~BBW, Eating, Lesbianism, ~MWG - a tomboy comes out in more ways than one
"You eat as much as a sparrow," her father said.
Callie groaned inwardly. Criticism again. Even though she'd left home six years ago she still felt under bombardment whenever she came up from London for a weekend visit. Nothing much seemed to have changed since her teenage years. Her clothes were at fault. Wearing jeans was not feminine. Her shoes were not feminine, nor was her leather jacket. For Callie these were ordinary metropolitan fashions, which everyone her age was wearing. For her parents in Durham, in the north-east of England, you could tell they were 'not quite right', as her mother used to say.
Their remarks weren't meant to needle, but they did. How was her social life?
"Oh leave me alone," Callie thought. She wasn't going to tell them it was a mess, that she felt too shy and unsure of herself and other people to strike out successfully and make firm friends. As for a love life, forget it. There was the remains of a relationship with Steve, but he was still up here in the north. Down in London, where she worked, fairly unhappily, as a publicity assistant for a publishing company, there was plenty of social contact, young adults like her in their mid 20s, pleasant to talk to briefly perhaps. But to pursue anything more, or take up some of the casual offers that came her way: no, she just didn't have the confidence.
Eat like a sparrow? She knew she did, and she knew the reason why. She'd had a difficult adolescence. Coming to terms with her growing body was hard enough, but her father's comments had always made things worse. Perhaps they weren't really meant as criticisms, but Callie had taken them as such.
"Your breasts are getting so big," he would say bluntly; or "Watch out for that puppy fat!"
Growing up, Callie had no more puppy fat than any other girl enduring puberty, but she had always felt she was being made to feel it was her personal problem, and her fault. Her breasts did develop rapidly, it was true, and even now, when any puppy fat had long since been stripped away, they remained the one prominent feature of her slender body.
Her way of survival, of approaching the perfection that she thought her father wanted, was food control. In London she felt proud of herself for surviving on next to nothing: no breakfast to speak of, no lunch at all, something simple at night. She had a sweet tooth, but she kept it firmly capped: if she had an ice cream, she would starve herself for two days afterwards, so the calories wouldn't turn to fat and show on her hips, or wherever the horrid stuff would appear.
That's what food was, calories. It wasn't pleasure, she kept telling herself, it wasn't fuel for the body. Food meant calories, and calories meant danger. Five foot seven inches tall, long auburn hair, pretty, willowy, she weighed no more than 115 pounds, and wanted to keep it that way. Of course she ate like a sparrow. She had to for her fragile self-esteem. Her father had seen to that long ago.
Sunday dinner done, her parents drove her to the station. They said their goodbyes. Her father gave her a brief hug. Her mother likewise.
"Have a snack on the train," she said, "you look tired."
Callie groaned again, and hurried off, out of their clutches, back to her own life, such as it was. Nothing she did seemed to satisfy her parents. Truth to tell, nothing she did satisfied herself either, whether at work or at play. She was already halfway through her 20s and felt she had not yet found herself.
The train was crowded, the long journey south boring. Callie flipped idly through a magazine. Nondescript scenery. Fading light. No interesting passengers, male or female, to glance at secretly; certainly no-one to talk to. An attendant came down the aisle with the food trolley. Callie toyed with having a coffee, but decided not to.
Just as the attendant passed her, she suddenly changed her mind. "Black coffee please. And two chocolate muffins."
She was astonished she had said that. Sheer impulse. She wasn't hungry. She didn't need them. It was an act of defiance. Eat like a sparrow, did she? For a minute or two, and no more, she was going to eat like a pig. She had almost forgotten what chocolate muffins tasted like. They were good. They were very good. And quickly gone. Nothing left but crumbs, which she brushed off the top of her tight jeans, a snug fit round her narrow waist. Her stomach now felt a little full: a strange sensation. She closed her eyes, and drifted off. The next thing she knew, people were standing up, gathering together their belongings, the London hubbub a minute or two away.
At first London life continued as normal. It was spring. Once again she ate like a sparrow; certainly no chocolate muffins -- that bit of madness had definitely been a one-off. But something new had stirred inside her during her visit back home, a desire to assert herself, and not be so governed by what others seemed to expect her to be. She'd been shy and passive for too long, she decided. She was 26. Time for the real Callie to emerge.
But who was the real Callie? To find out, she began to make more of an effort to push herself out there socially, in pubs and clubs after work. There were real difficulties here, real contradictions too. She was curious about people and places; she was also fearful. In the clothing she wore she liked to emphasize her breasts, yet she felt uncomfortable when men responded by coming on strong. With a few drinks inside her, unsupported by food, she could easily fall into idle chat that could lead her to places she didn't really want to go. Women friends were beginning to feel safer than men. There was Claire. There was Frankie, a lesbian, who took her to a few gay bars in the interests of general education. It felt good to explore, however timidly.
