Lauren Eats Herself Round
By Lauren Hope
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here's a new story. Where do I go now? What should I add? What would you like to see? How about if people "send" food to Lauren by posting messages and she eats and gets fatter and fatter? She'll respond and tell stories about Chad and Benny's and her family and about the food you "send" her. It'll be on going. Just post messages for Lauren Hope and she'll "respond" and give you all updates...
Let me know what you think...
It always starts slowly. That's what I've heard. Pound by pound, inch by inch. And that's how it happened to me — at first. Once it got started, things got out of control in a hurry. But let's not jump ahead…
I wasn't married. I had been busy for so many years at college and post-grad. I got a really nice job that paid really good money. I dated, true, but most guys are twits — immature. I wanted to find the right guy, you know? The years passed and I approached thirty.
I had always been a big eater. In high school, college and even at my job. But my metabolism was crazy. I'd eat whole pizzas, late night pu pu platters… I never gained a pound. I was always the girl who pissed off my friends because I could eat what I wanted and as much as I wanted without any change in weight. I was always pretty much exactly 125 pounds.
You probably want a picture. Well, I'm 5' 5” and I have light brown hair. Everybody says I look like Daisy Fuentes — but they say I actually have a brain in my head, unlike Daisy. I'm not ashamed to say that I always had an hourglass figure and perky little C cups. I was the kind of girl guys checked out, but it was always the wrong guys. Nice guys were always intimidated or something, but I was — and am — totally ego-free. I'm nice to everyone. Maybe that was my problem. I wasn't cruel enough for the thrill of the chase.
Most of the women in my family are big, and at family gatherings they would all tease me: “Your eating will catch up with you Lauren. Just wait! Once you hit your thirties, your metabolism will slow way down, and you'll get fat!” They were like a cabal of fatties, waiting for me to balloon. I always wore a form-fitting, simple black dress to family parties to rub my slim and curvy figure in their faces. And I would eat. Made 'em so mad to see skinny me put away three or four plates and tons of dessert. They would all be “watching themselves,” on diets, Atkins and the like. I was kind of like the official tester for everyone's recipes because I was an eater — and expert on taste. They'd ply me with food. My opinion was much sought after. “Lauren, try this new cheesecake recipe…taste this chowder…how are these éclairs?…try this…taste that…” But nothing changed.
One year — I was 31 — Halloween came around. I was at my new job. Next door was a place called Benny's. Benny's was a fried food and ice cream Mecca. All the locals came there and swore by the place. The two girls that I had befriended, Lisa and Jen, would take me to Benny's for lunch. First it was only on Fridays. Then it was Thursday and Friday, then just whenever we felt like. They were both big girls, and they delighted in watching me chow down at Benny's. I don't exactly know why. Vicarious bingeing, I guess. I loved the clam dinner, the fish 'n' chips, the fried scallops, the sundaes—and the Benny's Special: five scoops (of whatever flavor — I preferred coffee crunch, macadamia nut, fudge blast, cookie dough and French vanilla) with a huge brownie, caramel and hot fudge, whipped cream and a cherry on top.
When we didn't go to Benny's, we'd order out from Benny's, and Benny's son Chad (a real cutie, in his mid-twenties) would deliver to us. Chad would always wonder at how much I ate and how thin I was. I think he was flirting with me, but he would never ask me out or anything.
Not many kids came to my condo that Halloween, and I had a ton of candy left over: Kit Kats, Snickers, Hershey Almond Bars, etc. — I had bought way too much (I just love kids!) I began to nibble on the chocolate treats at night while I watched late-night TV. When you are not actually focused on what or how much you are eating, you can put away a lot — and the candy bars (that were legion) began to disappear into my belly.
It must have been that autumn that my metabolism up and quit. One morning, while I ate a blueberry muffin for breakfast in my car on the way to work, the zipper on my skirt slid open. When I reached down to pull it back up, the button popped off. I thought, I'll be damned! How'd that happen? But I didn't let that little incident stop me from lunching at Benny's with the girls and putting away a clam plate and a Benny's special. I figured that it was PMS or something. Little did I know about my metabolism quitting on me.
One night soon after that, as I nibbled on my chocolate treats, I dropped a Kit Kat in my lap. When I went to grab it, I could feel the warm, round protrusion that was my stomach. I popped the Kit Kat into my mouth, like a cigar, and used both hands to feel my stomach. I was getting a pot belly. Holy crap! I finished off the Kit Kat, started on a Snickers bar and headed to the bathroom. I got on the scale in my PJ's. The scale settled at 145. Uh oh… The next morning at work, I was busy at my desk when Lisa passed by and dropped a bag on my desk. “There's your two egg McMuffins girl. It's on me. You pick up tomorrow.”
“Oh…I don't know if I should…” My hands found my extra 15 pounds around my midsection unseen by my co-workers.
“What?! Lauren? Is that you? Are you feeling okay? You got a temperature? Here….” People around us laughed — Lisa was the resident comic. She felt my forehead, unwrapped one of the egg McMuffins and said, “Open wide!” and slid it into my mouth — a big bite. She prescribed me two Boston cream-filled (that she produced from the dozen on her desk) and told me to call her in the morning.
