Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BBW, ~BHM. Romance, ~SWG, - He thought he was indifferent to size, but when his sweetheart shrinks, a young man elects to make the relationship grow again.
We had been dating for only a few months when the inevitable question came up.
“Does this top make me look fat?”
Brianna was smoothing a lightweight floral top over her tummy and turning this way and that.
I gave the formulaic reply.
“Of course not. You’re lovely. Come over here,” followed by a kiss and a little stand-up cuddling before we headed out. In truth, I didn’t care. I could not have cared less. I suppose I had basic, culturally reinforced attitudes of what constituted beauty – attitudes that I knew differed among cultures – but for my own self, I simply did not care what a woman’s body weight was. Brianna was five foot six and I have no idea what she weighed. I had caught a glimpse of her jeans one morning, slung as they were over the chair by my bed, and seen a size 12 tag, but again, that meant little to me.
We were meeting friends for dinner. As I could have predicted, in front of witnesses Brianna did not so much eat as she paid $18 for the privilege of stirring a lettuce mix topped with grilled salmon – Caesar dressing on the side, parmesan on the side – around her dish. Brianna’s friend Courtney behaved similarly.
Courtney’s boyfriend and I talked baseball and actually ate what we’d ordered, more or less ignoring the women’s not-eating.
Later that evening, though, when we were back in my apartment, Brianna collapsed onto my sofa with a dramatic sigh. “I’m starving!”
“Maybe that’s because you didn’t actually eat dinner when we went out to eat dinner,” I said.
Brianna snorted. “Order a pizza?”
I waited to roll my eyes until I’d gone into the kitchen to call the pizza place. And I had to admit it was nice to snuggle on the sofa and watch TV as we happily killed off a large sausage-and-onion and a bottle of Coke Zero.
“Oh, I’m gonna get sooo fat,” Brianna groaned. She rubbed her hand across her belly, the region around her navel cutely pooched out with pizza and pop.
“You’re fine,” I said automatically. “And I would love you no matter what size you were.”
Brianna snorted again.
As summer progressed, though, and we spent more time in swimsuits and other minimal attire, Brianna continued to grouse about her figure. As best I could tell, she was unhappy because she did not resemble the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models.
I tried pointing out that no one did and that even the models were highlighted, backlighted, made up and airbrushed into a sort of surreality. I trotted out my sociological tropes about standards of beauty varying among and within cultures. I somehow failed to notice, however, that the more Brianna complained about her figure, the more she took the edge off her temporary unhappiness by … eating.
If we were somewhere in the vicinity of snacks, she dipped in the way anyone would instead of acting as though she were being offered a bowl of cholera-tainted water. When we went out to dinner, she actually ate the food she ordered, or at least some of it. And sometimes part of my dessert.
Predictably, her clothing grew a trifle snug and eventually she complained “I’ve got a muffin top!”
“And a very lovely muffin top it is.” (Embrace from behind, light pinch, neck nuzzle. Resulting giggles.) Which it was, come to think of it. Rosy and warm, pliable and very cuddly and nicely accessible.
She bought new clothing (which made her happy) in larger sizes (which made her unhappy).
“Brianna. Sweetheart. Who sees those size tags?”
“Me.”
I slurped the last of my milkshake. “And who else? Me, occasionally?”
She took another pull of her milkshake. “Yeah…”
“I keep telling you, I love you, and that transcends whatever your bod looks like … although I do happen to think that it is a beautiful body indeed.” Her blouse was just a little bit snug, and I had a very nice view of her chest through said blouse, her breasts nestling against each other like wood doves. Her jeans revealed every curve of her hip and swell of thigh, and any minute now I was going to have a hard time standing up. I managed, however, brushing cookie crumbs off my shirt.
My clothes fit fine – because I seemed to have been putting on a few pounds here lately, but instead of treating it like a global crisis I’d simply gone out and procured some items that fit, not giving a damn about sizing. And so what if my midsection flopped over my waistband a little?
