by Lewis Baird
It's our tenth anniversary, and - as it's been for every year since he first changed my world - I wake up in the morning remembering everything: the way I once was, the way my husband-to-be came into my life, the way I am today. My appetite's still present, of course - there's no way that big apart of me can be distracted by even a cold hard splash of reality. And why would I want it to be? Whatever else he has done, my man's opened me up to a pleasure few can fully know: the joy of unfettered, round-the-clock gluttony.
As I think back to all that has happened, I lie back in my mega-sized adjustable bed and eagerly anticipate my morning meal. The first course will be oatmeal and raisins mixed with 96 ounces of fresh whipped cream. A good way to break the night's fast - but only an appetizer when you consider the mass of food still to come. The thought it all makes me lick my lips hungrily.
Ten years back, I wouldn't have thought this way, but that was many many many pounds ago. Before my husband came and turned my life around, I was a very different woman. Driven by work, focused on the superficial, I was more concerned with keeping busy than with being happy. I didn't know better, of course; for most of my life I'd been bred to be an overachiever: straight-A student, head cheerleader, workaholic businesswoman. That was yours truly.
With this fresh flash of memory, I can see myself in those days: a tall and slender professional woman, dressed in a form-fitting Donna Vinci knit suit, with spiked high-heels, trim-cut blond hair and a clipped voice. I was working as a political image consultant for a firm out East. The job paid well enough to buy me a roomy condo in a gentrified part of the city and a Volvo sedan, though I probably spent more time in the latter than the former. The day my husband-to-be inserted himself into my life, I was working to jump-start the national career of a young southwestern senator. Couldn't even tell you what party he belonged to - it isn't particularly important, anyway - just that the man had difficulty coming across like a straight talker in front of the teevee cameras.
I was meeting this would-be political mover-and-shaker with my new assistant, Gloria, seated beside me. The firm I worked for had recently been profiled in the Wall Street Journal, and I'd been photogenic enough to receive a snapshot and a caption with my name in it. This little bit of personal p.r. had been enough to land me my own assistant, though, looking at the pudgy little mouse I'd been provided, it was obvious I hadn't been given top-of-the-line. She was fine at secretarial, but I sure didn't see her pushing herself to the forefront.
Though not much younger than me, Gloria looked to be just out of her teens, in part because of a rounded, double-chinned babyface and a too-tight skirt and blouse combo that made her look like she was wearing her big sister's hand-me-downs. I was already thinking about ordering the little chubbette to spend some time with my personal trainer - the way she appeared was just as much a reflection on me, after all - when a handsome young man who I now know as my husband entered the conference room and asked if we wanted anything for lunch.
"Just a fruit plate for the three of us," I said, still keeping my eyes on my client. "We want the senator to be able to fit in his new suits." I turned my head and tapped young Gloria on her poly-blend clad shoulder and said, "Go with him and get me a low-fat latte, sweetie. We've got a long afternoon ahead of us." As she rose, I could see a tiny piece of midriff flesh poking over the elastic hem of her skirt. "And, for God's sake, tuck your blouse in!" I whispered, watching the young girl flush as she surreptitiously attempted to straighten her skirt behind her notepad. Though the senator didn't notice, I was pretty sure the young man in the doorway did.
Gloria turned to leave the room, her dimpled elbow momentarily coming into contact with my shoulder, and, as she did, something astonishing happened. A momentary static-y whoosh - like something you'd hear for a fraction of a second between changing teevee channels - and I was out of my chair, standing right beside my plump assistant. As I watched in astonishment, Gloria grew six inches taller right before my eyes. With the added height, she looked much trimmer: a lean professional whose tailor-made outfit now covered her so much better. Her plump, girlish face lost its baby fat and grew more assured; her $8.00 Cost Cutters trim became more professionally groomed and tinted. Even her half-heel shoes had become pricey high-heeled Luciano Padovans.
I wasn't looking at myself, of course, but with the benefit of hindsight, I now know the changes I was undergoing at the same time. As young Gloria grew taller, I lost six inches of height, making the growing girl appear even more imposing in my eyes. My shoes lost an inch-and-a-half of heel, while my dress devolved into an off-the-rack secret stretch skirt and blouse combo. Within the elastic of my skirt, my once flat stomach became a plump tummy; beneath the hem of my skirt, my shorter calves grew fuller. Under my blouse, my breasts went from a basic C-cup to a fuller D, overflowing my now insufficient bra. My face became rounder, less crisply made-up; my hair less precisely cut.
Looking back at the moment with an awareness I was denied at the time, I can see what occurred. Impossibly, unnoticed by the grinning senator seated on the other side of the table, I had changed places with Gloria!
In so doing, I immediately adopted Gloria's personality: eager to please on my first real job, more than a little bit nervous around my boss, in awe of the self-assured manner in which she presented herself. As the new Rachel reached into her purse and handed me her credit card, I immediately forgot the woman I had been. I watched my slender boss as she sat back down, her long and shapely limbs (I'd kill to have those legs!) crossed, and I knew with absolute certainty that I'd never be as in control of my life as the woman seated right in front of me.
I turned to leave the room. We'd all gone through the whole morning without even a snack break, and I was feeling famished. Though I knew my boss would disapprove, I decided to buy a Danish for myself when we hit the sandwich shop downstairs. As we made our way to the elevator, I took a second look at what I assumed to be the senator's assistant. He was well-dressed and trim, a full foot taller than my short, chubby self. The only thing out of place was a shock of unruly hair that jutted out over his forehead, and I found myself thinking of an old late-nite infomercial for some Old-Time Rock 'N' Roll DVD - and a young Jerry Lee Lewis at the pumpin' piano.
"How long you been working for the senator?" I asked nervously. My voice had a trace of young girl hesitation that matched my new personality and had also gone up an octave. We were the only two people in the elevator, I noticed, but for some reason the space seemed more crowded than it'd been on the way up. I rummaged through my messy purse for something to calm me down and happily discovered a Cadbury Fruit and Nut bar.
"I don't work for the man," he answered, looking over at me with an expression I didn't recognize as flirtatious. "I'm just here to make sure that you're well-fed, Rachel."
"You're confused," I said, deciding that he must be a volunteer. It made him a little easier to talk to. "Rachel's upstairs." I took a big bite out of the chocolate bar - God, I loved Cadbury chocolates - then continued. "My name is Gloria!"
"That's right," he grinned, as the elevator dinged! to indicate we'd reached ground floor. "Let's get you a couple of pastries, alright, Gloria?"
I was already too ensnared in his revamped world to wonder how he knew what I'd been thinking. My candy bar was already finished, and just the mention of some pastry got my stomach growling. "Rachel will be pissed at you for blowing your diet!" a voice in the back of my head chastised. "Who cares what that skinny bitch thinks?" a deeper part of me answered. "She's just your boss! She has no right, trying to take over your entire life!"