Her food regime continued unchanged. A very modest breakfast -- a piece of toast or two. No lunch at all. A meal at night. Since she was often drinking in town in the evening -- several pints of lager usually, accompanied by crisps and twiglets -- the meals got pushed back later and later, after she got home. Often they were takeaway pizzas, or some other fast food. There was no time for anything else: she was always tired by then, almost ready to go to bed as soon as the last mouthful was done.
At the clubs and pubs, men continued to be an attraction and a curse. She liked their flattery; she hated their heavy suggestive comments. What could she do, she began to think to herself, to make herself less of an attraction to the wrong sort of guy, the guy who just wanted to be a man, date her, make love, and leave? Her breasts she couldn't do much with; whatever bra she wore they stood out, round and firm. But her long hair, that could be cut. And so it was, cut short, parted in the middle. Stylish, cute, she thought, just the thing for the better class of guy.
With her new haircut there was a new spring to Callie's step. By July she had markedly grown in confidence. Socializing was getting much easier; she noticed herself engaging in conversation more, without quite so much fear.
That pleased her. But she was horrified by another new development. She found that for the first time in years she had gained a little weight, over the weeks acquiring just enough fat on her tummy for her fingers to press and squeeze. She'd noticed some of her jeans feeling extra snug round the waist. At first she had thought they had simply shrunk, but when she examined herself in her bathroom the small layer of soft flesh round her middle was unmistakable, and the bathroom scales told their own story. 119 pounds, eight stone twelve. She had put on four pounds.
How could this be so? She was eating as little as ever, she thought: no indulgences, no chocolate muffins, or ice cream, even though it was a hot summer. But then she started to make connections. The increased drinking in the evening. Lots of calories there. The meals eaten late: more calories that she never properly worked off.
Thank goodness no one seemed to have noticed her little gain. She'd have to diet immediately and cut down on her drinking. No, better than that: she'd have to stop eating and drink only water. This fat on her tummy was so horrible! After all, she's the girl who eats like a sparrow. Sparrows aren't fat.
On the other hand, now that she was feeling easier about the social whirl, she didn't really want to spend her evenings nursing a glass of Perrier. That wasn't cool. So she stuck to lager, cutting down slightly on the amount. The takeaway pizzas and other late night fast foods continued. Somehow she felt hungrier these days than she'd felt before. After four more weeks, she thought she spotted a little more fat on her tummy, and a new feeling of tightness in her bra. Nervously she stood on the scales. 122 pounds. She'd put on another three pounds!
"Oh no," she cried to herself, "this is so terrible! I'll have a spare tire before long."
But then she caught herself in her thoughts. Wasn't this a reflex action from the old Callie she was trying to escape from, with her low self-esteem and obsession with her appearance? Being so thin hadn't made her happy, she told herself. In being a food and body fascist she was just robbing herself of natural pleasures, and all for what? These questions never reached any conclusions; they simply lay somewhere in her mind while she continued her clubbing and late night meals. She'd keep a watch on her weight, she decided, but at the moment she didn't feel like sensible drinking and eating: she was having too much fun spreading her wings.
Another thought lay somewhere in Callie's head. Since she'd been bothered by some mens' unwanted attentions, perhaps she might have an easier time if she grew a little heavier and became in their eyes less alluring? It was just a vague, almost subconscious thought. Just the thing to sustain her at points in the evenings when she reached for a third pint of lager, or at times during the day when instead of avoiding food, as she would have done previously, she found herself wanting to eat, and sometimes eating a lot.
As the summer went by Callie continued to relax her vigilance over her food intake. She started to have muffins at breakfast, occasionally chocolate ones. She began to have a lunchtime snack; and an afternoon snack. Sometimes ice cream. All the time she could feel her body slowly filling out and getting rounder. Her clothing was beginning to feel tight, especially her jeans and blouses. A little pot belly was starting, and the flesh round her waist now formed a roll whenever she sat down. It was as though she'd previously been a deflated balloon and someone was now beginning, quietly and lovingly, to pump her up.
Sitting in bed, or in the bath, she would sometimes finger her tummy and squeeze the small love handles on her side, feeling the fat moving, soft and gentle. Compared to other women walking the streets, she had gained a comparatively minor amount, she knew. But it felt a big change to move from having a body taut and hard, in places even concave, to one that felt smooth and soft to the touch. It was strange: almost as though she had magically acquired someone else's body, someone fatter.
