Bellevue Tower {~XWG, ~SSBHM, ~BBW, ~GAS, ~IMMOBILITY}

[coyote wild]

Bellevue Tower
by coyote wild​

I was at dinner with a fairly good-looking gentleman when I got the notification. A facebook (yes, I know “facebook” should be a proper noun, but if the company wants to “be cool” and keep it lowercase for the logo, I refuse to capitalize) message from my ex fiance, Dean.

What. The. Hell.

We split over…”creative differences.”

He had this weird...fetish, I guess. While he was pretty thin with a bit of chub, he loved the idea of intentionally getting fatter.

I know, right?

Not only that. He also wanted me to get fat with him. Like, really?

I mean, I can’t say I don’t see the appeal. No more early morning runs, no more careful studies of menus, no more gym membership...there’s definitely an appeal. But to not be happy with what I saw in the mirror? To not feel comfortable in my own skin? Just to make someone else happy?

I wasn’t sure I could do it.

But I have to admit a modicum of selfishness. I’m going to try to be absolutely clear. I just couldn’t stand the thought of no longer being attracted to him. And I wouldn’t have been if he had just let himself go. And that was the deal breaker.

We both agreed that there was no compromise to be had. I tried to return his ring, which he had joked about getting resized (he was always making cute little quips about a fatter us), but he told me to keep it. Sell it. Whatever I wanted to do with it.

I don’t wear it anymore, for obvious reasons, but I do still have it.

Anyway, we went our separate ways five years ago and that was it. Radio silence. Media blackout. “And now for something completely different…”

I can’t say it didn’t hurt. Dean was amazing. There was a reason I was with him for so long and ready to grow old together. I just wasn’t on board with growing fat together. And it was as important to him as not doing it was important to me.

But here we are. A text. Out of the blue. While I’m trying to revitalize my dating game.

I wasn’t exactly single in the subsequent five years. I got eight years of sexual repression out of my system. Though that isn’t fair. Dean and I had good sex. I just think we both wanted something else entirely from those experiences. So we were always at least a little disappointed. But isn’t everyone? That’s another discussion for another time.

Point is, I was in love, it didn’t work out, trying to move on, and here he was again.

One of my favorite songs sums it up succinctly: “I’m so surprised you want to dance with me now. I was just getting used to living life without you around.”

So while I’m out to dinner with this square-jawed distant Gyllenhal cousin, I notice this message. With a laugh, I effortlessly segue to: “I’m sorry, I need to run to the restroom. Would you please order me another drink if she comes back around? Thanks.”

In the restroom, I nudge open a stall door on another lady by accident. “Sorry!” I shout, already moving on with a, “No worries,” following behind me.

The next stall is open so I slide right in and have a seat, pulling out my phone in one quick go.

I open the messenger app and...there it is. A novel.

“Hey, Miranda-

I hope you’re doing well! I’m sorry to hit you up like this. I know it’s been a while.

But if you’re up for it, I’d like to see you sometime soon. No pressure. Sometimes I just get to thinking about the old days and I think I’m at a place where I can fondly revisit them.

Truth be told, I just wanna see ya. No pressure, no expectations, just a simple check up. Because I still think of you as a wonderful person. Hell, you’re still one of my favorites! And I just...I miss you.

So, anyway, there’s that! Yep! Thanks for taking time out of, what I assume is, an insanely busy schedule to read this message. I look forward to hearing from you but if I don’t, I completely understand!

Or...yeah, cool!

-Dean”

That idiot. I can still hear his maladroit voice reading every word. The same cadence and everything. Though I did sense more confidence in his words here than I would have guessed the Old Dean even capable of.

So yeah. Why not. Let’s do it.

“Dean!

I’m doing just fine! Just hanging out at home, Netflixin’ hard. How have you been?

I would totally be down to reconnect. Thursday evenings are best for me. Just let me know! Thanks!

peace,
Miranda”

And se - NO WAIT!

Don’t send yet. Just...save to drafts. Alright. Keep it ready to go. Wait, does he see me typing right now? Goddammit.

=============================

I sent the reply the following morning. I returned to my date and had, maybe, one more glass of wine than I should have. Or...you know...three more than I should have. Either way, it wasn’t a great morning.

However: Hating myself, feeling like shit, and still thinking that sending that reply was a great idea (all combined) made me more confident than ever that a meetup was at least a good idea.

He sent me an address and wrote, “I’ll put your name in the visitor list for this Thursday at 7p. Gate code is: ****# (censored for privacy)”

=============================

So Thursday evening, around 6:45pm, after work, there I was, my heels clacking against the marble floors of the most ornate lobby I have ever seen. I first assumed it to be an extremely fancy apartment building, but there were gorgeous men and women in what appeared to be uniforms that were a hybrid of maid and nurse. It could have been a hotel as easily as it could’ve been a hospital for rich people.