As we entered the smallish first floor delicatessen that served most of the building's offices, the scene of baked bread got me feeling even hungrier. "Maybe," my nudging voice said, "two teeny Danishes aren't enough. How about a six-inch sub!" Though I wasn't aware of it, within my skirt, the legs of my panties had grown to accommodate an extra inch on each thigh. That Cadbury had contained enough calories to fuel a lifetime of daily chocolate bars. The results had gone straight to my lower half, and the dimply addition was definitely viewable within my poly-blend skirt. My hips and rear pulled the waist of my skirt down, exposing my bulging midriff more emphatically, but at the moment all I could think of was a sub sandwich.
"You know," the young man then said, almost as if he were hearing this inner dialog (which, I now realize, he was), "if you'd like to stay for something more substantial than a fruit plate, I'm willing to be your cover. We could tell them a busload of tourists got in line ahead of us." He grinned conspiratorially, then waved toward the tempting menu on the wall. "Order yourself a sandwich and a side of something. They'll get along without you upstairs for a few extra minutes!"
The line in the deli was virtually non-existent at the moment, so it looked like we had some time. Scanning the wall, I mentally selected a sandwich, a side of potato salad, plus a large glass of Coke. As I got ready to make my order, the checkout girl stepped from behind a display case, giving me my first full glimpse of her. She was my age and at least seventy pounds heavier than me. Crammed in a too-tight denim jumper and a graying white full-length apron with the name "Doris" sewn atop her pendulous right breast, the sight of her was almost enough to steer me away from temptation.
Doris had to be at least 250 pounds, with a full round face and an extra chin that jiggled as she nonchalantly chewed and snapped her gum. Her dishwater blond hair was done up in a net; her face was overly made-up. As she stood there, a sheen of perspiration popped up above her fulsome upper lip - those toaster ovens could be hot! - and a redness could be seen radiating beneath her makeup. "Go ahead, order that big lunch," my re-emerging warning voice said. "You'll be as fat as her in no time! Fatter!"
Okay, I decided, I'll just order a small salad. I pulled down my blouse to cover my midriff, but, of course, it immediately rode up my torso again. "One side salad with a raspberry vinaigrette sauce," I said, once the well-rounded cashier asked if she could help me.
"That it?" she asked. Her voice sounded throatier, years more mature than mine. Before my restraining inner voice could protest, I suddenly myself adding two club subs, a large carton of potato salad and two bags of cheddar Sun Chips to my once-small order. I could already taste the bacon and mayo.
Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a twenty and handed it to the deli girl. I had a small amount of change coming to me, and as she placed the coins in my hand, the tip of two brightly polished fingers touched my palm. For the second time that day, I started to transform. As I regained three inches of height and doubled my weight, my legs swayed momentarily in my heels. To make it easier on my balance, my half-heels turned into simple canvas flats as my J.C. Penny work outfit was replaced with a Wal-Mart clearance denim jumper. On the other side of the counter, the deli girl was miraculously dropping both weight and height; the outfit I'd been wearing was now covering her zaftig frame.
Once again, my past and personality changed to match my new body. I was no longer the wet-behind-the-ears business school graduate, but a full-time counter girl, going to school part-time for her associate's degree. I was still a few years away from finishing, and lately I'd been wondering why I was even bothering. I felt more comfortable at the sandwich shop than I did in a lecture hall.
Without noticing that we were both on the wrong sides of the counter, we quickly returned to our proper stations, my broad hips rubbing up against the glass. Down the aisle, plump Gloria's sandwiches were already being worked on, so I watched my customer join her companion, a striking looking young man in a suit, at a nearby table. She sat there, looking cute and professional, and a small moue of jealousy overcame me. I tried to recall a time when I had been her size - or at least close to it - but I don't think I'd even hit puberty back then.
Imagine my surprise when the girl picked up her order and carried it to her table, laying the two sandwiches in front of her. They both, I realized, were for her! How'd that little thing get away with eating like that? Just the sight of her ravenously digging into her first twelve-inch got me feeling pretty hungry myself - even though I'd eaten a good-sized brunch just forty-five minutes ago. "Girl's got quite an appetite," I thought, reaching into my jumper pocket for a fresh stick of gum.
"She sure does," the young man drawled, startling me by his sudden appearance at the counter. I hadn't even seen him get up from his chair. "Love to see her a couple years down the road."
"You like big mamas, eh?" I said, using a term I knew Gloria didn't have in her vocabulary.
"Something appealing about a woman who's not afraid to give into her appetites," he answered, and if I wasn't already flushed from the heat of the ovens, I'd have definitely turned crimson.
"Wish my old man thought like that." I reached down under the counter and pulled out a Diet Coke, which, amazingly, turned out to be real Coke once I took my first sip. Why the hell was I bothering with Diet, anyway?
"He does," the young man reassured me. "He just doesn't have the balls to admit it." And as soon as he said it, I knew he was speaking the truth. Though my boyfriend Danny had made more than his share of wisecracks over the years, it was clear he got off on my big-bellied bod. Most nights after work, he had a hard time keeping his hands off me. With that fresh realization, my appetite started to swell. Instead of her physique, I now found myself wishing I had the young girl's lunch in front of me.
"What'll you have?" I asked my customer.
"Fruit plate for three," he replied, "a large latte with extra whipped cream, plus a slice of key lime pie for the little lady over there." He paused, as if considering his options further, then added, "Better make it two slices of pie." The girl was already into her second sandwich, and, though I knew it wasn't possible, she looked twenty pounds heavier than I would've immediately pegged her weight. Her belly was rounder; her chunky thighs observably thicker.
"Will do, cutie," I said, hitting the cash register. Break time couldn't come soon enough for me. Watching Gloria finally leave the deli (her butt definitely more prominent in that too-tight skirt - it moved with a mind of its own), I felt the urge to leave work, hit one of the neighborhood buffets and outdo the little glutton for the rest of the afternoon. I quickly kept this impulse reined in with a few more sticks of gum, however: at my current salary, there was no way I could afford to blow off a half-day of work.
To get me through the afternoon, though, I pulled a routine that we'd all used in the deli at one time or another: with my next customer, I deliberately wrote down the wrong sandwich order than waited for them to return it for a proper one. As a tactic, it didn't always work - you'd be surprised how often customers simply took what was given to them - but it proved effective enough that afternoon to net me three twelve-inch subs, which I ate behind the counter whenever it was slow. I would've tried for a fourth, but my co-workers were looking at me strangely.
