The Seven-Year Itch

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

PLEASE READ THIS NOTE before reading the story. At the request of a reader, I have written a gay BHM story. Please do not read the story if this offends you. I hope that the person who was kind enough to make the request finds the story ... and enjoys it ... and I hope others enjoy it as well. Thanks, BBD.

Philip put down the remote and stretched without getting up. He thought about when Robby would get home and whether they would go out. He didn’t feel like going out. He didn’t feel much of anything, actually. As recently as a few months ago, the thought of Robby’s return would have had him barely able to contain himself. The seven-year itch, Philip thought wryly. They’d been together seven years. Was he destined to be bored for the rest of his life? He sighed so loudly the miniature dachshund on his lap turned her head to look.
“Nothing,” he said out loud; then, standing up, he watched the dog curl up in the chair’s warm spot. He decided to make spaghetti. Going out wouldn’t cure anything.

“I’m home!” Robby’s timing was perfect. He came up behind Philip, embracing him around the waist as Philip poured the spaghetti blindly into the colander, the steam clouding his eyeglasses. Philip set the pot in the other side of the sink and turned in Robby’s loose embrace, kissing him perfunctorily.

“Mmm-mmm, spaghetti,” Robby said. His eyes twinkled. “My favorite.” Philip bit his lip. Robby clearly was not feeling the same ennui that he was. The timer buzzed and Philip twisted out of Robby’s arms to rescue the garlic bread.

They ate in silence, clinking forks the only sound. Robby was tuned to Philip’s moods and could tell something was on his mind, but he wasn’t going to probe. He would later, though, when they were in bed or sitting on the sofa watching HBO. Philip looked up. “You want more?”

“Thanks.” Robby handed his plate over and watched Philip. “More than that.”
Philip paused, plate in midair, and turned to look at Robby, who was proud of his trim waist.
“How much do you want?” Philip asked.
“I’ll finish it off – if you don’t want any more. And the rest of the garlic bread too.”
At that, Philip turned all the way around. “Robby?” The look on his face was understandable. Robby ate like a bird; he ate so little, in fact, that he kept Philip trim because Philip didn’t want to out-eat him. At least, not by much.
Robby sighed and drained his glass of iced tea. “Philly. C’mere.”
“Wait a minute,” Philip said patiently. He finished filling Robby’s plate, then went over to the stove and poured on the rest of the sauce. He balanced the remaining garlic bread around the edges and presented it to Robby with a small flourish.
Then he sat.

Robby picked up a piece of bread. “You know,” he said with his mouth full, “my waist size is the same….”
“As it was in college,” Philip finished. “So?” He didn’t mean it to come out quite that sharply.
Robby swallowed. “Lately I’ve been feeling … something’s not great between us. You’re bored. And your head turns every time we see the most nothing guys walk past – middle-aged, potbellied, out of shape – so this afternoon at work, I went online. I did some looking up.”
Philip stared. “What are you talking about? I’ve never cheated on you.”
“No, you haven’t,” Robby agreed. “But you’re bored and restless, and you’re at least looking at the menu. Anyway,” he took a bite of spaghetti, “there are some … people … who prefer, um … overweight people.” He swallowed. “Find them attractive.” He blushed, his most appealing attribute. When he did, he always looked about 12 years old. “I thought … if I, ah, gained weight…”
Philip stared again, thrusting his head toward Robby, eyes wide. “You’re sick,” was what he meant to say. But he didn’t say it. He leaned closer and found himself kissing Robby. His loins were stirring for the first time in weeks. He came up for air. “Uh,” he said intelligently. He backed off. Robby was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Does this mean you approve?”
”What exactly am I approving of?”
“I’ll put on some weight. See how you like it.”
“You don’t … you don’t mind?”
“Philip. I love you,” Robby said patiently. “You’re worth it to me.” He picked up a piece of garlic bread and bit hugely into it as if to seal the deal.

It took a little while, but Robby cleaned his plate, mopping up the sauce with the last of the bread. Afterward, he unbuttoned his jeans and stood up, groaning, rubbing his belly with both hands. His normally flat waist bulged, taut and bloated, straining the seams of his jeans and pulling the buttons of his shirt tight. Philip took one look and got a hard-on so bad he could scarcely stand up. Gently, Robby pulled him up and guided his hand toward that swollen midriff.
Philip and Robby stood opposite each other in the kitchen, Robby with his head back and arms limp by his sides, Philip gently and steadily massaging Robby’s aching stomach and points south. Finally, like waltzing bears, they galumphed toward the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. Philip undid the buttons of Robby’s shirt with such haste that two popped off, the first time that had happened since Christmas. They wiggled out of their clothes and grabbed each other, firmly, afraid to lose each other. Grunting, thrashing, their coupling was frantic … the first time. Later, sated, relaxed, they made love again, languidly, fluidly, contentedly.

