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|09-01-2006, 03:36 PM||#1|
Join Date: Feb 2006
Location: Down heah
Taxi by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, ~~WG, ~Gay)
~BHM, ~~WG, ~Gay
By Big Beautiful Dreamer
As he toweled off after his shower, Reid kept hearing Kathy Bates’ line from “Fried Green Tomatoes” echoing in his head: “I just wish I had the courage to be really fat and get it over with.” In the decade since college, long hours, fewer buddies, and less time and inclination to exercise had all taken their toll, and the 5’11” Reid now carried 200 pounds. Not a lot, he kept telling himself. Really, not heavy at all. Just solid.
He’d had the bad timing to look at himself in the mirror just as he was toweling his back, exposing his bare front in bright bathroom lighting with no clothing or any other disguises, and he was vaguely shocked at how he really looked.
His face was fuller, his cheeks visibly plump and his jawline sagging. He wouldn’t call it a double chin – would he? He thrust his face forward. There. Much better. His chest, though, sagged as though the whole substructure had slid off its foundation. There was a slight but noticeable crease where pecs met torso, partly because his torso now curved outward. His stomach wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination a pot belly, he thought, but his waistline was both thicker and wider than it had once been. He sucked it in, with little visible improvement. Exhaling, he watched his belly expand.
Well, whatever. He didn’t have all day to look in the mirror, and anyway, it wasn’t as though the weight was going to miraculously drop off just by looking. Sighing, he hung up the towel and headed for the closet. He reached for his loosest pair of pants, which he had worn yesterday, so the waistband was already stretched out a little. They were still pretty snug. He added a button-down shirt, tie, and V-neck sweater. He flicked off the kitchen light and headed out.
Crap, it was raining. “Taxi!” Two hands reached for the door handle at the same time. Reid’s eyes flicked from the handle upward to a face that was not handsome but open and puppy-dog friendly. The other guy was a few inches shorter and slightly built, with curly dark hair that was already rain-dampened. He wore a suit and carried a battered attaché case. Both Reid and the other guy hesitated, then Reid spoke.
“I don’t mind sharing,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Going downtown?”
“Holocaust Museum,” the stranger answered. “You?”
“Folger Shakespeare Library,” Reid returned.
“Great,” the stranger said. He opened the door and gestured for Reid to hop in, which he did. Once they were in, Reid leaned forward and said to the driver, “Holocaust Museum.” To the other guy, he said, “I’m not in any hurry. And your stop is closer.”
The man smiled his thanks, then held out a hand. “Fitz Meier.”
“Reid Ballentine,” Reid said. Both men smiled sketchily, then Fitz handed over a business card, which read, “Friedrich Meier – research director – United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.” Reid handed over one of his, which read, “Reid S. Ballentine – historical specialist – Folger Shakespeare Library.” The men read each other’s cards, then looked up, smiling.
“I guess we’re both kind of …”
“History nerds,” Reid finished, grinning. By then, the taxi was at the Holocaust museum. Fitz got out, hoisting a large black umbrella. “See ya,” he said, and disappeared through a small side door into the museum. Oddly disappointed by his absence, Reid closed his eyes for the rest of the taxi ride. When he went to pay, though, the cabbie waved him off. The other gentleman had already paid, he insisted. Good! That gave him an excuse to call.
Reid made himself wait until late afternoon before picking up the phone and calling Fitz. Stammering slightly, something he’d long ago outgrown, he said, “Hey, taxi mate.”
There was a split-second pause before Fitz said, “Hey.”
“Since you paid this morning, let me buy you a beer or something.”
“I don’t really drink beer,” Fitz replied, “but you like seafood?”
“Let’s meet at the Potomac Wharf at 7.”
Hanging up, Reid realized he had just made a date with another guy. Since that awful night five years ago that had ended with a broken nose, he’d been resolutely asexual and very lonely. His heart was pounding as he looked at the clock. It was 4:45.
At the Potomac Wharf, once they were seated, they fumbled through their conversation like teenagers until, suddenly, Fitz said, “You know, Reid, you are very handsome.”
That startled Reid, and the ice was broken by Reid blushing. “Nah,” he said, embarrassed. He slapped his midsection. “Just a big tubby guy.”
Before Reid finished his sentence, Fitz was shaking his head. “Very handsome,” he repeated, quietly but firmly. The appetizer arrived, and Fitz kept up a steady stream of conversation. Reid ate more than he meant to of the chips and salsa, which meant he also drained all of his first beer and half the second. Fitz had insisted on ordering for him, saying he knew the menu, and Reid ended up with a big plateful of fried seafood – flounder, shrimp, and a pyramid of hush puppies as well as French fries and coleslaw. He kept up his end of the conversation and tried to pace his eating so the meal wouldn’t end, but wanting to prolong the evening, as time passed he would keep picking at his plate even though he’d told himself he was done eating.