I was thirty pounds heavier when I left work that day - a gain that couldn't just be explained by my extra noshing. My denim jumper had lost a few inches of its lower hem, showing off my heavier lower calves, and its fabric had shifted from mid- to lightweight cotton. It hugged each body bulge more revealingly, but, of course, I was too famished to even notice. A block from the office building was a pizza buffet and delivery place called Matteli's, and from experience I knew they'd still have their lunch buffet price for another hour. Instead of taking the bus home (Danny was dry-walling this week - and wouldn't be home until late), I toddled over to the restaurant for my first good meal of the day, noticing for the first time how much tighter my cheap canvas walking shoes felt. Next time I went to Payless, I'd have to check the shoes in nine wide.
Thinking back now on the woman I'd become, I know that Rachel, the professional p.r. flak, would have looked at fat Doris as a disaster. Crammed into a her too-tight jumper, her freed hair set in a cheap-looking mall perm, her Dollar Tree-bought makeup now thoroughly faded on her overfed face, she made young Gloria look like a model of well-dressed white collar professionalism. Yet to Doris there were more important things in life to be concerned about: a steady boyfriend, a job that brought in enough for three - or four - square meals a day, an affordable place to live. It was a more modest life than the ambitious Rachel would've accepted, but it worked well enough for the new me.
Though she was too wrapped up in the meal ahead to notice, I now know that my reality shifting hubby-to-be had followed Doris into Matteli's Pizza, watching the now 280-pound counter lady waddle up to the restaurant's hostess. Bedecked in a large black poly-knit dress with deep, deep cleavage, the hostess - whose name, improbably, was Lotta - was also close to Doris' age but almost twice her size. Seated on an extra-wide stool with a plate of partially eaten Canadian bacon pizza resting within arm's reach, she nodded at Doris with familiarity.
"Lunch buffet?" she asked, after swallowing a particularly large mouthful. Her still quivering double chin, I couldn't help noticing, had a mole that drew your attention to the lower half of her overfed face. Somewhere deep inside, a vestige of my first former self couldn't help observing: "A little bit of foundation would do wonders," it said, but that renegade thought was quickly tamped down by the buffet's come-hither scent.
"Lunch buffet?" I repeated. "But of course." I unconsciously rubbed my fat hands together like a kid being given free rein in a candy shop. Lotta didn't bother to get off her stool, just gestured with a cushiony arm. "Pretty dead right now," she said, "so you can grab a table or a booth."
I knew which table I wanted: the one within shortest walking distance of the pizzas. After piling a regular-sized plate with garlic bread and Italian salad, I happily hit the heat lamps. There were, I saw, five different styled pies on the buffet table. They all looked irresistible, so I took a slice from each. I sat and started digging into my salad, a magnificent blend of rotini pasta, tomatoes and olives, artichoke hearts and diced salami, plus pepper jack cheese, swimming in an oily Italian dressing. It was so good, I immediately returned for seconds, polishing off my first slice of pizza as I ambled over to the buffet. To save myself a trip, I gathered a second plate of pizza slices to go with the salad.
Though I didn't know it, I'd gained another thirty pounds over the course of my first salad. It'd mainly gone into my front this time, forcing me to lean over my prominent breasts and paunch to get to my food. That didn't stop me from shoveling food off the plates into my starving mouth: first one mound of pizzas, then my second salad, then the second plate, stopping only to take long deep swigs of vanilla soda. Though I'd always had a healthy appetite, I'd never eaten so unrestrainedly before. I knew it wouldn't be the last time. What had the man back at the deli said? "There's something appealing about a woman who's not afraid to give into her appetites."
"Looks like you're enjoyin' yourself," a voice puffed from behind me, and I looked up to see the restaurant hostess, holding a third plate full of slices ahead of her bountiful belly. Carrying it over, she'd gotten a tiny line of pizza sauce on her pale, white cleavage; as she grew closer to me, I could also see a decent grease stain on the crest of her quivering abdomen. From the way she was breathing after simply walking across the room, it was clear that she didn't do this all the time. "Care for a fresh plate?" she asked.
"You didn't need to do that," I protested, even as I eagerly reached up to grab her offering.
"Yeah, I do," Lotta said, putting her hand in mine - and as we touched, I experienced my third transformation. Seated at my table, my belly ballooned ahead of me, as my already pendulous breasts pushed forward to keep up. My hips spread outwards, drooping further over both sides of my chair, as my upper arms thickened and sagged over my elbows. My cheeks became dimpled and my double chin tripled, adding that telltale mole right where it was supposed to be. In the shadow of my looming belly, my shoes changed into cheap leather sandals, showing off my brightly colored toenails. My over-stuffed jumper became an even more over-stuffed dress: not a simple black one like the original Lotta had been wearing, though, but a brightly patterned (the better to mask tomato stains) sundress.
When the change had finished, I slowly - no way was I gonna be able to get up quickly - rose from my chair and let the considerably smaller woman standing right beside me take my place. I no longer was the part-time junior college student who paid her way through a full-time job at a sandwich shop, but a high school graduate who'd been working at Matteli's for the past decade. Even junior college was beyond my dreams, but I liked where I was just fine. My father, may he rest in peace, had called in a few favors to get a job for his fat gluttonous daughter, and I'd quickly grown attached to the place.
"Enjoy your lunch," I told Doris as she dug into her third plate, but her mouth was too full for her to answer. I slowly returned to my perch at the front of the restaurant, after snatching a slice of cinnamon apple pizza for a quick dose of sugary energy. Once I gratefully plopped down on my reinforced stool, I began nibbling on my dessert pizza: I was breathing too heavily to take full bites, but I'd learned over the years I could do lots of small nibbles between deep breaths.
The dinner crowd still hadn't started to show up, so I sat back and watched Doris gorge herself. The woman wasn't long for that denim jumper, I thought with a smile. Heck, if she kept eating like that, it wouldn't be long before she was my size! As I'd finally gotten my breath under enough control to take more satisfying bites, my only other customer rose from his shadowy booth to stride my way. Though I was pretty sure I'd never seen him in the restaurant before, his face looked naggingly familiar. Wasn't that much for skinny guys - I liked a man who looked as if he enjoyed the same things I did - but he was passable.
"Good food, Lotta," he said. "Surprised the place isn't busier."
"It will be," I answered, not wondering how he knew my name. "In another half hour, the place'll get crazy."
"I'm betting no one in the dinner crowd'll be as enthusiastic as that gal over there, though," he said sotto voce, pointing with his thumb toward the still-gorging Doris. She'd finished off the plate I'd brought her and was now working on a loaf of butter garlic bread.
"Good thing," I said, somewhat hypocritically. "Don't think we could afford too many buffet customers like her."
"This your place then?" he asked, and, looking back, I can almost hear a tiny hint of mockery in the question.
"I wish," I said, reaching down for another slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza. Though it shouldn't have been, the slice felt as warm as if it'd just come out of the oven. "But I've worked here since before the current owner took over. He's a sweet guy." While I wouldn't admit it aloud, as Lotta, I had a major crush on my boss. He was ten years old than me, slightly balding with a gruff voice and a cook's belly, and I loved the way he always smelled of his kitchen.