It was also, she began to realize, not exactly unpleasant. She also began to appreciate another novel sensation, the feeling of fullness in her stomach once a big meal was done. Without thinking, her hands would rest on the fat at the front of her tummy, stretched with the new food. It felt very satisfying, maternal somehow, as though there were a baby inside which she needed to love and nurture. My goodness, she thought, was the maternal instinct starting?
As someone who had skirted anorexia, Callie couldn't help retaining some guilt feelings about gaining the weight she had - not so much about the amount itself, but about feeling relaxed about it. Surely she should be tormenting herself, crouching over the toilet bowl every night vomiting the food up? But she wasn't. She clung to the thought that no one still appeared to have noticed her extra pounds. They were a private matter, she mused, between herself, her body, and her bathroom scales.
Here she was deluding herself -- something Callie was quite good at. Her flat mate Helen certainly made the connection between the extra food Callie was now eating and the little bulge on her tummy. Even more noticeable to Helen was the signs of filling out in her face, a face more exposed to scrutiny since it lost its frame of long hair. Her cheeks were fuller than before; overall there was a new softness, a slight blurring of its outlines.
"What happened to watching your weight?" she blurted one morning as Callie started in on a muffin.
"Oh, is it starting to show?", Callie said, nervous, but pleased to find herself only mildly embarrassed. "I have put on a few pounds, I know."
That evening, she went straight after work to the Fox and Grape pub to meet her friend Claire. They hadn't seen each other for several weeks. Callie got the drinks, then leaned over Claire to hang up her blue denim jacket on a clothes hook nearby. Her tee-shirt, hanging tight around the breasts, rode up several inches, revealing a midriff soft with fat, the navel sunk a little way inside. Claire, always eagle-eyed, spotted this. She also saw the roll that formed when Callie sat down, her belt buckle digging in to the tiny bulge of exposed flesh between her tee-shirt and jeans.
"Callie, you're getting a little spare tire!" As she said this she noticed for the first time the new roundness in her friends face.
"I do believe you're putting on weight!" There was amazement in her voice.
"Guilty," said Callie, smiling with a touch of unease. "I guess all this drinking and the late-night pizzas have had some effect. The odd thing is that I always thought Id be horrified if I gained weight, but now that I actually have I don't mind so much."
"Maybe it suits you. You look very well, anyway."
Callie relaxed into her lager. OK. She had gained weight. People had noticed. And the sky hadn't collapsed! That felt wonderful. Maybe she had really turned the corner, shaken off her old inhibitions, and was starting to be herself at last. The talk moved on to other things. It was a good night of chat.
Back home, she felt hungrier than usual. She had collected a large deep-pan pizza on the way, which she hadn't intended to eat all of. Helen might have wanted some. Or she could have saved some for tomorrow. But something drove her to consume it all, along with a bowl of ice-cream. Lying in bed shortly afterwards, she rubbed her stomach, full and hard with the extra food, and felt happy, replete.
Before sleep came thoughts and feelings danced around her head. What was happening to her? Was she consciously trying to put on weight? She didn't think so, though she must realize if she thought about it that the calories she was notching up would have that effect.
Claire had asked her how much she'd gained: Callie said she didn't know exactly -- it had been seven pounds a month ago, she said, but she'd probably gained a bit more since then. Its not that she'd been avoiding the scales, it was just that her exact weight didn't seem that important. She would weigh herself in the morning, she decided; curiosity now demanded it.
Here perhaps was the nub of things. Maybe at some level she was trying to fatten herself up. The feeling she was conscious of most, though, was a desire to be herself, to enjoy herself and banish old repressions. especially the demon inside that had made her almost anorexic. She was giving in to her natural appetite; some extra weight was the result. It was a side-effect, really, not a goal.
And then there was the man question. If her women friends had started to notice that she was gaining a bit, then men maybe had too. She hadn't had any comments, though, or noticed any drop in their attentions, wanted or unwanted. How much weight would it take to repel their invasive gaze? Callie didn't know and by now was far too sleepy to care.
In the morning when she got up, she noticed how her breasts were pressing tight against her night dress. They must be getting bigger, she thought; that would tie in keeping with the constricted feeling she'd recently been getting in her bras. Then she remembered. The bathroom scales!
The needle swung up and down, resting finally at 126 pounds. Callie blinked with awe. Nine stone exactly. Her seven pound gain had become eleven. Much more than she thought. Then she stroked her breasts, hanging full and firm, felt the widening hips and the swell of fat on her tummy, and thought
"Well, it figures," she exclasimed. No feelings of guilt. No cries of horror. In fact, she realized, she felt slightly aroused at the feel of her body's new flesh rubbing against the night dresss silk. It was a completely new sensation.
