Chapter 1

It was a really hot day, one of the first of the summer, and about the last thing I wanted to do was go with my parents to a graduation party for a woman who used to do personal fitness training for me & my mother. It wasn't that I didn't like her or anything -- Robin had always been really great to me -- it was just that I didn't feel like dressing up and hanging out with a bunch of middle-aged people I didn't even know. Especially since I'd put on about 25 pounds in the two years since I'd last seen Robin and none of my dressy clothes even fit right.

But, Mom pulled the You're-living-in-my-house routine and the You'll-never-meet-a-nice-guy-if-you-sit-around-in-your-bathrobe speech which left no room for refutation. So I squeezed myself into this black skirt-and-blouse set which was a little tight, but, because it kind of draped down from my boobs, it did manage to hide most of the bulge from my belly. The long tail of the blouse was a little clingy around my hips and butt, but I really didn't have any choice. While I looked at myself in the mirror, I tried to picture what someone who didn't know me would see.

I'm medium tall (5'7") and I've been told I have a pretty face -- high cheekbones, dark Mediterranean skin, black eyes, straight white teeth; my black hair is long and wavy-curly, usually tied back with a scrunchy or up in a bun. Those are the parts of me that I like.

The guys I've gone out with, however, have usually had other things to focus on. They've always been very impressed with my boobs. When I was working with Robin regularly and was at my "fighting" weight of 132, I bought myself a bunch of 42D bras; I'm still wearing them, although they're way too tight and I'm bulging over the tops of the cups -- I guess it's that buying new, bigger-sized bras is kind of an admission to myself that I'm fat and I'm probably gonna be this way for a while.

Following the mirror's trail of self-loathing, we come to my belly. My belly was never really flat, but it used to be that I could put on a panty-girdle or control-top pantyhose and be pretty sure that no one would suspect; nowadays, my belly is loose and flabby and hangs over the waistband of my panties; I sometimes feel as if it enters a room before I do. My butt is another version of the same story, although in reverse, and my thighs -- well, saddlebags are definitely genetically inherited.

So, just as you'd expect from someone who liked herself as much as I did, when we got to the party, I promptly found a seat inside, in an inconspicuous location, and tried my best to melt into the wallpaper. As (bad) luck would have it, my seat was right next to the food table. And food -- any and all kinds -- is the reason I'm such a mess. I mean, I've met a lot of people I didn't like, but I don't think I can say the same about cheesecake.

From my vantage point, I checked out the table. Despite the fact that Robin is a fanatic about healthy food -- she panics if she thinks she's eaten a gram of fat -- she did put out a great spread for her guests. The caterers had laid out a huge tin of lasagna, three different kinds of pasta, a platter of cold cuts, baked beans, hot dogs and hamburgers, cheeses and crackers, chips, dips, salads, quiches, knishes, breads, rolls and baked potatoes. I resisted temptation and boredom for about ten minutes before I got up "for just a little something." I made my way around the table, and by the time I got back to my seat, my plate was exploring the boundaries of its structural capabilities.

There was a lot of food and I ate extra slowly, figuring that this would be my entertainment for the afternoon and that I should make it last. Even so, twenty minutes later my plate was clean and I was bored again. I looked around to see if anyone at the table was there when I filled up my first plate. Recognizing no one, I made another circuit, doubling up on the lasagna, which was especially good and avoiding the lame-o potato salad and coleslaw.

As I sat down in my chair again, I felt a dangerous tightness around the waistband of my skirt. Surreptitiously, I reached under my blouse and undid the top button. I breathed a sigh of relief and dug in.

It wasn't long before that plate, too, was history. I was totally stuffed and somewhat unable to move. I folded my hands over my swollen belly, leaned back in the seat and watched the crowd for a while. Robin came over for a minute, making the rounds -- she lied, telling me that I looked good, told me we'd talk more later, and darted off to say hello to another guest. It was strange, watching all the people at the buffet table and realizing that I'm just one of an awful lot of women who've got this dangerous flirtation with food. One woman piled her plate high with salad but sneakily stuffed her pockets with petit-fours and asked her daughter to hold her plate while she went to the bathroom. When she came back a few moments later, her pockets were flat and there was the tiniest smudge of chocolate on her
lip. I was watching with fascination as a group of four chubby women did what seemed to be a synchronized dance, sneaking one at a time into the dining room, making sure that none of the others were watching, gobbling down a burger or a fried drumstick and then zooming back out to the deck where the others were waiting. A minute later, one of the other would excuse herself for a moment and repeat the performance.

Then, I got up to go to the bathroom at one point during that gobble dance and while I was waiting my turn, I heard the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. I pretended not to have heard when an extremely thin woman whom I'd seen at the table a couple of times came out a moment later. I finished my business and checked the danger level on my skirt. When I came out, I saw two plump little girls who reminded me of my younger self sitting in the bedroom where the bathroom was, watching tv and eating enormous slices of cake.

I went back to my observation post and a moment later, the most gorgeous man on earth walked over, carrying two plates of food and said in a heavenly British accent, "There you are. I was looking for you and hoping you hadn't left. May I sit down?"

He was about 6'4" tall, with long, wavy brownish-blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a golden tan. His nose was a little crooked -- it had been broken at some point -- and it only served to bring his godlike appearance a little closer to earth. He wore a loose, white shirt and black chinos, but I just knew that his chest was a perfect V-shape and he had a washboard stomach and tight, tanned buns. I lost the ability to speak for a few seconds and was only able to motion to him that the seat next to me was unoccupied.