"Then there's no hope for me?" the customer asked. Wasn't often a gal my size got to hear that kind of flirtatiousness - even if the guy wasn't my type - and I could feel a deep warmth spread across the top of my chest. It distracted me from the extra forty pounds that had simultaneously appeared on my lower forefront, lowering my belly apron even further between my calves, adding another roll to my forefront.
"Depends," I said, just before taking another large bite of pepperoni and sausage. With the forty extra pounds of belly weight, my appetite had simultaneously been kicked up a notch. "How good a cook are ya?"
"Better than you can imagine, Rach'," he said, cocking his finger and deepening my second chin line as he did. I was too busy eyeing the over-full plate of rigatoni that had somehow appeared in my hand to notice he'd called me by the wrong name. "See ya later," he said, as I eagerly speared rigatoni with my fork. Thankfully, not a single customer showed until I'd finished my plate.
The rest of the evening was busy, but it didn't stop me from feeding my enhanced appetite. Though I never once left my perch, I never wanted for anything to eat that night. A teetering pile of plates rose behind my podium, and when the bus boy came to take what he expected to be two or three plates, he could only shake his head at the evidence of my gluttony. I was outdoing myself that day, no mean feat in itself, and, when I eventually vacated her body, I know that Lotta continued to regularly gorge at this level. Once you've been touched by my husband's mojo, your eating habits are changed forever.
When dinner shift wound down, it was time for me to head home. Dropping off my stool, my forefront bouncing from the impact, I took a deep breath and waddled back to the kitchen. I hadn't seen my boss since my last break, but even the prospect of spending a few minutes flirting with the man didn't keep me from stopping at the buffet and piling two slices of cold pizza on top of each other. I made quick work of the double-decker slice and was licking my fingers when I pushed the swinging doors open with my belly.
The rest of the staff - my boss, two pizza chefs and a busboy who also happened to be my nephew - were cleaning up to make ready for the rest of the night. Matteli's lunch and dinner buffet closed at seven, but its pizza delivery remained busy until eleven. On the center counter was a place setting with a large supreme pizza centered between a plate of garlic breadsticks and a large plate of artichoke salad. My dinner.
"For me?" I puffed as I took my seat on an extra-wide stool. A day ago, the plate would've held a small "single serving" pizza, but my vision of a single person serving had definitely grown. I licked my lips hungrily; it felt like I hadn't had a bite to eat all day.
"But, of course," my boss said. A second generation Italian-American, he loved to watch me appreciate his food. The rest of the staff knew better than to try and engage me in conversation at this point. They simply went about their work as I sat before the kitchen counter, napkin tucked into my considerable cleavage, and lost myself in my evening meal. Occasionally, I'd look up and see my boss eyeing me. The sight never failed to bring up simultaneous feeling of excitement and guilt.
When I'd first started driving deliveries at Matteli's, I'd been close to Doris' size, but now I had to turn sidewalks to walk through the front entrance. My years at the pizzeria, thanks to Mario Matteli's considerable encouragement, had made me incapable of restraint when it came to food. Though I'd always had the inclination, my years at the pizzeria had turned me into a compulsive overeater. And, except for the occasional flashes of self-consciousness I felt when I realized someone was watching me gorge myself, I couldn't imagine myself living any other way.
When I finished my pizza, I happily sat back and felt warmly full for the first time all day. That sensation wouldn't last, but it felt sadly sweet to reach it, to know - that for a few brief moments at least - I wanted nothing more.
"Time to head for home," I said, the taste of Matteli's pizza reiterating in my mouth. "You know where I am if you need me."
"One of the boys phoned in sick tonight. Think you kin do a small delivery on your way home?" my boss asked, as I waddled over to the storage room to grab my purse.
"Sure," I said. As I reached to get my purse, my overfed middle bumped against the wooden shelves, sending a twinge that went all the way down to the hard core of fullness within me. Over the shelves was a sepia-toned photo of village women from the old country. All were full-bodied and content looking; at least one was even fatter than me. As I stopped to briefly consider this picture of happy fat women, the sense of heaviness in my belly dissipated.
I'd inherited my parents' well-worn bungalow, and I knew the delivery Mario was talking about. Two blocks away, in the same working class neighborhood, lived one of Martelli's regulars. Every weekday, for years, they'd placed an order for two family-sized pizzas, changing the toppings daily but otherwise sticking to the same basic order. They were one of my first deliveries back in the old days, but it'd been ages since I'd seen them.
"Like to see what Celeste's up to," I said, grabbing a car key off the storage room wall as he turned to retrieve two large delivery boxes. Taking a delivery car home beat riding the bus any day, I thought. I pulled a Matteli's ball cap off of the shelf, stuffed my hair into it, than headed out for the night. Soon as I sat behind the wheel of the pizza delivery car, yet another change occurred - as if to fit my temporary role as delivery person. My sundress became a too-tight Matteli's tank top and sweatpants combo that hugged and showed off every bulge and fold on my torso; my leather sandals became even more low-priced vinyl Velcro; my once-brunette hair became a brightly dyed red; to keep up, the polish on my finger- and toenails grew even more garish. Pushing the driver's seat back as far as it could go, I still had to wedge my belly in behind the wheel. Oh for the days, I moaned to myself, when I was a mere fat gal, not a super-sized woman.
I'd done it to myself, I knew, and if I could go back in time, I'd probably do it all over again. I loved food too much. Even when I was in high school, the only studies that kept my interest were the cooking portions of Home Ec. It didn't even have to be good food. The hour before lunch, I'd spend the whole class sitting in my too-tight desk, wondering what was going to be served that day in the school cafeteria. The only time I ever got in trouble as a student was when one of the school's cheerleaders accused me of stealing a slice of chocolate cake that she'd offered to me in the lunchroom. Last I'd heard the skinny bitch was working in public relations or something.
The scent of the two pizzas soon overtook the inside of my delivery car, and this was enough to wipe away the sated sensation I'd been feeling less than a half hour ago. I found myself wanting to open the top box and slip a piece out, but I knew that Mario would be disappointed in me if I did. The twenty-minute drive took forever. Finally, squeezing myself out of the car, I grabbed the two boxes and huffed my way up the four steps leading into the old brownstone. I didn't used to get out of breath so quickly, but, then again, I wasn't carting around 600 pounds in the old days.
I hit the entrance buzzer and shouted "Matteli's!" when a voice asked who I was. The hallway was clean but dimly lit - the better to hide the small imperfections of age - but I knew the way to my delivery's apartment. First door on the left, across from the super's apartment. The door was notched open, so I knocked and let myself in. There, in the middle of the living room, perched on a reinforced king-sized futon that could barely hold her humongous hips, was the woman I knew only as Celeste. First time I'd delivered to her, she was close to my current weight: now, she looked a good three hundred pounds heavier.