Work kept her occupied for the rest of the summer. It was a busy time at her publishers, with the release of lots of autumn books to prepare for. There were press releases to write, authors to shepherd, interviews to arrange. Before Callie had sometimes felt swamped by the job, crippled by her shyness and relative inexperience. Now she felt more on top of things. Busy, though. So busy. She was working into the evenings now, and had much less time for socializing, drinking, food snacking, and the other excitements of the summer.
She seemed to have reached a plateau with her weight. Nothing extra was gained, she felt. Perhaps a pound or two had been lost. Either way, it was not an issue. Though under great pressure at work she felt in good spirits, and on hot days wore tank tops that revealed her soft midriff. At the publication party for a book on David Bowie that the company had high hopes for there was unusually copious food and drink.
Callie wore some red silk pants that had always been a bit tight, but now were stretched to their limit, clinging fast to her pot belly and the new curves of her bottom. She fell upon the food with glee -- she hadn't had time to eat much that day. As she scooped three spicy sausages and some enchiladas onto her plate, she overheard one male colleague muttering, "Callie's tucking into her food these days!"
Instinctively she reached for a fourth sausage.
With the pre-autumn rush over, it was time for her holiday. She and Claire had planned it for a month. Ten days on the Greek island of Lesbos. Frankie, her gay friend, thought the choice of place hilarious. "Don't drink the water," she teased, "or else you'll come back a lesbian""
"In your dreams," said Callie.
She was glad to get away from the London hurly-burly. Quiet and quiet and relaxation was what she wanted. Claire talked of swimming and walking, but even those seemed too strenuous for Callie: she'd be happy sitting on the beach, reading a book, or sketching in a pad -- something she used to do at college but now seemed to have no time for. Still, she'd packed her swimsuit, though she thought it might be a little too tight after the weight she'd put on over the summer.
The hotel was fancier than they had expected. The rooms were clean, with TV and minibar. There was a bar and disco, a restaurant, and an all-you-can eat breakfast buffet, something Callie had never experienced before.
"It's a good job I've started eating breakfast, or I'd have no room!" she said.
On the first morning, Callie loaded up her tray with cereal, waffles, doughnuts and a milkshake.
"Callie, you can't possibly eat or want all that!" said Claire, who still ate like a sparrow.
"But its free! And besides, I'm on holiday."
She certainly was, and the holiday spirit had got to her. During the day she lazed around on the beach, reading, sun-bathing, sleeping; at night, lots of drink and food. In between meals, ice cream and Greek desserts -- Callie's sweet tooth loved those. For so long she had beaten herself up mentally over the consequences of giving in to the food she liked, ice cream and pastries. Now she felt such freedom, eating what she wanted, when she wanted. Claire was amazed at Callie's appetite, but for the time kept her thoughts to herself.
As the holiday drew to a close, the weather turned hotter still. They lay on the beach, alternating between sun and shade, both in bikinis. Once again, Claire was struck by the ring of fat round Callie's middle, now much bigger and deeper than before. "Girl, you're really filling out!"
"I know. I've been gaining weight this summer."
"You've been gaining weight this week!" Claire looked at curve of her belly, her thickening thighs, her heavy breasts, and the second chin that formed whenever she lowered her head.
"I guess I have. I have been eating a lot. Much more than you. I can diet if I want when we get back."
"Its such a change for you, Callie. You were always so thin, as thin as me. I'm such a beanpole -- I probably last gained weight as a baby. Don't you mind all this fat?"
Callie prodded the flesh around her middle, the navel sunk in much deeper than before. "Actually no. Well, yes and no really. The part of me that was an anorexic is horrified, I suppose. But that me scarcely exists now, and there's another me that's so relieved. To be able to eat and not feel guilty, that's so great. And I'm beginning to like my new curves. Its not as though I'm fat, is it? I'm just a bit more rounded than I was. Like her --" .
Callie pointed to a young waitress at a beach-side cafe whom she'd kept on noticing during the week as she delivered drinks with a sexy swagger, big tummy bulge brazenly bared, firm round arms, luscious breasts, someone glorying in her plumpening form. Callie couldn't take her eyes off her.
"Well its your body," Claire said.
"Yes it is. Can we get some ice cream?"
That was the last time the two talked about it.
When she got home from Greece, Callie didn't need the scales to know that her weight had seriously shot up. Before she could still button up the jeans she traveled in. Now her belly was so prominent that she had to leave them loose at the top, covered up with her blouse. Her bottom had spread. Her bra felt much more constricted too, and she noticed her ribcage had finally vanished under a layer of fat that formed little rolls where the sides of the bra dug into her body. The pointer on the scales read 140 pounds, ten stone. In ten days she had gained fourteen pounds.