"Thanks," he said, and sat down, seemingly unaware of my sudden muteness. "I thought you might not have eaten, so I brought you a plate. I wasn't quite sure what you'd fancy, so I put on a bit of everything. I hope that's not too presumptuous of me."

"No," I said, learning how to speak again. "No. Not at all. It looks delicious. Thank you."

"Fantastic," he said and smiled a smile that threatened to strike me dumb again. "I'm Andy. And you are...?"

"Melanie," I mumbled, and he laughed again.

"I'm sorry for laughing. It's just that... I'm as shy as you are. I fight it all the time. Force myself a bit, you see. Pretend to be forward, while I'm actually quaking in my shoes."

I laughed, too, thinking of someone as perfect as him being shy about approaching me! We made smalltalk for a while -- how we knew Robin, the boring people at the party, the lame music, how drunk Robin's husband was. The whole time I picked at my food, almost unconsciously.

I had nearly plowed through the plate when he interrupted a particularly bitchy comment about one of the guests by saying, "I hate to interrupt you, and this might sound a bit odd, but I am absolutely entranced, watching you eat."

I must've turned redder than a fire engine, because he looked horrified. "I'm so sorry," he said. "Please forgive me. I've embarrassed you so. I'll just be going."

He stood up and I nearly panicked. "No, no. It's okay," I said, touching his wrist. "I just... No one's ever said anything like that to me before. It's a... strange kind of compliment and... I was just... surprised. That's all."

"I really had no intention of embarrassing you," he said. "Are you sure I haven't insulted you?" I reassured him for several moments, unwilling to allow him to escape.

"I was watching you eat," he said "and... There was something about your face... something old-fashioned and vulnerable -- with just a touch of passion, mystery and sinful enjoyment in your eyes. I couldn't help but watch you."

I kept hearing the word "Mystery" after that, and the word kept sending a shiver down my spine. He thinks I'm mysterious, I thought, and when he asked if I'd like a piece of cake, I didn't even think twice about how I would ever be able to force a piece of cake into my stomach which was already swollen to bursting. If he had asked me whether I wanted to eat the entire cake, I would have agreed and died trying. "Mysterious," I thought.

He brought me a huge slab of cake -- the first few bites were almost painful as the zipper on my skirt was digging into my inflated stomach. But then, I shifted in my seat, which caused the zipper to unfasten and quickly roll down into my crotch. My belly was free and the rest of the cake went down easy. We talked for a few more moments and then he looked at his watch and said, "Oh my. I've an appointment very soon. Tell me, are you busy this Saturday night? I'd love to get to know you some. May I pick you up for dinner?" I agreed, trying to hide at least some of my eagerness, gave him my address and phone number, and watched, as if a spectator, as he kissed my hand goodbye.


It was around 10:00 that night and I was sitting in the diner with my friend Jess. I met her right as she got off work at the mall, because I was just bursting to tell someone.

We had gotten home from the party at around 5:00 and I had taken a nap because I'd been such a pig that there wasn't much else I was capable of doing. I figured I'd eaten 2 hamburgers, 2 hot dogs, 4 slices of lasagna, at least a pound of pasta, a quarter pound of each of the salads, 5 pieces of fried chicken, a couple of rolls, some cookies, and a huge slab of the most wonderful cake I'd ever tasted. After detailing my overindulgence, I surprised Jess (and myself) by ordering a turkey sandwich plate.

"So, right after he left," I told Jess, "Robin comes over and gives me this hug, saying, 'I can't believe my little Melanie snared Andy. He was really impressed with you.' So, I told her we were going out on Saturday night and she squealed -- almost popped my eardrum -- and said 'That's so great! You're going out with Andrew Sansome. That's SOOOO great!'"

Jess dropped her fork and her eyes almost bugged out of her head. "Your Andy is Andrew Sansome? Andrew Sansome the model? The actor? The guy who's in his underwear on every bus shelter in New York City? He knows Robin?"

"I didn't recognize him. In all the pictures his hair is really short -- buzz cut -- and at the party it was long and down to his shoulders. And I didn't think he'd be so nice, so unassuming. And he came looking for me!"

"Oh my God. I still can't believe it," Jess said. "And you're going out with him on Saturday. Any idea where?"

The waitress came over then, and without thinking, I ordered a slice of Boston creme pie, like I usually did when Jess and I came here for dinner. "I wonder if I should cancel that order," I said.

"After everything you ate today, I'm amazed you finished your sandwich. You keep up like this and he's going to have to get a table for three so you can have two chairs to sit in. That's if he's even still going to be interested in dating a blimp."

I thought for a second about what I'd left out in the story I'd told Jess -- the stuff about how he liked watching me eat. There was something going on there, something I wasn't too sure about and I felt it was better left a secret.

"Well," I said, "today's a total disaster anyway in the battle of the bulge, so... I just won't eat anything for the rest of the week." I dug into my slice of pie while Jess and I talked for an hour or so.

When I got home that night, I undressed in front of the mirror and wound up staring a while at my enormously swollen stomach. It was bigger than it had ever been, both because, at 157 pounds (this morning!), I was heavier than I'd ever been, and, because I'd simply never eaten that much before. I put both hands on my gut, feeling the tautness beneath all the soft blubber; I put my hands under it, lifted it and felt the weight of it as it dropped. I laid down in bed and rubbed my stomach, fascinated with the way it felt. Then, my hand made its way down into my crotch which was warm and furry and dripping wet. The day flowed back over me with an intensity I'd never before experienced, leaving me exhausted and shuddering with delight. I fell asleep on my side, hugging my swollen belly and dreaming of
Saturday and mystery.