She was dressed in a faded half-length muumuu, which showed off her quivering calves and the lower spread of her dimply ultra wide hips. Her feet were crammed into a cheap pair of ultra-wide red plastic flipflops. Between her widespread legs, her belly drop kept her calves from touching each other; from the way her dress hugged her body, it was clear she was wearing no undergarments. Her brown hair was long and curly, draping across her bulging shoulders. Her apple cheeks were bight red, and as far as I could tell, she was wearing no makeup.
"'Scuse me for. . . not gettin' up . . ." she gasped, shifting slightly to reach for a purse precariously perched on an armrest. The futon frame creaked loudly in protest at this movement. "You're not my usual . . . deliveryboy," she added, "but you look . . . familiar."
"Used to do deliveries," I explained. "Ten years ago. How's your husband?"
"Sonuvabitch left me . . ." she answered in her whispery voice. She held her purse up before over her looming forefront, to pull out a five. "Said I'd gotten . . . too fat." She smiled ruefully. "All those years . . . buyin' me ten pound chocolates . . . what'd the bastard expect?"
I put the pizza boxes on a TV tray beside the couch, fascinated and appalled by the sight of this mega-sized creature. Across the room, a twenty-six inch Sony was nattering; to the side of the futon, a forty-gallon garbage can was filled to the brim with takeout food containers and empty snack bags. I wondered who took the garbage out, if Celeste's husband was no longer in the picture.
"Got the bastard in court, though," she said, with a smile that was quadrupled by her extra chin lines. It was the only string of words she managed to get out without a single pause for breath; I suspected it was her personal mantra, a phrase she used to get through each day. "He's still . . .keepin' me fed." She raised her free hand to hold it to her curly hair, her upper arm swaying as she did so. "Took a lotta . . . alimony . . .to make me . . . the gal I am today," she joked.
I took a quick look around the rest of the living room. It looked like her ex- had taken most of the furniture with him: except for the futon, several wooden tray tables and the TV/VCR, the room was pretty Spartan. The hardwood floor was clean, I saw. I tried to imagine Celeste pushing a simple dust mop, but the image was beyond me.
"Got someone . . . comes in the mornings," she explained, correctly guessing my thoughts. "Helps me outta bed . . . gettin' dressed . . . cleans up the place . . ." With that, she flipped open the top box of pizza and took two slices. "Wanna slice?" she asked, turning the open box my way.
I stepped forward to accept her offer, and as I did, Celeste spoke from her body for the last time. "You're that little thing . . . Mario has a case on . . ." she realized. "Hasn't said . . . a word about it to ya . . . in ten years, I bet."
"You're right," I answered.
"'Need to push him, girl," she concluded, and she placed her puffy right hand on top of mine. With that, I underwent my final full body switch.
As Celeste began to shrink within her muumuu, my body raced to take her place. My belly quickly grew and dropped lower, sliding the elastic waistband of my sweatpants down until it snapped under my still-swelling apron, pushing my tee-shirt up so it was little more than a de facto sports bra. My legs and arms both widened and developed extra creases on the inside; my upper arms started drooping over my elbows, while my lower calves started bulging in the front and dropped to cover my inner ankles. My chins totally subsumed my neck, and, with my shoulders puffing up, I started to feel my face rub against the top of my torso.
Then both my top and sweats blew off my body, leaving me naked until an even older, more threadbare muumuu - one that Celeste must've outworn fifty pounds ago - suddenly appeared on my form. Celeste, meanwhile, had risen from her couch and picked up my clothes. The delivery outfit was gone, and my multi-colored sundress had returned. As she approached my old weight, she slipped her muumuu up over her head and quickly donned the dress.
I was glad to see her standing, because my unsteady legs weren't going to hold me up much longer. I quickly plopped down on the futon, which also miraculously remained intact, as my body continued to expand. My guesstimation of Celeste's weight proved insufficient, as I continued to add pounds to my body past the 300 mark. My body felt weightier and weightier, pressing down onto the futon. Soon I was up to half a ton, and just the thought of rising to my feet was exhausting.
The first box of pizza was beckoning, though, so I shifted myself forward to answer its call. My sausagey fingers took some getting used to: they didn't bend as fully as they once did, but at least they could still hold onto a triple-decker pizza samdwich. As I lifted the slices to my mouth, I felt my arm mash against a bra-less right breast. My breasts weren't just pillowy; they each were as large as an overstuffed bed pillow.
"Enjoy your pizzas," Lotta was saying as she headed for the door. Though I didn't know where she got it, she was chewing on a Cadbury bar.
"Lemme know . . . how it goes with Mario," I said between deep breaths and bites.
"I will," she smiled, and she waddled out of sight, leaving me with my post-dinner teevee snacks. I settled into my newest self and started slowly chowing down. The television was set to an old movie channel showing a movie titled Something for Everyone: unfamiliar to me, but I had a good time ogling Michael York - and the opulent feasts that were part of the movie's castle setting. I fell asleep on the couch before the flick reached its conclusion - but not before I finished off my second pizza. It was not the first time I'd conked out on the faded old couch.
I woke to the sound of someone opening the front door. It was, of course, my in-home worker, dressed in jeans and dark polo shirt with his name in white lettering above the shirt pocket. I happily noted the large box of Dunkin' Donuts he was carrying in his hands. Despite the treats, I always felt mildly embarrassed when he came in on me like this: though it was his job to help me move through the day-to-day routines, I at least liked to have my hair combed before he got here. Now it looked like a rat's nest.
"Looks like you had a party last night," he said as he stopped down to pick up the four empty cardboard boxes (had I really eaten all four pizzas last night?) and two-liter Slice bottles scattered on the floor. The garbage can, I noticed, was overflowing with even more empty boxes and fast food wrappers. As he bent over to tamp down the trash, his shock of unruly hair flipped down before his eyes.
"Must have!" I muttered, just then noticing that my muumuu had crawled even further up my legs. "Aren't you here. . . early?"
"Wanted to see you," he answered, and, as he said this, I saw the living room was now totally clean. He placed the box of donuts on my tray and reached forward to grasp my fat right hand, his legs sinking into my great drooping belly as he did. "You have to know that this is more than a job to me," he said, and the words were enough to make me take my eyes off the tray and gaze into his deep, unfathomable eyes.
"Believe I do," I replied, and with that my life underwent its biggest change yet. Suddenly, I was no longer sitting in my dimly lit apartment, but in a large bright room. My dingy muumuu was replaced with a tailor-made camisole and a pleated skirt. My unmade hair was short and well coiffed. Instead of a futon, I was reclining on an extra-wide adjustable bed; even my television had morphed into a large projection screen set.
