the watch showed that twenty minutes had elapsed, and I realized how full I actually was.
“I can’t hold another thing”, I declared.
“Just wait”, Gwen replied.
She returned with two more large soup bowls, each filled with soft serve ice cream, one with butterscotch sauce and the other with chocolate and more whipped topping. “These will fill in the ‘nooks and crannies’ in your tummy”
Dubiously I took a bite and found she was right. Something about the cool, sweet softness helped me take each bite. I got one bowl down, but tried to refuse the second one. She said, “eat slowly and concentrate. You can do this.”
It took awhile, but I was able to eat the second bowl. With her experience, Gwen realized that I was completely filled.
During our time in the restaurant, I had not moved from my place in the booth. As I slid over to get out, Gwen told me to take it easy. As I began to stand up, I realized why. I felt a little light headed, and I felt precarious as I stood. Gwen had a telescoping cane in her purse which she handed to me. Using it and holding onto her arm, I was able to walk out of the restaurant.
At that point, my stomach was rock hard. The 40" shorts were actually a little tight. My polo short, which was loose fitting in Richmond, was stretched around my stomach, and I was sweating slightly in the night air. Fortunately, the car was near the restaurant entrance because every step was an effort.
In the car, she fitted my seat belt with an extender and helped me position it under my very tender middle. We unbuckled my shorts, which actually turned out to be a relief.
As we arrived at her house, she told me that she also had a studio in her home, where we would be taking most of the photos for the advertising campaign. It was a ranch house in a suburban neighborhood with a pool in back.
When we pulled into her driveway, I got out of the car, but it was a lost cause to refasten my 40" shorts, so I just held them together. We hung my jacket in the hall closet. The garage–which was down a hallway from the kitchen and removed from the rest of the house--had been converted into a guest room and she explained that this would be my quarters. There was a dresser, a television set, a recliner chair and double bed. Both the chair and the bed sagged and were well used, clearly by a very large person. The chair was her ex-husband’s she said, and she had replaced their bed after he moved out.
I sat in the chair–lay really, since all its springs had no resilience–while she made the bed. On the bed, she lay a teeshirt-like nightshirt and a pair of boxer shorts, as well as a pair of flip flops. They were huge. Both (I later looked) were multi-X. She left while I changed clothes, returning to pick up the laundry. I didn’t see my travel clothes again until the end of the trip.
“You won’t need these again,” she said. Later I realized that apart from the jacket hanging in the hall, I had none of the things I brought from Richmond.
The shorts came up almost to my chest. Seeing me in these ridiculous shorts she giggled, but explained that in retraining my mid-section muscles to relax, we wanted no constriction overnight which might counter what we were doing and remind my muscles to contract. “We’re changing muscle memory here, and we want your tummy to be soft and relaxed” she said.
As I lay on the sagging bed, she instructed me to pull up my nightshirt and began to massage my poor distended stomach lightly, with cocoa butter she brought from a little fridge beside the bed. It was cool and relaxing. As her hand moved rhythmically around my stomach–sometimes higher and sometimes lower, I began to feel the faint stirring of warmth in my loins. However, before I realized it, I must have gone fast asleep.
The Assignment
by Paternosteele
by Paternosteele
Chapter One - First Saturday
The pilot signaled that we were about to land in Los Angeles; it was 11:39 local time, and I was about to begin a new adventure.
I had planned on this being a simple writing assignment, but in retrospect, my experiences this week have caused a sea change in my attitude about fat people. This is the story of that transition.
I’m a free lance writer, and several months ago, I heard that the editor of a certain size positive lifestyle magazine was looking for a writer to do a story on what it was like to be fat from the inside out.
The plan would not be to wear a fat suit for an afternoon, but really become fat. It intrigued me because I’d never understood why any woman could say “I believe I am pretty no matter what size I am. I love my body,” like someone did in the magazine’s forum recently.
The culmination of the assignment was to be attendance as a full-fledged, active participant in an upcoming “Rounders’ Roundup”. This California-based fat acceptance association called itself the Rounders, and it was their annual conference to seek new members and to have fellowship with each other. I was going to attend, not as a magazine reporter but as a fledgling member.
The magazine’s editor–as cheap as everyone knows he is–laid off the cost of this assignment through a contract with a somewhat dubious advertising producer. All my expenses would be underwritten by a company wanting “before” and “after” photos for its weight loss elixir. However, the photos would be taken in reverse order, the skinny (so-called “after”) ones at the beginning of the assignment and the corpulent (so-called “before”) shots at the end.
The company wanted a dramatic change. I was assured that my name would not be associated with this, and that there would be only a slight actual weight gain, even though for all intents and purposes, I would actually appear to be pretty fat. We had a week to replicate what was supposed to be a seven week regimen of the expensive weight loss product, although we were going to do it backwards.