In short order (but not nearly short enough), our clothes were on the floor and we were in bed.
As I have made abundantly clear, I could not care less about size – mine or anyone else’s. But Brianna embarked on a diet and slowly and steadily pared the pounds off, going from a size 14, to a 12, to a 10, heading in the direction of an 8. She was in a bad mood nearly all the time, miserable, distracted, obsessed with what she could and couldn’t have and when she could and couldn’t have it, and while her figure was shrinking, her stress was growing. And her figure was definitely shrinking.
To my dismay.
It surprised me a great deal that I not only noticed, I minded. In fact, I minded quite a bit.
I missed the cuddly and warmly accessible little roll of tummy that used to perch atop her waistband. I missed the swell of buttocks, the softly rounding curve of hip, the welcoming velvet of thigh. I missed the snuggly softness of her belly, the pillow in which her navel nestled, the way her breasts mounded invitingly. And I missed her casually contented approach to life, her laid-back, general happiness that I found very appealing. She wasn’t the girl I’d fallen in love with, in any sense.
I faked it as much as I could in bed, but there’s only so much faking a guy can do. I pretended not to know what was wrong when Brianna asked, because honestly, what was I going to say? As much as she griped about her figure? I felt bad about adding to her stress, but either it’s there or it ain’t.
A germ of an idea was forming.
We went out to dinner as usual, and I ordered an appetizer, which wasn’t unusual. But after I had a little of it, I pushed the plate away.
Brianna frowned, which made her look adorable.
“Don’t like them?” Surprise was in her voice.
I shrugged. “Saving room for dinner. I really like their ribs, remember?”
Brianna shrugged back. After a minute, absently, she began picking at the appetizer plate. A fried green bean here, an onion ring, a little popcorn shrimp there.
I had ribs, which came with corn, mashed potatoes, coleslaw … Brianna ordered a salad.
I ate maybe two-thirds of what was on my plate (I’d ordered the full rack) and again pushed the plate aside. Brianna had actually consumed about half her salad and was bored with the lettuce.
“I, uh…” I stuttered.
“You know how good those desserts are.” I patted my stomach. “Saving room.”
In truth, I was getting warmly stuffed. The ribs were generously portioned and the sides were too.
Brianna, after a long minute of silence, lifted a rib from the plate.
“MmmMMMM… oh my gosh, Gil, these are so good!” They were, too.
Brianna swiftly and tidily disposed of one … two … three … then a taste of the potatoes, loaded with white cheddar and garlic. Then another taste … and another.
And when the rich chocolate dessert was served, with two spoons, I ate very slowly, giving Brianna time to share. Which she did.
From time to time, I ordered a pizza that would arrive, steaming hot, just as she came by after work, and we would have a domestic evening, watching TV or a DVD, killing the pizza and pop.
And half a pizza in Brianna’s little tummy made it oh-so-adorable: round and firm, rosy and warm, a plump inviting cushion. So that the time in bed that invariably followed was … go away now, please.
These things take time. As we approached the holidays, however, I observed that the jeans flung over the chair by the bed were back to size 12 and a trifle snug. And I observed with pleasure that the soft and snuggly body that I so liked was coming back.
Of course, I was getting a pot belly myself along the way. I was ordering too much food at restaurants so that Brianna could help me finish it; I was ordering two pizzas instead of one, so that Brianna could help me kill them; and I was buying and dishing up ice cream and brownies more often … okay, I really liked ice cream and brownies, okay?
So while Brianna was once more my plump darling, which made part of my body very very happy, the rest of my body was all growing boy. My little paunch became a growing paunch, my waistline slowly but visibly thickening; I developed what were unmistakable love handles. My backside became squashier; pecs softened. My face grew fuller and my chin cushier. I bought clothes in larger sizes when needed and carried on.
Thanksgiving came and Brianna and I went our separate ways to our families.