My new husband stood on the left side of the bed, holding out a shiny silver tray with the first of my breakfast servings: a heaping plate of Belgian waffles with whipped cream and strawberries plus a half-pound of bacon. As I reached for a napkin with my left hand, I noticed a simple, yet pricey, gold band on my wedding finger. It was a lot more elegant than the gaudy bauble my first hubby had bought me, I decided.
My spouse held a fork of waffle to my lips. "Here you go, Rach'," he said, and I eagerly opened my bulging lips to break my morning fast. First thing I tasted was rich whipped cream, filling the inside of my hungry mouth, then I bit down and the flavor of waffle and strawberries commingled exquisitely. For a second, it was so overpowering that I lost all thought of everything else.
When I returned to my body, I was no longer Celeste but Rachel once again - and five hundred pounds heavier. My torso had grown so wide I could no longer move my upper arms; I could only just bend my forearms to reach my mouth. My breasts and belly mounded before me, pinning me on my back, covering my legs so that little more than my bare feet felt the cool of the room's air conditioning. My head rested between my two cushiony shoulders, my chins so snugly drooping against my neck and upper chest that it was an effort to fully look around the room. I was still wearing my camisole, but it'd ridden up most of my belly and was primarily just covering my nipples. Only a few swatches of the lower hem of my skirt were visible; the rest was covered by my overhanging belly and midriff.
"What do you think?" my husband asked, once I'd finished off my first plate. As he lifted the tray before my face, I saw a reflection of a tattoo on the top of my gelatinous right breast. It looked like a cartoon image of Petunia Pig. Though I never was much of a cartoon buff, I remembered an old short from the thirties introducing Porky's sweetie, which had shown her significantly fatter than usually looked, reclining on a couch eating a big box of chocolates. This Petunia looked even fuller faced than that version of the character
"Hope there's more," I answered.
Of course, there was.
He followed with a large bowl of strawberries with whole cream, plus a six-pack of toasted English muffins and orange marmalade. It was heavenly. Every offering made me hungrier; every time my loving husband came into contact with my jiggling flesh, it sent a warm feeling throughout me. I began to eat faster, and he, of course, kept up. By the end of my fourth course, I was close to feeling full - but as soon as my man held up a plate of yoghurt and eggs capable of feeding four burly Bulgarians, my mouth started watering. I'd never used to eat such exotic fare before, but my taste pallet had grown with my body over the years. I happily let myself be fed, ignoring the fat-muffled protests of my very stuffed stomach. Whenever I started to feel painfully full, my husband would give me a smile and a wink - and the feeling would instantly go away.
At eleven, we took a break for lunch prep, and the overstuffed feeling smacked me big time. I wished I reach to rub my stomach, but my arms couldn't reach that far. So, instead, I just sat back and watched television. On cable news, a southern senator had just been picked up for soliciting in a DC public restroom, but the story didn't have anything to do with me. I somehow found myself feeling sorry for the skinny blond who was stuck as his public spokesperson, though.
My afternoon went the same as my morning, the only difference being the courses that were served. The evening was devoted to pizza, of course, with slices cut into long enough pieces that I could actually dangle them within reach of my mouth on my own, then nibble them down to nothingness as I let them drop and slap onto my chins. The lower half of my face got covered in sauce with each pie I finished, but my husband was happily there to clean it off with a warm face cloth. At the end of the day, he made love to me, reaching me in places that I could no longer even see, but that he still managed to somehow touch. I fell asleep still quivering from his ministrations, wondering how I'd lucked into this life.
Which is how I ended most days of the next eight years. Occasionally, my hubby would leave me for a day to "go into town on business," and on those days my hunger would abate enough for me to get by on two piles of pizza - one on each side of the bed, within reach of each arm, and a keg of Vanilla Pepsi. The last two years, my arms lost their ability to lift my drooping breasts and bend enough to dangle Matteli's Pizza within reach of my mouth, so on those few hours my hubby was out of the house (thankfully, he'd found a way to accomplish his assignments more quickly and efficiently), I made do with kegs of nutritional supplements. It wasn't as much fun as being fed, but at least it kept me full.
Mobility was a thing of the past, but, to make up for it, my body grew less demanding in several areas. I could lie in bed for days, held down by the massive weight of my still growing body, without once feeling the need to go to the bathroom; though my flesh remained soft and jiggly, it also proved miraculously resistant to sores and chafing. Stretch marks were another matter, but since they didn't provide any discomfort, I wasn't bothered by their presence.
Except, of course, on my anniversary.
It'd happen as soon as I'd wake up. Waking to the sight of the bedroom ceiling (I never used to sleep on my back - now it's the only position I can rest in), I'd first feel my early morning hunger, then suddenly the memory of all that has happened to me would flood into my mind. I'd gaze down in horror at the unimaginable mass of fatness that I'd become. Looking past the small sheath of fabric covering my breasts, I'd stare in horror at the mass of pink flesh rising and falling with every deep breath I took. In panic, I'd struggle to lift myself from the bed. In the first years, I was able to sit up, but eventually I'd grown to the point where all I could do was impotently quiver my arms against the rings of protuberant fat holding them in place, feel the press of my spreading body against my bed.
I'd think back to the woman I'd once been - the thin and slender go-getter - and contrast it to the immobile mass I'd become, and the comparison would take me to the brink of despair. What had I done to deserve this? The woman I'd been wasn't a bad person: somewhat work-obsessed perhaps, maybe a bit of a snob (though much less so than I'd been in my high school cheerleader days). But these were small sins in the scheme of things, barely deserving of this outsized punishment.
I cursed my husband a lot on those first anniversaries: even threw my food at him the first time, but you can bet I only did that once. As much as I bemoaned my fate I still feel the need to feed my face - if anything, the urge was even stronger on anniversary days. I'd try to hold back, but it was no use. Once I started in on breakfast, I lost all control. The only difference from the other 364 days of the year was my knowledge of the Rachel I'd once been. It made everything I ate taste ashen, so much so that by the fifth year I was desperately waiting for the day to end, so I could properly taste my husband's meals again.
The eighth year, though, I noticed something I never had before: how upsetting my distress was to my husband. He'd stand by my side as I ravenously, angrily ate, and he'd futilely try to sooth me.
"You're so beautiful," he'd coax, holding a fork of Belgian waffle right before my lips. "Eat! Eat! It's one of your favorites!" But whatever magic he possessed was not enough to ease my misery. I pleaded with him, those first years, to change me back, but, of course, he didn't do it. "I'm an agent of balance," he'd sadly answer. "The world hates our kind in part because of the work you used to do. Selling a set image of beauty and success. Making young girls like Gloria feel less than womanly because they have a few extra pounds on them. I couldn't change you back even if I wanted to."
"Which you don't?" I asked, though his attraction for my elephantine body had never been a question any of the remaining 364 days of the year.