“So,” Robby said drowsily.
“So,” Philip repeated.
“Am I right?”
Philip propped himself up on his elbows. “I wouldn’t have said so,” he said thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t have been able to spell it out. It’s true I’ve been restless. I didn’t realize I’ve had the wandering eye.” He turned to look at Robby, still lying down with the sheet draped over his now deflated belly. “When you told me at dinner you wanted to … to …”
“Get fat,” Robby prompted.
“Um, to gain weight … my mind thought you were sick. My dick thought it was party time.” He laughed shortly.
“No kidding,” Robby said dryly. This time they both laughed. “So?”
“So,” Philip repeated. “So … I guess … maybe … that’s what I want. But I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
Robby sat up and looked at Philip. “I’m 35. I’m not on the dating market. I love you. And you love me … but at the same time you’re ready for something new. I don’t mind giving it a try.”

The next morning, both men were rushed, but as they headed out the door, Philip to the subway and Robby with his bicycle, Philip asked, “What do you want for dinner?”
Robby paused for thought. “Pot roast?” Philip groaned, but said, “All right,” and patted Robby’s belly, making them both laugh.
Philip left work early (it was, after all, his law practice; he could leave early if he wanted to, he thought) and stopped in at a supermarket, where he got a good-looking roast as well as potatoes, a bunch of carrots, and an onion. An hour later, the roast was in the oven and Philip found himself whistling, cheerier than he’d been in some time.
At supper, Philip heaped Robby’s plate and winked as he handed it to him. “Bone appetee-it,” he said, deliberately mispronouncing the French. Robby lifted his glass to Philip’s in a toast. “Here’s to, um, spare tires,” he said.

For the first time in a while, conversation was natural and unforced. Philip had had an unexciting day among the paperwork of estate law, but Robby, a forensic DNA analyst, told Philip as much as he was allowed to about work he was doing on a possible murder case. And while he talked he ate. He cleaned his plateful not once but twice, although he was slowing down toward the end. Leaning back, he patted his bulging belly, bringing up a loud belch. Philip laughed and a satisfied smile lit Robby’s face. He’d again had to unbutton his jeans, and his stomach sagged heavily over the waistband, swollen with food.
“That’s gotta hurt,” Philip observed.
Robby belched. “Ate too much,” he admitted, “Pretty stuffed. But not too full for some … exercise.” Philip was out of his chair and headed toward the bedroom before Robby finished his sentence. Grinning, Robby struggled to his feet and huffed toward the bedroom to join him.

It didn’t take long for the effects to show. Robby still cycled to work and back every day, but he was eating a lot more, and both men were seeing results. Within a month, that trim waistline was noticeably thicker, a pot belly burgeoning over his waistband and underwear starting to pinch. Three months, and the modest pot belly was no longer modest, perching atop the waistband and descending to an unmistakable spare tire. Robby’s once-firm chin softened into a double, unremarkable pecs softened and spread, his face became fuller. Most of the newfound weight was in his gut, however, and both he and Philip were impressed with what a difference it made in bed.

They liked to make love best after supper, “priming the pump,” as Robby put it. His tummy full and round, he would lie back and let Philip poke, pinch, massage and knead the bloated swell of stomach. The poking would become cuddling, a long session of foreplay, and better sex than they’d enjoyed in months. The relationship was reborn. They delighted in waking up next to each other, went on “date nights” more often, and even talked about going to Canada to get married.

It was a Friday night, and Philip had talked Robby into a slow striptease. Robby had eaten an entire pizza and drunk most of a bottle of pop, and his gut was impressive. His full face and both chins gleamed with sweat, his shirt buttons strained like a cartoon character’s, and his pants were both unbuttoned and unzipped, his belly bulging tautly outward. Philip, settled on the bed to watch, sang raunchy music while Robby gyrated, grinning. Button by button the shirt was unfastened. Philip imagined the buttons sighing in relief. Robby jerked the shirt off and twirled it over his head. Philip whistled loudly. The sight of Robby shirtless was making him seriously hard. Robby’s nipples bobbed and his abdomen spread outward, creating an enticing dome, crowned with his now-outie of a belly button. His spare tire jounced and the new flesh on his upper arms swung as he danced.

He couldn’t unbutton his jeans, of course, but he made a production out of shaking himself out of them, revealing this large with bike-riding muscle and extra flab and a pair of tightie whities that lived up to the name. Slowly, slowly, he peeled the underwear off. Philip whistled again as Robby’s gut surged forth. Unable to stand it any more, he bounced off the bed and began rubbing Robby’s belly, poking and prodding it. There was little if any give to it; it was hard as a rock. So was Philip, come to think of it.

The striptease over, Robby, sweating, fell onto the bed, making the frame shake. “I’m … so … (hic!) full,” he panted. “Can’t … move. (Hic!)”
“Shh,” Philip said, closing his mouth with a kiss. “Let me take care of you.” Slowly and gently he stroked Robby to hardness; revving up, he brought him to climax. Exhausted himself, he lay back, head on Robby’s chest, gently stroking Robby’s round, achingly full belly. “My tummy,” he murmured. “Love it.”
“So,” Robby said.
“So.”
“Want to keep it?”
Philip’s answer was wordless.