My sister, Suzanne, was the first to say something. Eyebrows raised, lips quirked comically to one side, she gave me a poke in my spare tire.
“Hey, P-p-p-porky,” she greeted me.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Yeah.”
Suzanne circled me as if viewing a sculpture.
“Oh…kay,” she finally said and, with a pat on my butt, wandered off.
Mom embraced me, stood back, holding my biceps, and looked me over. “Oh, it’s so good to see you again, honey,” she said. “You look so … healthy.”
I laughed. “Healthy, yep.”
Pop wandered in and refilled his glass of lemonade. He’d quit drinking eight or nine years ago.
“There’s the boy.” He detoured past Mom and me for more ice. Gave me a long glance, a clap on the back, and wandered out.
We’re not ones to analyze everything to death. Which makes me wonder sometimes how I wound up analyzing everything to death for a living (I’m a sociologist for the Census Bureau).
I wandered into the den and found Suzanne’s husband, Paul, watching football. We greeted each other and I burrowed into a seat on the sofa, waiting with Pop and Paul for Suzanne and Mom to put dinner on the table.
Well.
The five of us laid waste to a twenty-pound turkey with all the trimmings. I ate a heaping plateful that on any other day I would have called a fine dinner … then went back for more. Buoyed by the company and all my favorite holiday foods, wanting another taste and another taste and another taste… I knew I was full, my stomach was sending out fairly urgent notices regarding capacity, I could feel my sides tug and stretch.
My whole belly ached, the tautly distended expanse gorged and tender, I was so full I didn’t want to move, couldn’t move, really… Oof. I was done. I wanted nothing more to sit there, eyes half closed, suspended in a food coma for hours, days possibly, until I stopped feeling stuffed to the brim. Every breath, shallow and cautious, threatened to make my belly pop.
In logy slow motion, like moving underwater, I grunted with effort and hauled myself out of the chair. Too full to straighten up, I lumbered to the den, sinking as though ballasted onto the sofa, blearily noticing that Paul and Pop were similarly socked, grunting and groaning into their seats, bellies swollen and belts undone.
I undid my jeans and dopily massaged my bloated and aching gut. No longer squashy, my belly was rounded and firm, protruding well past the button and buttonhole of my jeans, a hugely expanded repository of what felt like pounds of dinner. I was on the edge of hibernation, and a smile played around my mouth at the sensation of having stocked up, satiation as survival. I was warmly contented and had no need of action or indeed motion for a long time. I let my head rest against the back of the worn cushions and became one with the sofa.
In due course I noted that Suzanne had joined us. Her jeans were undone. I said nothing, merely poked her tummy where it pooched roundly outward.
She grunted in protest and poked me back.
The next day but one, Brianna and I reunited, and Brianna’s only comment was, “Oh Gil, I ate sooo much!”
In the festivities that followed, I noticed happily that her tummy seemed a trifle softer, her developing midriff rolls were a little puffier, her hips a little cushier. Et cetera. In short, my plump little dove was somewhat plumper. For the first time in my life, I was paying attention to a female’s figure, because I had discovered that my female’s figure was quite a bit more appealing the more there was to it.
I could only hope she felt the same way about mine.
We were lolling in the afterglow, I was back with Brianna after a couple of days apart, and I felt emboldened.
“Brianna.”
“Mmm?”
“I’m getting pretty plump, here.” I poked at my own belly.
I felt her shrug. “Whatever.”
“So that’s okay with you?”
“Mm. Yeah. ’s cute. Like a teddy bear.”
Oh.
I felt Brianna hesitate. “I’m… am I getting fat?”
Now how do I answer a question like that? “I think you are spectacularly beautiful.”
“Fat?” Brianna persisted.
I sighed. “I think you are exponentially more lovely when you look like a woman and not a size 8 bundle of sticks wrapped in fabric.”
Thank goodness. She was now giggling.
“So you don’t mind that I’ve gone up to a size 14 … and should probably be in a 16?”