I took the early morning flight from Richmond, where I live. I had spoken to my guide in this process, Gwen, a free lance photographer hired by the advertising producer. She explained that this was her fourth such assignment this year. She told me I was to carry a light jacket and wear a pair of well fitting jeans and a polo shirt, but that I didn’t need any other clothing, since she would supply what I needed. For the return trip, I would need a whole new outfit anyway. She also told me not to eat that morning. Since I had to be up at 4:00 am to make the flight, by the time we arrived in Los Angeles, I was really starved.
After the flight landed I made my way from the “steerage” section (remember the editor is really cheap) to the exit and met Gwen, 5'2"and looking maybe 100 lb., not what I had expected as a guide to getting fat. She had explained that she had been divorced a few years. Her ex-husband, she said, was about my height but considerably heavier. I’d weighed myself at 175 lb. before I left for the airport. She had told me that there was still quite a lot of his clothing at the house, which I could tap into as needed. She explained that there was a routine process for this advertising campaign.
We first went to a commercial building near the airport, where she showed me her main studio. First, we determined my dimensions. Height 5'10"; weight 172 (down from that morning), waist size 35". She had me pose for pictures in various ways, with and without my shirt on, but wearing the 35" jeans I arrived in. In a number of the photos I was holding today’s paper. Then she brought out a collection of other blue jeans, in sizes ranging to 56". They literally swallowed me.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “by the end of the week, you’ll fill most of these, and you’ll actually mushroom out of some of the pairs!” She had me stand, proudly smiling and wearing each pair, holding the waist band out in front of me to demonstrate how little of it I filled.
By this time it had become mid afternoon, and my stomach was growling loudly. It had been many, many hours since I had supper the night before; she told me the prolonged absence of food made my stomach contract to be as small as it could possibly be. “This is the last time we’ll be trying for small!”
“One more stop before dinner”, she said, after she had printed three 8 X 10 sized photographs of me in my regular 35" jeans, holding today’s newspaper. We went to the office of a notary public in the same building, where I signed an affidavit accurately stating that each of these photos was taken today and that I was the person depicted in them. I also signed the usual model release for Gwen’s agency. For the next week, by her contract, she owned every image of me that was created, and I was in her hands.
Back up to the studio, she handed me a pair of what appeared to be enormous cargo shorts. They were size 40, five inches larger than I normally wore.
“Wear these tonight,” she said. “The goal is to retrain your body. You have spent your entire life holding your stomach in, and we want you to relax those muscles. Just push out your tummy.”
According to Gwen, the first few days would involve exercises in letting my stomach expand to its natural size.
“There will be some real weight gain and actual stomach expansion,” she said, “but most of your new appearance will be due to simply to the way you hold your belly.”
I found that if I concentrated on pushing out with my belly, the 40" shorts were loose, but would stay precariously up. As we walked to the car, a couple of times I thought about something else, and immediately they started to slide down. Fortunately, I had two free hands because we’d left my regular jeans in the closet in her office, along with my wallet and travel papers which were locked in her safe. Everything I needed until I attended the Rounders Roudup was to be covered by the contract.
Since nothing is near anything else in Los Angeles, it took 45 minutes to get to an all-you-can-eat steakhouse she had in mind. I felt a little conspicuous in my shorts and dress shoes and socks, but she said “get used to it. You’re dressing for comfort now. While it is possible to look stylish, that is secondary and will come later.”
Little did I know that this would become my mantra for the week–comfort before style.
We ordered at the counter. I planned to get the largest steak on the menu but she ordered for me–a large bowl of chili (extra mild) and chicken nuggets for her. As we were walking to the salad bar with our trays, I realized that I was using both my hands to hold the tray with my drink and plastic ware. I concentrated extra hard on keeping my stomach extended since my safety grip was gone.
I’m not sure I had ever been this aware of my stomach; I had certainly never purposefully stuck it out. I was self conscious, both of my clothing choices and my appearance, but I kept thinking about my stomach and the waist band of those shorts. It was interesting to be concentrating on my own stomach, and it was an unusual feeling to be trying to push it out instead of holding it in.
Even with it extended, I was, by far, not the thickest person in the restaurant. With my stomach protruding, I felt conspicuous, even though, for the most part, no one seemed to pay me any second notice. I did see a couple of younger people looking at my dress shoes and dark socks. As the days went on, I tried to learn to ignore these looks, but I was never completely at ease with so-called normal people staring at me.
As we walked through the restaurant, Gwen explained that it was important that I eat foods that were easy to get down quickly. “Although everyone is different, it usually takes about twenty minutes for your brain to register that your stomach is full. Since our goal is to encourage your tummy to reach its full potential and even expand a little bit, it is important for you to get as much volume in as you can during that twenty minute window of opportunity. Forget slow, fine dining. You’re aiming for quantity and speed.”