"Which I don't," he admitted. "Other women have taken your old roles - and done a much better job with them." With that, he pulled a remote from his shift pocket, gestured toward the big-screen television and clicked it to cable news. There, I saw a matronly figured Rachel talking to the camera. Following the revelations of her senatorial client's sexual misconduct, the p.r. pro had split from her parent firm and opened her own small agency, one devoted to marketing a more diverse standard of human beauty. Standing in the background, was her friend and business partner Gloria, who looked to be in the mid-300 range. From the little I could see on the camera, she'd obviously learned how to better clothe her bottom-heavy self over the past seven years.
"That's just two of 'em," my husband said, aiming the remote to change the set to a food and lifestyle channel. There, on a show devoted to "Diners and Dives," was a segment devoted to a popular Mexican restaurant out in the southwest. There, working in the kitchen, was a super-sized Doris in a form-fitting sleeveless sundress, happily slathering refried beans on a row of tortillas. "Her boyfriend got a job in New Mexico," I was told. "So she switched her allegiances from deli food to south of the border fare. As you can see, it's done her body good."
He once more aimed his remote - only this time no channel that I had ever seen came up. Instead, a series of still shots showing the interior of a familiar Italian-American restaurant appeared. "Support for this show has been made by Mattelli's Pizza, your hometown pizza paradise," a voice that sounded suspiciously like my husband said. A still of Lotta, wearing a red silk dress, her wide self seated in front of the opulent buffet table flashed on the screen. She was holding a heaping bowl of tira misu in her fat left hand, looking down at it hungrily. On her ring finger was a simple band of gold. By now, she was close to the apartment-bound Celeste in size, though obviously able to get around better.
"Her hubby bought her an electric cart," my husband said, once more reading my mind.
"Of course . . . he did," I said, wishing that the bowl she was holding were in my husband's hands. And then suddenly it was, only substantially bigger, of course. I spent the morning of my eighth anniversary gorging on more tira misu than Mattelli's served in a week. Life's short; eat dessert first, right?
It took me two more years to fully get it, though. Even though my anger with my husband had abated, I still held out hope that he could change me back into my old self. "Wouldn't you like . . . to start over?" I asked on the morning of our ninth anniversary. "Build me up . . . again?"
"I love you as you are," he answered, holding a rolled strawberry crepe up to my ever-eager mouth. I knew he wasn't lying, but it took another anniversary before I finally reached my own level of personal acceptance.
That last year had been a particularly good one for gorging. My husband's talents had grown more skillful, more attuned to my own particular taste buds, over the years. With each dish he presented, he'd ask for my critique after my first bite. If I found, for instance, the garlic insufficient in my bagna cauda, it always was to my liking by the second dip. Instead of working on me, he'd now turned all his efforts toward maximizing the taste of every meal. Of course, I ate even more. Why wouldn't I? Every serving was an expression of his love.
My hubby's trips into town barely took any time at all these days, which meant he had even more time to make my meals and feed me. If I hadn't already reached immobility, I'd say that I was stuffing myself too full to move, but the fact is I'd grown to love that feeling of way-too-fullness. As my body swelled all around me, even my head lost its capacity to turn: my chins and necks so pressed against each other that they held me facing forward. I could only look upwards, though, since my cheeks crested ahead of me and, if I shifted my eyes to the side, my pillowy shoulders blocked my view. Fortunately, my considerate husband had mounted the flat-screen where I could see it.
The screen is the first thing I see when I wake, and, as usual, it is silently playing a cooking show when I open my eyes. Most mornings, the sight of whatever is on the screen is enough to get my mouth watering - and wanting whatever food item I'm being shown - and, for my anniversary, my husband has recorded and is playing a Food Channel show devoted to a team of professional cake makers. The crew is working on a multi-layered wedding cake, and I have woken to the sight of their finished product. As I focus on the screen, the plastic bride on the top of the cake grows fatter and fatter until she's no longer standing next to her plastic groom, but sitting and sinking into the frosting.
Like I say, I remember it all: the way I used to be and the way I am now; the way I've spent the last years and the way I've reacted to every anniversary. As I replay every fantastic event, I also keep my eye on the plastic bride, who has fallen on her back and continued to balloon into a mirror image of my mega-sized self. The image makes me chuckle, even as I feel my appetite welling up. Damn, but that cake looks delectable!
And, then on the screen, there's my husband, wheeling in a pastry cart with the same scrumptious cake on it. I hear the sound of the cart's squeaky wheels coming up behind me, even if I can't crane my head to see it and my acute senses catch a whiff of thick sugary frosting. "Happy . . . anniversary," I huff as I wait for him to climb the step stool alongside my bed and bend over to give me first piece of cake. I lick my lips hungrily, a sight that I realize he finds exceedingly provocative.
"You, too, Rachel," he says, holding the first large slice of cake - I taste strawberries and whipped cream in between the layers of chocolate and vanilla - for me to eat. "You look surprisingly cheerful this morning."
I don't answer until I've finished my first full piece of cake, and, as he turns to cart to cut off a larger piece, I finally say, "I . . . am . . . glad." And it's all I need to say. For the first time, I've woken on an anniversary, feeling totally attuned to who and what I am. I'm Rachel, the weight-bound wife of a man with the uncanny ability to keep me full and then some. Though I know all that has happened to me, I can't see changing my life for anything. I love being fed too much.
"I've been waiting for this moment for years," my husband says, as I happily gulp down my second piece of anniversary cake. "Come with me!"
"Wh - ?" I say with my mouth full of cake - and, then, suddenly, I find myself, amazingly, standing right beside both my husband and myself. I look at the still eating Rachel and I get the first full look at the astounding sight that is myself.
My bed, I see, is at least two feet lower at the foot than it is at the head - something I've never noticed as I lay in it since the whole of my body is so gravity bound. The slope pulls both my breasts and belly downward, though. The latter drapes down past my feet, covering my useless knees and the inner two-thirds of my legs; this wall of flesh mounds ahead of me, a deep fold radiating to both sides of my torso from my belly button. I have no need for any lower covering since the only way you could see anything immodest would be if you had x-ray vision. I still favor camisoles for a top, however, if only to keep my boobs from falling too far off to the side. The straps dig at least two inches into my cushiony shoulders, but I barely notice the sensation. My hubby changes my tops several times a day, and with good reason: already, I can see a trickle of strawberry juice has stained the one I'm presently wearing.
My hair's put up to keep from getting caught in my folds. My face is more cheeks and chins than anything, yet there's a heavy-lidded womanly sensuality within its features that speaks to years of unbridled pleasure. As I savor the rich anniversary cake, I can see my trembling cheeks grow flush with joy; my swollen lips turn upwards in a placid contented smile. I quickly re-enter my body and savor the taste, then I just quickly move back into the form standing by the side of the bed.