For an answer I drew her close and any further conversation became superfluous.
Begging the Question
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
We had been dating for only a few months when the inevitable question came up.
“Does this top make me look fat?”
Brianna was smoothing a lightweight floral top over her tummy and turning this way and that.
I gave the formulaic reply.
“Of course not. You’re lovely. Come over here,” followed by a kiss and a little stand-up cuddling before we headed out. In truth, I didn’t care. I could not have cared less. I suppose I had basic, culturally reinforced attitudes of what constituted beauty – attitudes that I knew differed among cultures – but for my own self, I simply did not care what a woman’s body weight was. Brianna was five foot six and I have no idea what she weighed. I had caught a glimpse of her jeans one morning, slung as they were over the chair by my bed, and seen a size 12 tag, but again, that meant little to me.
We were meeting friends for dinner. As I could have predicted, in front of witnesses Brianna did not so much eat as she paid $18 for the privilege of stirring a lettuce mix topped with grilled salmon – Caesar dressing on the side, parmesan on the side – around her dish. Brianna’s friend Courtney behaved similarly.
Courtney’s boyfriend and I talked baseball and actually ate what we’d ordered, more or less ignoring the women’s not-eating.
Later that evening, though, when we were back in my apartment, Brianna collapsed onto my sofa with a dramatic sigh. “I’m starving!”
“Maybe that’s because you didn’t actually eat dinner when we went out to eat dinner,” I said.
Brianna snorted. “Order a pizza?”
I waited to roll my eyes until I’d gone into the kitchen to call the pizza place. And I had to admit it was nice to snuggle on the sofa and watch TV as we happily killed off a large sausage-and-onion and a bottle of Coke Zero.
“Oh, I’m gonna get sooo fat,” Brianna groaned. She rubbed her hand across her belly, the region around her navel cutely pooched out with pizza and pop.
“You’re fine,” I said automatically. “And I would love you no matter what size you were.”
Brianna snorted again.
As summer progressed, though, and we spent more time in swimsuits and other minimal attire, Brianna continued to grouse about her figure. As best I could tell, she was unhappy because she did not resemble the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models.
I tried pointing out that no one did and that even the models were highlighted, backlighted, made up and airbrushed into a sort of surreality. I trotted out my sociological tropes about standards of beauty varying among and within cultures. I somehow failed to notice, however, that the more Brianna complained about her figure, the more she took the edge off her temporary unhappiness by … eating.
If we were somewhere in the vicinity of snacks, she dipped in the way anyone would instead of acting as though she were being offered a bowl of cholera-tainted water. When we went out to dinner, she actually ate the food she ordered, or at least some of it. And sometimes part of my dessert.
Predictably, her clothing grew a trifle snug and eventually she complained “I’ve got a muffin top!”
“And a very lovely muffin top it is.” (Embrace from behind, light pinch, neck nuzzle. Resulting giggles.) Which it was, come to think of it. Rosy and warm, pliable and very cuddly and nicely accessible.
She bought new clothing (which made her happy) in larger sizes (which made her unhappy).
“Brianna. Sweetheart. Who sees those size tags?”
“Me.”
I slurped the last of my milkshake. “And who else? Me, occasionally?”
She took another pull of her milkshake. “Yeah…”
“I keep telling you, I love you, and that transcends whatever your bod looks like … although I do happen to think that it is a beautiful body indeed.” Her blouse was just a little bit snug, and I had a very nice view of her chest through said blouse, her breasts nestling against each other like wood doves. Her jeans revealed every curve of her hip and swell of thigh, and any minute now I was going to have a hard time standing up. I managed, however, brushing cookie crumbs off my shirt.
My clothes fit fine – because I seemed to have been putting on a few pounds here lately, but instead of treating it like a global crisis I’d simply gone out and procured some items that fit, not giving a damn about sizing. And so what if my midsection flopped over my waistband a little?