During the next week, she said, I should expect to be eating softer, blander foods than I was used to.
At the salad bar, we both filled our plates. Although I was gravitating towards the lettuce and crunchy vegetables, she steered me to the potato salad and cole slaw sections. She filled her plate the same way, but her portions were much larger than mine. I had to really concentrate to keep my shorts up while carrying the tray with both hands. We sat in a booth, side by side.
The restaurant must have been used to large people (and I noticed a huge couple at the next table) because the booth bench was sturdy and there was plenty of room between the seat and the table. It probably could have accommodated three people, side by side, and while it felt unusual to be against the wall, with Gwen outside, I didn’t feel crowded.
“Our goal” Gwen said, “is to finish these plates by the time our meals arrive.”
Shee switched plates with me and put her watch on the table where we could both see it. “Get started; twenty minutes!”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. As hungry as I was, I quickly polished off both salads. Thinking back, neither the potato salad nor the cole slaw was particularly good, but it went down easily, and as hungry as I was, all I noticed was that I was less frantically hungry.
She had gone back for a refill when our meals arrived. As she sat back down, I noticed that her new salad plate was actually filled with more food–mainly macaroni salad, cottage cheese and a marshmallow-concoction salad–than before. Within a few minutes, I had finished my chili, half her nuggets and was starting on that salad refill. I was starting to feel a little filled up, but not “full”. This surprised me since it was two or three times as much food as I was used to eating.
As I worked on the salad, she excused herself to get dessert, returning with two large soup bowls, each a double serving. One was deep dish apple pie, and the other was strawberry pie filling shortcake.
“I’m not sure I can handle this,” I said worriedly. There was whipped topping on both.
“Just try”, she said.
As I polished off the last of the desserts, the watch showed that twenty minutes had elapsed, and I realized how full I actually was.
“I can’t hold another thing”, I declared.
“Just wait”, Gwen replied.
She returned with two more large soup bowls, each filled with soft serve ice cream, one with butterscotch sauce and the other with chocolate and more whipped topping. “These will fill in the ‘nooks and crannies’ in your tummy”
Dubiously I took a bite and found she was right. Something about the cool, sweet softness helped me take each bite. I got one bowl down, but tried to refuse the second one. She said, “eat slowly and concentrate. You can do this.”
It took awhile, but I was able to eat the second bowl. With her experience, Gwen realized that I was completely filled.
During our time in the restaurant, I had not moved from my place in the booth. As I slid over to get out, Gwen told me to take it easy. As I began to stand up, I realized why. I felt a little light headed, and I felt precarious as I stood. Gwen had a telescoping cane in her purse which she handed to me. Using it and holding onto her arm, I was able to walk out of the restaurant.
At that point, my stomach was rock hard. The 40" shorts were actually a little tight. My polo short, which was loose fitting in Richmond, was stretched around my stomach, and I was sweating slightly in the night air. Fortunately, the car was near the restaurant entrance because every step was an effort.
In the car, she fitted my seat belt with an extender and helped me position it under my very tender middle. We unbuckled my shorts, which actually turned out to be a relief.
As we arrived at her house, she told me that she also had a studio in her home, where we would be taking most of the photos for the advertising campaign. It was a ranch house in a suburban neighborhood with a pool in back.
When we pulled into her driveway, I got out of the car, but it was a lost cause to refasten my 40" shorts, so I just held them together. We hung my jacket in the hall closet. The garage–which was down a hallway from the kitchen and removed from the rest of the house--had been converted into a guest room and she explained that this would be my quarters. There was a dresser, a television set, a recliner chair and double bed. Both the chair and the bed sagged and were well used, clearly by a very large person. The chair was her ex-husband’s she said, and she had replaced their bed after he moved out.
I sat in the chair–lay really, since all its springs had no resilience–while she made the bed. On the bed, she lay a teeshirt-like nightshirt and a pair of boxer shorts, as well as a pair of flip flops. They were huge. Both (I later looked) were multi-X. She left while I changed clothes, returning to pick up the laundry. I didn’t see my travel clothes again until the end of the trip.
“You won’t need these again,” she said. Later I realized that apart from the jacket hanging in the hall, I had none of the things I brought from Richmond.
The shorts came up almost to my chest. Seeing me in these ridiculous shorts she giggled, but explained that in retraining my mid-section muscles to relax, we wanted no constriction overnight which might counter what we were doing and remind my muscles to contract. “We’re changing muscle memory here, and we want your tummy to be soft and relaxed” she said.
As I lay on the sagging bed, she instructed me to pull up my nightshirt and began to massage my poor distended stomach lightly, with cocoa butter she brought from a little fridge beside the bed. It was cool and relaxing. As her hand moved rhythmically around my stomach–sometimes higher and sometimes lower, I began to feel the faint stirring of warmth in my loins. However, before I realized it, I must have gone fast asleep.