In her first week back she bought two pairs of jeans in a larger size, and two bigger bras: she might have bought more if she had more money. The new jeans camouflaged some of her weight gain, but even the blindest of friends and colleagues were starting to notice that Callie was now no longer thin; indeed, she was starting to get just a little bit chubby.
At work Callie made light of things.
"I know I've put on a few pounds!" she said airily. But the thought of dieting never entered her head. She didn't even take it seriously when she mentioned it to Claire in Greece: it was just something to deflect the beanpoles disapproval. In the month after she came back from holiday she returned to her new food habits; enough for her to slowly gain a few more pounds.
The change was very apparent to Steve, her old boyfriend from up north, who came down for a weekend during November. In one way she looked the same; she was still Callie. But she was also different. She was 25 pounds heavier.
"I'm not saying this to be rude, but you've put on some weight!" he said, not unappreciatively, almost as soon as they met.
"Yes I've fattened up a bit this year. I hope you don't mind."
"You look really good. Different, but good. You've got a tummy too! It used to be so flat."
The talk moved on to other topics, but Callie's chubbier look still hovered in Steve's mind. When her small double chin appeared, he cried out involuntarily "Callie, I have to say it, you're so beautiful!"
Callie smiled. Their sexual relationship was over, she knew; but it was still good to get his approval as a friend. Steve was not one of the men she wanted to scare off. He could be demanding, but he was basically kind, and certainly fun. The problems Callie had experienced in the past were problems of commitment. Steve had wanted things to go further than she did. Luckily her move to London had intervened. It was hard having sex long-distance.
In fact the relationship was not over. Something within Steve stirred that weekend. Callie too found herself attracted to the possibility of a session in bed. She had not had sex for some months, certainly not since she'd been gaining weight. In the back of the mind she was wondering how it would feel for her, and what it would feel like for her partner, with these extra pounds on her body.
As Callie removed her clothes, Steve looked in awe. A layer of fat seemed to cover every limb, every part of her. Round her tummy the fat piled into a swelling curve, the navel almost lost to sight deep in the new flesh. Her breasts. Her hips. Everything was bigger and softer than Steve remembered. Her ribcage had vanished. Even the shoulder bones once as prominent as a coat hanger were starting to get upholstered.
In bed, Steve tenderly fingered her belly. But it was not only Steve that felt aroused by her new physique. Callie herself experienced a new sensuous thrill as her fattened body was stroked, squeezed, rubbed, and finally, in ecstasy, penetrated.
Lovemaking over, Steve wanted his sexual high to continue.
"Could you wear some tight clothes?" he asked, amazed at himself.
"You are perverse," Callie said. But she didn't decline. She fetched out some black jeans she thought she might still fit into, maneuvering them gingerly over her hips and bottom, buttoning them up as far as the fat on her tummy would allow. The top two buttons she had to leave undone. As she moved she could feel the pressure of her flesh bearing down on her jeans as never before.
"Will I be able to sit down wearing these?" she wondered. Next came a tee-shirt, which once hung down just beyond her waist but now rode up tightly with her enlarged breasts, leaving the way clear for her midriff roll and love handles to hang over her jeans.
She felt very constricted. She felt good. She felt sexy. And Steve was pleased. But not satisfied. He had another request.
"Can I" -- he hesitated -- "watch you eat?"
"You've seen me eat, its nothing exciting. We ate together last night."
"But now it would mean more."
She groaned, but again she didn't decline. She went to the fridge where a two liter carton of chocolate chip ice cream sat in permanent residence. She scooped out four balls, gave Steve an exasperated glance, sat down -- feeling her belly pushing hard against her jeans -- and ate, playfully lingering over each mouthful, licking every speck from the spoon, murmuring as though in ecstasy "Oh, that's so gooood!"
Afterwards, provocatively, she patted her stomach.
"Thank you," sighed Steve.
"That's alright. I was hungry."
The weekend was over. Steve went back up north, with a new admiration for Callie. When he hugged her goodbye, he impulsively clutched her waist, feeling the fat now wrapped around it and hoping that the next time he visited the love handles would be bigger still.
"I'd never have taken you for a plumper!" he said. Callie looked quizzical, but smiled.
CALLIE COMES OUT
by Swordfish
by Swordfish
"You eat as much as a sparrow," her father said.
Callie groaned inwardly. Criticism again. Even though she'd left home six years ago she still felt under bombardment whenever she came up from London for a weekend visit. Nothing much seemed to have changed since her teenage years. Her clothes were at fault. Wearing jeans was not feminine. Her shoes were not feminine, nor was her leather jacket. For Callie these were ordinary metropolitan fashions, which everyone her age was wearing. For her parents in Durham, in the north-east of England, you could tell they were 'not quite right', as her mother used to say.