His stomach was pleasantly full before his plate was half emptied. He made as if to push the plate away, a slight movement that Fitz caught. “Hey hey,” Fitz said softly. “You can’t be done yet. You need to eat more than that.” He winked to take any sting out of the suggestion. Reid belched lightly.
“Tank’s full,” he said half-heartedly.
“Come on,” Fitz coaxed. “The night’s still young.” Under the table, he laid a hand on Reid’s thigh. Wow! Suddenly, Reid was ready to do whatever Fitz wanted. He gulped some of his beer and picked up a handful of fries, winking at Fitz. They talked and ate – well, Reid ate – and ate and talked. Dimly, several beers now history, Reid felt his belly swell with food, pushing tightly against his waistband, which was pinching severely. It had become easier to breathe through his mouth, and he could feel sweat dampening his collar. What was that feeling at his sides? Discreetly he brushed a hand along his left side. That was his waist! It was lapping over his pants. He was so full he wasn’t sure he could move. How embarrassing. A promising first date, and he’d made a pig of himself. Drunk, stuffed to bursting, what would Fitz think?
Fitz appeared to be slowly and steadily rubbing Reid’s thigh under the table. “How about some coffee,” came dimly, as from a distance, and Reid nodded. The coffee helped him digest a little, as he nursed it, taking his time, and he was able to stand and follow Fitz to the curb, where Fitz called a cab.
“What’s your address?” Reid gave it, and the taxi in due course arrived at Reid’s apartment.
Fitz said, “Wait a minute,” to the driver. Standing at the door, Fitz leaned in. “I had a great time tonight,” he said. He laid a hand on Reid’s shoulder, then slowly let it slide down his torso to his bulging belly. The hand rested there a moment, then gently patted it as if it were a cute puppy. “Can we see each other again?”
“Sure,” Reid heard himself say. Fitz kissed him quickly, very lightly, on the lips, then was gone. In a daze, Reid let himself into his house.
Only then did he realize how full he was. His swollen and aching belly sagged heavily, pushing the overtaxed waistband of his pants downward, bunching uncomfortably around his parts. He kicked off his shoes and, fumblingly, unbuttoned and unzipped the pants. Ah, thank God, much better. He pushed them down to knee level, let them fall, and stepped out of them. Ditto with the underwear. Oof. He fell heavily onto the sofa, slowly put his sock feet up, and reclined. Gently and cautiously patting his bloated midsection, he belched hugely. Without realizing it, he fell asleep.
The next morning, he waited until 10:45 to call Fitz, not to seem moronically eager. After a little tense chat, Reid said, “I kind of made a p-pig of myself last night. Sorry. I’m n-n-not really a slob, you know.”
Fitz interrupted him. “Reid,” Fitz said softly. “I told you twice last night, I think you’re very handsome. That’s not a statement I feel the need to qualify. Please stop apologizing for how you look. I repeat, I find you very handsome – all of you. Could we meet for drinks on Friday?”
Friday found them at a burger joint that served two-fisted half-pounders. The men watched a Capitols game. This time, they sat side by side in a booth, and Reid ate steadily as Fitz steadily massaged his thigh … then his belly. The huge burger, tumbling into a stomach already full of cheese fries and homemade chips, didn’t have much room. Reid felt his belly bulging as before, steadily swelling into a spare tire that rimmed over his pants in all directions. He hiccupped loudly.
“You okay?” Fitz patted his shoulder.
“Yeah (hic!) … yeah,” Reid managed, blushing. Fitz patted his shoulder again, then let his hand go south.
This time, they went to Fitz’s apartment, and Fitz invited Reid in for coffee. Coffee served, Fitz sat very close to Reid on the sofa and said, “You know, you should make yourself more comfortable.” He found Reid’s fly and slowly and gently undid it, pushing down the zipper and sliding a hand inside Reid’s underwear in one smooth move. Bingo. Forget coffee. They necked and petted slowly and gently; then, Fitz pulled Reid up and pushed down pants and underwear. His hands slid up under his shirt and rhythmically massaged that aching belly, taut and sore.
“More, more,” Reid said without thinking. “More.”
“You want more?” Fitz teased. “Pay to play.” He grabbed Reid’s hand and guided it southward. When had Fitz taken his own pants off? Reid’s large hand cupped Fitz’s buttocks, then his other hand joined it, cradling Fitz’s rear like an infant. In an awkward half dance, they swayed, Reid massaging Fitz’s backside and Fitz making that full tummy feel better. Somehow they ended up in the bedroom. That king-size bed looked awfully good.