In short order (but not nearly short enough), our clothes were on the floor and we were in bed.
As I have made abundantly clear, I could not care less about size – mine or anyone else’s. But Brianna embarked on a diet and slowly and steadily pared the pounds off, going from a size 14, to a 12, to a 10, heading in the direction of an 8. She was in a bad mood nearly all the time, miserable, distracted, obsessed with what she could and couldn’t have and when she could and couldn’t have it, and while her figure was shrinking, her stress was growing. And her figure was definitely shrinking.
To my dismay.
It surprised me a great deal that I not only noticed, I minded. In fact, I minded quite a bit.
I missed the cuddly and warmly accessible little roll of tummy that used to perch atop her waistband. I missed the swell of buttocks, the softly rounding curve of hip, the welcoming velvet of thigh. I missed the snuggly softness of her belly, the pillow in which her navel nestled, the way her breasts mounded invitingly. And I missed her casually contented approach to life, her laid-back, general happiness that I found very appealing. She wasn’t the girl I’d fallen in love with, in any sense.
I faked it as much as I could in bed, but there’s only so much faking a guy can do. I pretended not to know what was wrong when Brianna asked, because honestly, what was I going to say? As much as she griped about her figure? I felt bad about adding to her stress, but either it’s there or it ain’t.
A germ of an idea was forming.
We went out to dinner as usual, and I ordered an appetizer, which wasn’t unusual. But after I had a little of it, I pushed the plate away.
Brianna frowned, which made her look adorable.
“Don’t like them?” Surprise was in her voice.
I shrugged. “Saving room for dinner. I really like their ribs, remember?”
Brianna shrugged back. After a minute, absently, she began picking at the appetizer plate. A fried green bean here, an onion ring, a little popcorn shrimp there.
I had ribs, which came with corn, mashed potatoes, coleslaw … Brianna ordered a salad.
I ate maybe two-thirds of what was on my plate (I’d ordered the full rack) and again pushed the plate aside. Brianna had actually consumed about half her salad and was bored with the lettuce.
“I, uh…” I stuttered.
“You know how good those desserts are.” I patted my stomach. “Saving room.”
In truth, I was getting warmly stuffed. The ribs were generously portioned and the sides were too.
Brianna, after a long minute of silence, lifted a rib from the plate.
“MmmMMMM… oh my gosh, Gil, these are so good!” They were, too.
Brianna swiftly and tidily disposed of one … two … three … then a taste of the potatoes, loaded with white cheddar and garlic. Then another taste … and another.
And when the rich chocolate dessert was served, with two spoons, I ate very slowly, giving Brianna time to share. Which she did.
From time to time, I ordered a pizza that would arrive, steaming hot, just as she came by after work, and we would have a domestic evening, watching TV or a DVD, killing the pizza and pop.
And half a pizza in Brianna’s little tummy made it oh-so-adorable: round and firm, rosy and warm, a plump inviting cushion. So that the time in bed that invariably followed was … go away now, please.
These things take time. As we approached the holidays, however, I observed that the jeans flung over the chair by the bed were back to size 12 and a trifle snug. And I observed with pleasure that the soft and snuggly body that I so liked was coming back.
Of course, I was getting a pot belly myself along the way. I was ordering too much food at restaurants so that Brianna could help me finish it; I was ordering two pizzas instead of one, so that Brianna could help me kill them; and I was buying and dishing up ice cream and brownies more often … okay, I really liked ice cream and brownies, okay?
So while Brianna was once more my plump darling, which made part of my body very very happy, the rest of my body was all growing boy. My little paunch became a growing paunch, my waistline slowly but visibly thickening; I developed what were unmistakable love handles. My backside became squashier; pecs softened. My face grew fuller and my chin cushier. I bought clothes in larger sizes when needed and carried on.
Thanksgiving came and Brianna and I went our separate ways to our families.
My sister, Suzanne, was the first to say something. Eyebrows raised, lips quirked comically to one side, she gave me a poke in my spare tire.