I approached the front desk. Chandeliers, a piano, large couches...I was still confused as to what Dean was doing in a place like this. But when I saw others in, what I assumed to be, the waiting room, some conclusions began to form.

An obese, young lady, possibly in her early twenties, sat with what appeared to be her mother and father, themselves being very slender people. They were all smiles, as the mother kissed her daughter on the cheek. One of the attractive, male...servants?...doctors?...brought a cart of cakes and desserts, locking it in place by the young woman. The mother picked up a small cupcake and peeled away its skirt. The daughter licked her smiling lips and opened them wide. The mother pushed the entire cupcake into her daughter’s mouth, only getting a sliver of frosting on her left cheek. The mother wiped the frosting away with a tissue and kissed her daughter again.

“Ma’am!” A voice shouted, pulling me back to the task at hand. A woman in the waitress/nurse uniform sat behind the front desk, at a desktop, a bluetooth in her ear.

“So sorry, I’m here to see Dean *****?” I give her my name and she quickly pulls me up on some sort of list.

“Mmhmm, looks like he’s on the fourth floor. Room 4110. Look here, please?” She said, tapping what appeared to be a small, shiny, black ball.

Assuming it to be a camera, I gave a smirk and held it perhaps a bit longer than necessary. A label with my newly developed picture was printed and she slapped it onto a keycard attached to a clip. I clipped the keycard onto my bag.

“Elevators are straight ahead.”

I thank her and continue on my way. I straighten out my skirt and run my hand over the back of my head, hoping to flatten some rogue hairs. After waiting, I board the elevator and get up to the second floor before it stops. The doors open and a lady nursemaid pushes a rather chubby woman in a wheelchair on board.

“Dum-dada-DUM!” the nursemaid faux announces, putting on a show for the adorably smiling chubby woman in her care. “Ready or not, third floor! Here comes the ever-fattening Amber!”

The girl in the wheelchair, who I assumed to be Amber, giggles at this, and yet covers her face in pretend embarrassment. At least, I hope it was pretend. She does seem to be blushing.

“At the rate you’re going, it won’t be long until you’re on this elevator again, moving to the next floor up. By then, you may need slightly larger accommodations, of course. Are you still glad you signed the contract?” the nursemaid asks as she leans over the wheelchair to get her lips within whispering distance of the young lady’s ear, yet connecting her gaze with mine.

The woman in the wheelchair nods, albeit hesitantly. But then adds, “ask me again when it comes time to move to the fifth floor.”

They both share a laugh. And not knowing entirely what was going on, I gotta say, I chuckle, too.

===============================

Upon entering room 4110, it took a moment for my brain to process what I was seeing.

A thin nursemaid feeding, what I estimate to be, a 400lb fat man, naked but of the sheet draped across his lap. He moans as she draws back a bare fork, the prongs slide smoothly from his food-slicked lips.

He notices me.

“Miranda,” the fat man breathes, resting his hands on his dome of a belly. “You're early.”

“Dean! Dean?” I stammer, not knowing what to say. How does he want me to react? Is he happy this way? I mean, it's what he's always wanted. Maybe I should congratulate him.

“You're huge,” I tell him, with a wide-eyed smile.

“Yeah, must be kind of a shock. Sorry I wasn't decent before your arrival.” Dean nods to the nursemaid, whom had already began clearing plates, gathering them all on a pushcart. She leaves, giving me a smile and a nod as she slides past me.

Dean’s breathing is labored, like he had been running a marathon. “I thought we could get something to eat.”

“Umm, didn't you just eat?” I ask, a bit impressed.

“I did, but I'll be ready to eat again soon.” He says between breaths, as he slowly kneads the hillsides of his belly. He then pushes on his broad stomach. He groans, as does his ass. A low, rumbling fart is muffled under his bulk. And although it was buried beneath a mountain of flesh, two globular cheeks, and a thicker-than-usual mattress, I could tell it was the loudest fart I had ever heard from Dean and I lived with the man for nearly eight years.

He had been holding his breath but goes back to deep, repeated breaths after the escaping of gas had ended.

“Sorry,” he pants. “That's what getting fatter sounds like.”

I could suddenly detect the smell of Dean’s most recent meal, which I guess...was the smell of Dean. It had become a part of him now, in more ways than one. And this...aroma he produces is a testament to the calories that have been absorbed by his body. I think about that last bite I saw him take when I first entered and where that bite would settle on his form. And I begin to wonder if I’ll recognize it when it re-enters the atmosphere from Dean’s enormous backside.

Dean’s enormous backside. I can’t believe that’s a legit sentence now.

“And I guess that's what getting fatter smells like,” I respond, playfully fanning my nose.

 

[coyote wild]

 

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