Their remarks weren't meant to needle, but they did. How was her social life?
"Oh leave me alone," Callie thought. She wasn't going to tell them it was a mess, that she felt too shy and unsure of herself and other people to strike out successfully and make firm friends. As for a love life, forget it. There was the remains of a relationship with Steve, but he was still up here in the north. Down in London, where she worked, fairly unhappily, as a publicity assistant for a publishing company, there was plenty of social contact, young adults like her in their mid 20s, pleasant to talk to briefly perhaps. But to pursue anything more, or take up some of the casual offers that came her way: no, she just didn't have the confidence.
Eat like a sparrow? She knew she did, and she knew the reason why. She'd had a difficult adolescence. Coming to terms with her growing body was hard enough, but her father's comments had always made things worse. Perhaps they weren't really meant as criticisms, but Callie had taken them as such.
"Your breasts are getting so big," he would say bluntly; or "Watch out for that puppy fat!"
Growing up, Callie had no more puppy fat than any other girl enduring puberty, but she had always felt she was being made to feel it was her personal problem, and her fault. Her breasts did develop rapidly, it was true, and even now, when any puppy fat had long since been stripped away, they remained the one prominent feature of her slender body.
Her way of survival, of approaching the perfection that she thought her father wanted, was food control. In London she felt proud of herself for surviving on next to nothing: no breakfast to speak of, no lunch at all, something simple at night. She had a sweet tooth, but she kept it firmly capped: if she had an ice cream, she would starve herself for two days afterwards, so the calories wouldn't turn to fat and show on her hips, or wherever the horrid stuff would appear.
That's what food was, calories. It wasn't pleasure, she kept telling herself, it wasn't fuel for the body. Food meant calories, and calories meant danger. Five foot seven inches tall, long auburn hair, pretty, willowy, she weighed no more than 115 pounds, and wanted to keep it that way. Of course she ate like a sparrow. She had to for her fragile self-esteem. Her father had seen to that long ago.
Sunday dinner done, her parents drove her to the station. They said their goodbyes. Her father gave her a brief hug. Her mother likewise.
"Have a snack on the train," she said, "you look tired."
Callie groaned again, and hurried off, out of their clutches, back to her own life, such as it was. Nothing she did seemed to satisfy her parents. Truth to tell, nothing she did satisfied herself either, whether at work or at play. She was already halfway through her 20s and felt she had not yet found herself.
The train was crowded, the long journey south boring. Callie flipped idly through a magazine. Nondescript scenery. Fading light. No interesting passengers, male or female, to glance at secretly; certainly no-one to talk to. An attendant came down the aisle with the food trolley. Callie toyed with having a coffee, but decided not to.
Just as the attendant passed her, she suddenly changed her mind. "Black coffee please. And two chocolate muffins."
She was astonished she had said that. Sheer impulse. She wasn't hungry. She didn't need them. It was an act of defiance. Eat like a sparrow, did she? For a minute or two, and no more, she was going to eat like a pig. She had almost forgotten what chocolate muffins tasted like. They were good. They were very good. And quickly gone. Nothing left but crumbs, which she brushed off the top of her tight jeans, a snug fit round her narrow waist. Her stomach now felt a little full: a strange sensation. She closed her eyes, and drifted off. The next thing she knew, people were standing up, gathering together their belongings, the London hubbub a minute or two away.
At first London life continued as normal. It was spring. Once again she ate like a sparrow; certainly no chocolate muffins -- that bit of madness had definitely been a one-off. But something new had stirred inside her during her visit back home, a desire to assert herself, and not be so governed by what others seemed to expect her to be. She'd been shy and passive for too long, she decided. She was 26. Time for the real Callie to emerge.
But who was the real Callie? To find out, she began to make more of an effort to push herself out there socially, in pubs and clubs after work. There were real difficulties here, real contradictions too. She was curious about people and places; she was also fearful. In the clothing she wore she liked to emphasize her breasts, yet she felt uncomfortable when men responded by coming on strong. With a few drinks inside her, unsupported by food, she could easily fall into idle chat that could lead her to places she didn't really want to go. Women friends were beginning to feel safer than men. There was Claire. There was Frankie, a lesbian, who took her to a few gay bars in the interests of general education. It felt good to explore, however timidly.
Her food regime continued unchanged. A very modest breakfast -- a piece of toast or two. No lunch at all. A meal at night. Since she was often drinking in town in the evening -- several pints of lager usually, accompanied by crisps and twiglets -- the meals got pushed back later and later, after she got home. Often they were takeaway pizzas, or some other fast food. There was no time for anything else: she was always tired by then, almost ready to go to bed as soon as the last mouthful was done.