“Hey, P-p-p-porky,” she greeted me.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Yeah.”
Suzanne circled me as if viewing a sculpture.
“Oh…kay,” she finally said and, with a pat on my butt, wandered off.
Mom embraced me, stood back, holding my biceps, and looked me over. “Oh, it’s so good to see you again, honey,” she said. “You look so … healthy.”
I laughed. “Healthy, yep.”
Pop wandered in and refilled his glass of lemonade. He’d quit drinking eight or nine years ago.
“There’s the boy.” He detoured past Mom and me for more ice. Gave me a long glance, a clap on the back, and wandered out.
We’re not ones to analyze everything to death. Which makes me wonder sometimes how I wound up analyzing everything to death for a living (I’m a sociologist for the Census Bureau).
I wandered into the den and found Suzanne’s husband, Paul, watching football. We greeted each other and I burrowed into a seat on the sofa, waiting with Pop and Paul for Suzanne and Mom to put dinner on the table.
Well.
The five of us laid waste to a twenty-pound turkey with all the trimmings. I ate a heaping plateful that on any other day I would have called a fine dinner … then went back for more. Buoyed by the company and all my favorite holiday foods, wanting another taste and another taste and another taste… I knew I was full, my stomach was sending out fairly urgent notices regarding capacity, I could feel my sides tug and stretch.
My whole belly ached, the tautly distended expanse gorged and tender, I was so full I didn’t want to move, couldn’t move, really… Oof. I was done. I wanted nothing more to sit there, eyes half closed, suspended in a food coma for hours, days possibly, until I stopped feeling stuffed to the brim. Every breath, shallow and cautious, threatened to make my belly pop.
In logy slow motion, like moving underwater, I grunted with effort and hauled myself out of the chair. Too full to straighten up, I lumbered to the den, sinking as though ballasted onto the sofa, blearily noticing that Paul and Pop were similarly socked, grunting and groaning into their seats, bellies swollen and belts undone.
I undid my jeans and dopily massaged my bloated and aching gut. No longer squashy, my belly was rounded and firm, protruding well past the button and buttonhole of my jeans, a hugely expanded repository of what felt like pounds of dinner. I was on the edge of hibernation, and a smile played around my mouth at the sensation of having stocked up, satiation as survival. I was warmly contented and had no need of action or indeed motion for a long time. I let my head rest against the back of the worn cushions and became one with the sofa.
In due course I noted that Suzanne had joined us. Her jeans were undone. I said nothing, merely poked her tummy where it pooched roundly outward.
She grunted in protest and poked me back.
The next day but one, Brianna and I reunited, and Brianna’s only comment was, “Oh Gil, I ate sooo much!”
In the festivities that followed, I noticed happily that her tummy seemed a trifle softer, her developing midriff rolls were a little puffier, her hips a little cushier. Et cetera. In short, my plump little dove was somewhat plumper. For the first time in my life, I was paying attention to a female’s figure, because I had discovered that my female’s figure was quite a bit more appealing the more there was to it.
I could only hope she felt the same way about mine.
We were lolling in the afterglow, I was back with Brianna after a couple of days apart, and I felt emboldened.
“Brianna.”
“Mmm?”
“I’m getting pretty plump, here.” I poked at my own belly.
I felt her shrug. “Whatever.”
“So that’s okay with you?”
“Mm. Yeah. ’s cute. Like a teddy bear.”
Oh.
I felt Brianna hesitate. “I’m… am I getting fat?”
Now how do I answer a question like that? “I think you are spectacularly beautiful.”
“Fat?” Brianna persisted.
I sighed. “I think you are exponentially more lovely when you look like a woman and not a size 8 bundle of sticks wrapped in fabric.”
Thank goodness. She was now giggling.
“So you don’t mind that I’ve gone up to a size 14 … and should probably be in a 16?”
For an answer I drew her close and any further conversation became superfluous.