I called her over and asked quietly, “Do I look any different to you?”
“You look emaciated to me. You make me jealous, eat what you want and don't gain a pound. Hell — we're all jealous!” That was the end of that. I quietly ate my breakfast sandwiches and my prescription. I felt like an absolute cow. I had to unbutton and unzip my pants after lunch at Benny's.
It was actually amazing. My paranoid mind could feel my body getting bigger by the minute. I was terrified. I was expanding. I'd skip dinner — and then binge on ice cream right out of the carton (in a bowl, you know how much you eat). Whenever I tried to curb myself, I'd cave in and eat more than usual. Yikes.
What was the strangest part was that I seemed to be the only one who noticed my expansion. The girls at work never said a peep. Nobody said a peep. Things were status quo. I outgrew my wardrobe very quickly: skirts and jackets wouldn't button, blouses would gap, seams would strain. I was ballooning before my very eyes. The more I tried to slow down my eating, the hungrier I got. My bad habits would only get worse. Working near Benny's was bad — but living near the finest Chinese restaurant in the tri-town area that delivered for free was worse. The more I restrained myself, the more voraciously I would punish my swelling belly. Things like this would happen:
Lunch at Benny's would be over. Jen would say, “Three specials, ladies?” I'd say, “I'll pass, thanks.” She'd retort, “Oh, come on! It's Fri-day.” The special would be slid in front of me and we'd all chow down and talk. I would fear my appetite. Spoonful after spoonful pressing out against tight fabric.
Chad would bring me extra stuff: onion rings that I didn't order, extra tartar sauce on my fried fish sandwiches — or cheese. Extra stuff more and more. And the little piggy would eat whatever landed in her bag.
At night I would recline on my couch with my feet up and my belly freed by my trusty sweat pants. I'd say to myself: No more! You are getting FAT! Too fat! Constant growth! Don't go in the kitchen and eat those Mallowmars! Don't succumb to the Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey! On good nights I'd settle for a small pizza. On bad nights I'd find myself at Benny's for a late night “snack.”
My face was fatter. My ass was swelling at an alarming rate. My arms and my legs got softer and fuller. When I'd sit at my desk my ass and thighs would spread out far and wide. I'd be munching on my fish filet loaded with tartar sauce or my onion rings or my chili fries and watching my tummy fill up. Doughnuts in the morning, Benny's at lunch, Chinese for dinner, late night “snacking.”
I know what you are thinking, but you've got to realize two things: nobody seemed to notice — I was being enabled in the strangest of ways, and my eating habits were life-long. I had always been a bad eater — it just hadn't mattered before. It's so hard to starve yourself and change a life-long pattern of stuffing yourself, even If you are aware of the fact that you are getting fatter every day. The scale climbed as the months went by: 145….152…159…168…173…(cheesecakeonionringsicecreamcookieschinesefoodtreatssinfoodfoodfoodfood…)…181…206…
Thanksgiving the next year: I hadn't seen my family for a while. My new job was across the country. I had been avoiding them for a long time because I had gotten so FAT. (At the time I was 229 pounds, and the last thing I wanted was for them to see they had been oh so RIGHT.) My excuses only lasted so long, and it finally came time for me to quit the lying and show up. Good god! What would they say?
Well, to keep things simple, they said nothing. I was big. So much bigger than they had last seen me. 100 pounds bigger. Bigger than my sister Jean. The same size as Nancy. Smaller than Shannon and Liza. Why hello Lauren it's been so long how are things so good to see you how's the job so glad you could finally get away here let me take your coat you look great here sit down after your long trip have a hot cocoa boys say hi to your auntie…
Later it began: Lauren you've got to try this new baked potato soup I've perfected this gravy is to die for how are the cheddar mashed potatoes try some chowder how's the ham this is my new stuffing recipe is the turkey too dry here have some more let me refill your plate eat up it's a cold day my you've got the hiccups try this pie no try mine try both which one is better this cake is good here tuck this napkin in don't want to get any thing on your nice dress try this just two bites of this try a cup of this a bite of this try one of these hold your breath and think of a pink elephant and those hiccups will go away try this banana bread these pastries are from Brock's they are to die for, huh…eat up girl eat up girl finish up I want you to try this…
I was absolutely stuffed like the poor bird at the center of the table. More and more food was put in front of me, spooned into my mouth, offered, insisted…
I stepped onto the scale one evening and the needle settled at 297 pounds. I was in my panties and bra, and there was a lemon cream cheesecake on the vanity. There was a tingling inside of me. I reached for the first piece of the pie, held my fat and round stomach with one hand and ate the pie with the other. My plump feet surrounded the numbers. My doubled chin moved up and down with my chewing. My knee dimples were shadows from the overhead lighting. My upper arms were fleshy. My thighs pressed together. My calves were plump. My fat fingers held the cheesecake and my greedy mouth chewed and swallowed…chewed and swallowed. My belly, fat, round and taut, was hanging down to cover the front of my panties. My belly button deep and dark. My hips wide and FAT. My ass was huge and firm. Upon finishing the last piece of the sinful cheesecake, I looked at the needle, which had slipped past the second zero in 300.