At the clubs and pubs, men continued to be an attraction and a curse. She liked their flattery; she hated their heavy suggestive comments. What could she do, she began to think to herself, to make herself less of an attraction to the wrong sort of guy, the guy who just wanted to be a man, date her, make love, and leave? Her breasts she couldn't do much with; whatever bra she wore they stood out, round and firm. But her long hair, that could be cut. And so it was, cut short, parted in the middle. Stylish, cute, she thought, just the thing for the better class of guy.
With her new haircut there was a new spring to Callie's step. By July she had markedly grown in confidence. Socializing was getting much easier; she noticed herself engaging in conversation more, without quite so much fear.
That pleased her. But she was horrified by another new development. She found that for the first time in years she had gained a little weight, over the weeks acquiring just enough fat on her tummy for her fingers to press and squeeze. She'd noticed some of her jeans feeling extra snug round the waist. At first she had thought they had simply shrunk, but when she examined herself in her bathroom the small layer of soft flesh round her middle was unmistakable, and the bathroom scales told their own story. 119 pounds, eight stone twelve. She had put on four pounds.
How could this be so? She was eating as little as ever, she thought: no indulgences, no chocolate muffins, or ice cream, even though it was a hot summer. But then she started to make connections. The increased drinking in the evening. Lots of calories there. The meals eaten late: more calories that she never properly worked off.
Thank goodness no one seemed to have noticed her little gain. She'd have to diet immediately and cut down on her drinking. No, better than that: she'd have to stop eating and drink only water. This fat on her tummy was so horrible! After all, she's the girl who eats like a sparrow. Sparrows aren't fat.
On the other hand, now that she was feeling easier about the social whirl, she didn't really want to spend her evenings nursing a glass of Perrier. That wasn't cool. So she stuck to lager, cutting down slightly on the amount. The takeaway pizzas and other late night fast foods continued. Somehow she felt hungrier these days than she'd felt before. After four more weeks, she thought she spotted a little more fat on her tummy, and a new feeling of tightness in her bra. Nervously she stood on the scales. 122 pounds. She'd put on another three pounds!
"Oh no," she cried to herself, "this is so terrible! I'll have a spare tire before long."
But then she caught herself in her thoughts. Wasn't this a reflex action from the old Callie she was trying to escape from, with her low self-esteem and obsession with her appearance? Being so thin hadn't made her happy, she told herself. In being a food and body fascist she was just robbing herself of natural pleasures, and all for what? These questions never reached any conclusions; they simply lay somewhere in her mind while she continued her clubbing and late night meals. She'd keep a watch on her weight, she decided, but at the moment she didn't feel like sensible drinking and eating: she was having too much fun spreading her wings.
Another thought lay somewhere in Callie's head. Since she'd been bothered by some mens' unwanted attentions, perhaps she might have an easier time if she grew a little heavier and became in their eyes less alluring? It was just a vague, almost subconscious thought. Just the thing to sustain her at points in the evenings when she reached for a third pint of lager, or at times during the day when instead of avoiding food, as she would have done previously, she found herself wanting to eat, and sometimes eating a lot.
As the summer went by Callie continued to relax her vigilance over her food intake. She started to have muffins at breakfast, occasionally chocolate ones. She began to have a lunchtime snack; and an afternoon snack. Sometimes ice cream. All the time she could feel her body slowly filling out and getting rounder. Her clothing was beginning to feel tight, especially her jeans and blouses. A little pot belly was starting, and the flesh round her waist now formed a roll whenever she sat down. It was as though she'd previously been a deflated balloon and someone was now beginning, quietly and lovingly, to pump her up.
Sitting in bed, or in the bath, she would sometimes finger her tummy and squeeze the small love handles on her side, feeling the fat moving, soft and gentle. Compared to other women walking the streets, she had gained a comparatively minor amount, she knew. But it felt a big change to move from having a body taut and hard, in places even concave, to one that felt smooth and soft to the touch. It was strange: almost as though she had magically acquired someone else's body, someone fatter.
It was also, she began to realize, not exactly unpleasant. She also began to appreciate another novel sensation, the feeling of fullness in her stomach once a big meal was done. Without thinking, her hands would rest on the fat at the front of her tummy, stretched with the new food. It felt very satisfying, maternal somehow, as though there were a baby inside which she needed to love and nurture. My goodness, she thought, was the maternal instinct starting?
As someone who had skirted anorexia, Callie couldn't help retaining some guilt feelings about gaining the weight she had - not so much about the amount itself, but about feeling relaxed about it. Surely she should be tormenting herself, crouching over the toilet bowl every night vomiting the food up? But she wasn't. She clung to the thought that no one still appeared to have noticed her extra pounds. They were a private matter, she mused, between herself, her body, and her bathroom scales.