"How?" I ask, still habitually conversing in short bursts, and my husband gestures toward a door six feet behind the bed. I pat my supine self's well-splayed hand and turn to take a gander. On the door is a full-length mirror, and I see that I'm in a slightly shapelier version of my old thin body. The dress I'm wearing is stylish and designed to show off my zaftig frame; the look on my face is softer, less stress-filled. I don't look completely like my old self - which is good since there's already another one of me out there - though we could be sisters. I take quick peak beneath my blouse and see I still have my Petunia tattoo.
"Check out the room next door," my hubby says. "There'll still be some cake left for you when you get back."
I walk across the room - a first for me - and open the door. Inside, I see a second bedroom that could almost be a twin for mine: only on the bed is a wholly different figure. It's a longhaired male, shirtless and massive, resting in his bed as a figure that looks exactly like my husband feeds him his own anniversary cake. He looks a good three hundred pounds heavier than me, is larger bellied, while his man breasts could give mine a run for their money. His torso is relatively hairless, showing off each fold and bulge enticingly. As he takes a fist-sized bite from his piece of cake, he winks at me.
"This you?" I ask the man holding the plate of pastry over him.
He nods and says in my husband's familiar voice, "Takes more than one of me to run this house. I'm relieved to see you finally fully settled into yourself."
"That what this means?" I ask, gesturing up and down my torso like some celebrity dieter highlighting their new bod in a TV commercial.
"Yup," the dapper figure says, as he hands me a plate of cake with a fork. I take a bite, and it's just as rich and flavorful as the one my weight-bound self is being fed. A loud moan of pleasure emerges from the other room, and I know that more than one of me is enjoying this slice. To please us both, I rapidly cram an even bigger forkful into my mouth.
"You're . . . beautiful . . . " the male behemoth says with a twinkle in his eye. As he speaks, his great draping jowls add a quaver to his voice. " . . . eating . . . " I gaze into his great wide face, and, for the first time I realize something.
"I know you," I stammer. "I mean . . . I knew you before you did all this, didn't I?" Ten years of marriage, and I've never once wondered what my husband's name is. Now, I struggle to pull it out of my memory and come up short.
"Phillip . . . Richard . . ." the massive figure tells me just before he takes another chomp out of his cake. As he says the name, I can hear it being called by a teacher back in high school. He sat two rows behind me, barely noticed, a quiet super-sized teenager who was definitely not a part of my circle of friends. Had I ever spoken to him back then? Again, my mind came up short. God, I hoped I hadn't done or said anything cruel to him.
"Don't worry, Rach'," my husband's slender doppelganger says. "You were never nasty to me. I was too far beneath your radar." He leans over to wipe the breakfasting Phillip's face with a napkin. "That didn't bother me," he continues. "I was focused on my own goals."
"This size," the mountainous Phillip continues - without a single pause between any of the words, "gave me the ability to get in touch with the Forces of Universal Balance - to connect with them and become their agent. It also gave me you. I used to sit in class, imagining you as you are today."
"You may not have noticed me back then," the two say in unison, "but I noticed you."
"And now?" I ask, reaching for another plate of cake. I can make my own doubles any size I wanted, I now realize, and I feel more comfortable just a little bit more zaftig. It'd make me less noticeable, I decide, when I went out into the world.
"Now it's your turn to go out and be an agent of balance," the slender Phillip says with a grin.
"Balance," I repeat, and suddenly I know everything he is talking about. I would be, I realize, much as my husband has been for the last ten years. I look down at the mega-sized figure who is my one true spouse, and I suddenly am able to see all the women besides myself that he's changed. An arrogant blond political writer who'd used her considerable skills to put down those she thought beneath her, fat women included; a platitude spouting lady politician who was just as condescending in her own way toward her super-sized sisters - and others, many others.
"No men?" I ask as my mental slide show ends and my hubby finishes his anniversary cake.
"There are other agents for men," he explains. "Like you."
"Ah, I see," I say, though I still don't entirely. I can feel a yet unused power building within me, though I'm not sure how to focus it. Testing it, I concentrate on my doppelganger body and make it expand to Lotta's old size. I've grown so accustomed to being fat that this feels natural to me. Too, as an agent, this size will provide an extra layer of anonymity; to most people, fatness is another form of invisibility.
I stand, pat my wonderful belly and temporarily return to my still-feeding self in the other room. Thus energized, I turn to my husband's slender double.
"How do I know who to work on?" I ask.
"First one's your own choice," he tells me. "Start off by working on someone you know. From that point on, you'll begin getting a fix on good potential subjects: people who need a different take on the world."
I take another slice of cake, both versions of my husband nodding approvingly, and I think back to my pasts. As skinny ol' Rachel, I can't think of any males particularly deserving of a fattening life change, but I can think of someone from my time as Celeste. I imagine a spatula in my pudgy right hand, imagine using it to flip my first subject's life around. I've found a way to focus my power. I hold the unseen utensil to my side, roll it in my palm - and switch my mega-sized husband's bed into the other room right beside mine. Our overflowing hips and splayed fingertips touch across the space between the beds, and the sensation is profoundly erotic.
I waddle into the room, stand over my mountainous husband and rub my fingers through his unruly hair. "I love you," I say, and the woman in the bed beside him echoes these words.
"Me too," he grins. "You off to work?"
His mobile doubles appear by my side, looking more like adult versions of the fat teen I'd once ignored back in high school. I like the way he looks even more, I decide. Like our bed-bound selves, we still match each other.
"Want me to come with you?" the super-sized doppelganger who's been feeding me all these years asks. His slender self might've attracted notice, walking alongside my 400-pound self, but at his present weight, we blend in together. Just to be playful, I aim my imaginary spatula at his clothes and change his slacks into faded jeans, making them a size smaller than his body requires, and give him a polo shirt with a tiny catsup stain on his right breast. "Very nice," he says, changing my dress into a muumuu out of Celeste's old closet. I giggle and swirl in my new/old outfit.
"I'd love you to come," I say, and the two of us head for a door I've never walked through. I'm already imagining how to handle my first transformation. The old Celeste would be pleased, I think. We step out into the sun - who knew my home was in the middle of a prairie? - and I look back at the large modern house behind me. When we return, I'd have to take a tour of the place: I bet the kitchen is fabulous.
"An okay anniversary?" my husband asks.
"Great," I say, and I flip us back to the city where Celeste's ex- is living with his newest girlfriend. I can still feel my at-home self finishing off her anniversary cake and savor the taste of it as I wait for my first job to step out of his luxury condominium. I think back to my first self, at that very moment meeting with her bottom-heavy business partner Gloria, to discuss a "Love the Body You're In" ad campaign with a major cosmetics company. We're all in the same business, I think: making the world just a little bit easier for plus-size people. In a world where fatness is considered a major moral failing, every little change helps.
It's going to be a fun decade, I decide . . .
Copyright © 2008 - OakHaus Designs