Later, Fitz lay with his head on Reid’s chest, slowly tracing idle patterns on Reid’s rounded mound of belly. Reid, self-conscious once more, said, “I’ll lose weight if you want.”
The hand stopped. “Reid,” Fitz said patiently. “I find you appealing as you are. In fact, I would love to see you get bigger.”
Reid struggled up onto his elbows. “Fitz. P-p-please. I’ve been trying to LOSE weight for a while. I really ought to take off twenty pounds or so.”
Fitz had sat up too. “Why won’t you hear what I’m saying?”
“Because … b-b-because … n-no one likes fat guys. It’s … it’s … it’s ugly,” he finally blurted out, mortified at the sensation of tears prickling his eyes.
Fitz buried his head on Reid’s shoulder. “I don’t know what you were told, or what society has told you,” he said, his voice muffled. “But I want you to forget that and stop thinking you have to compare to anyone else. I … um … I really find you attractive. You appeal to me. How many ways do I have to say it? I’d like to keep seeing you … and I’d like to see you get bigger.”
Reid said the first thing that came to mind, which was really stupid. “I can’t afford new clothes.”
Fitz snorted with laughter. “Reid. I’m, ah, rich. I’m what they used to call a remittance man. I have family in Maine who sends me a ton of money so long as I stay away so they don’t have to acknowledge me. And,” he started punctuating with kisses, “I like … your … soft chest … I … like your … cuddly tummy … I … like … your little handles … I want to see … little handles … grow up to be … big handles …” and that was all that Fitz had time to say.
Within six weeks, they were living together in a new condo they’d picked out together. Evenings and weekends were all theirs, even though work kept them apart during the day. Thank goodness for e-mail. In those six weeks, Reid had gained five pounds. He was pretty tall, so five pounds scarcely showed, but over time, twenty-five pounds did show. Fitz reveled in the increasingly bulging belly sagging over waistbands; he grabbed the growing love handles and fondled the spreading buttocks. He started burying his face in Reid’s softening pecs and studding the chest with kisses.
Reid’s weight climbed to 250, steadily inching upward toward Fitz’s stated goal of 300. His face grew fuller, pads settling under his eyes, cheeks rounding. His almost-second chin came to maturity, sliding out from under the original chin. “New and improved,” Fitz called it. Reid’s pecs rounded outward as well as downward, pooching out under his softening upper arms. The spare tire began just under his chest and flabbed outward over his sides, his abdomen falling over the waistband. His buttocks became softer and broader, supporting his increased girth, and he developed a rolling stride that was more comfortable to his increasingly spherical thighs.
Over two years, Reid went from a 200-pound lonely 30-year-old to a 295-pound blissfully happy 32-year-old. The night he hit 295, Fitz proposed, capping the deal by slapping tickets to Canada onto the table. “Only I want you at 300,” he coaxed, signaling the waiter.
“Oof,” Reid grunted. Gingerly he patted his stomach, which already held three tankards of ice water, an order of steamed vegetable skewers and marinara sauce, a plateful of whole wheat pasta primavera, a huge salad and four rolls. “Chocolate cake with strawberries for him,” Fitz told the waiter, “and two coffees, please.”
“No way,” Reid said, belching crisply. Fitz had heard similar protests before. He just smiled.
This time he meant it, though, Reid thought. He poked his achingly taut belly. Stretched to bursting, his tummy was sore and tight, feeling tender, almost fragile. No room anywhere. He was full up to his eyeballs. He belched again, tried to speak, hiccupped instead.
“No (hic!) … too … full,” he panted.
Fitz picked up the fork. “One little bite,” he cooed, laying a hand on Reid’s rounded thigh, which strained his pants leg. Reid opened up.
As the taxi pulled away, Fitz helped Reid into the condo. “Over here … let me help you …” he got Reid down to underpants, which encircled – and pinched – an impressive waist. He coaxed Reid onto the scale. “Not (urp) going … to … be … acc (hic!) … accurate,” he puffed.
“I know,” Fitz said. “Just step.”
Reid, leaning on Fitz, heavily mounted the scale. The needle spun, slowed, stopped at 300 on the dot.
“You know,” Fitz murmured, embracing Reid from behind, “It may interest you to know that I find you very handsome."
Last edited by BLUEeyedBanshee : 03-13-2009 at 10:16 AM.
|03-12-2009, 12:03 PM||#2|
Join Date: Oct 2005
Location: Capital of the Great white north
Another great gaining tale...
"Eat, Eat! You will gain weight and be more attractive!"
- Russian Tour Hostess of the 1980s, as reported in National Geographic