Here she was deluding herself -- something Callie was quite good at. Her flat mate Helen certainly made the connection between the extra food Callie was now eating and the little bulge on her tummy. Even more noticeable to Helen was the signs of filling out in her face, a face more exposed to scrutiny since it lost its frame of long hair. Her cheeks were fuller than before; overall there was a new softness, a slight blurring of its outlines.
"What happened to watching your weight?" she blurted one morning as Callie started in on a muffin.
"Oh, is it starting to show?", Callie said, nervous, but pleased to find herself only mildly embarrassed. "I have put on a few pounds, I know."
That evening, she went straight after work to the Fox and Grape pub to meet her friend Claire. They hadn't seen each other for several weeks. Callie got the drinks, then leaned over Claire to hang up her blue denim jacket on a clothes hook nearby. Her tee-shirt, hanging tight around the breasts, rode up several inches, revealing a midriff soft with fat, the navel sunk a little way inside. Claire, always eagle-eyed, spotted this. She also saw the roll that formed when Callie sat down, her belt buckle digging in to the tiny bulge of exposed flesh between her tee-shirt and jeans.
"Callie, you're getting a little spare tire!" As she said this she noticed for the first time the new roundness in her friends face.
"I do believe you're putting on weight!" There was amazement in her voice.
"Guilty," said Callie, smiling with a touch of unease. "I guess all this drinking and the late-night pizzas have had some effect. The odd thing is that I always thought Id be horrified if I gained weight, but now that I actually have I don't mind so much."
"Maybe it suits you. You look very well, anyway."
Callie relaxed into her lager. OK. She had gained weight. People had noticed. And the sky hadn't collapsed! That felt wonderful. Maybe she had really turned the corner, shaken off her old inhibitions, and was starting to be herself at last. The talk moved on to other things. It was a good night of chat.
Back home, she felt hungrier than usual. She had collected a large deep-pan pizza on the way, which she hadn't intended to eat all of. Helen might have wanted some. Or she could have saved some for tomorrow. But something drove her to consume it all, along with a bowl of ice-cream. Lying in bed shortly afterwards, she rubbed her stomach, full and hard with the extra food, and felt happy, replete.
Before sleep came thoughts and feelings danced around her head. What was happening to her? Was she consciously trying to put on weight? She didn't think so, though she must realize if she thought about it that the calories she was notching up would have that effect.
Claire had asked her how much she'd gained: Callie said she didn't know exactly -- it had been seven pounds a month ago, she said, but she'd probably gained a bit more since then. Its not that she'd been avoiding the scales, it was just that her exact weight didn't seem that important. She would weigh herself in the morning, she decided; curiosity now demanded it.
Here perhaps was the nub of things. Maybe at some level she was trying to fatten herself up. The feeling she was conscious of most, though, was a desire to be herself, to enjoy herself and banish old repressions. especially the demon inside that had made her almost anorexic. She was giving in to her natural appetite; some extra weight was the result. It was a side-effect, really, not a goal.
And then there was the man question. If her women friends had started to notice that she was gaining a bit, then men maybe had too. She hadn't had any comments, though, or noticed any drop in their attentions, wanted or unwanted. How much weight would it take to repel their invasive gaze? Callie didn't know and by now was far too sleepy to care.
In the morning when she got up, she noticed how her breasts were pressing tight against her night dress. They must be getting bigger, she thought; that would tie in keeping with the constricted feeling she'd recently been getting in her bras. Then she remembered. The bathroom scales!
The needle swung up and down, resting finally at 126 pounds. Callie blinked with awe. Nine stone exactly. Her seven pound gain had become eleven. Much more than she thought. Then she stroked her breasts, hanging full and firm, felt the widening hips and the swell of fat on her tummy, and thought
"Well, it figures," she exclasimed. No feelings of guilt. No cries of horror. In fact, she realized, she felt slightly aroused at the feel of her body's new flesh rubbing against the night dresss silk. It was a completely new sensation.
Work kept her occupied for the rest of the summer. It was a busy time at her publishers, with the release of lots of autumn books to prepare for. There were press releases to write, authors to shepherd, interviews to arrange. Before Callie had sometimes felt swamped by the job, crippled by her shyness and relative inexperience. Now she felt more on top of things. Busy, though. So busy. She was working into the evenings now, and had much less time for socializing, drinking, food snacking, and the other excitements of the summer.
She seemed to have reached a plateau with her weight. Nothing extra was gained, she felt. Perhaps a pound or two had been lost. Either way, it was not an issue. Though under great pressure at work she felt in good spirits, and on hot days wore tank tops that revealed her soft midriff. At the publication party for a book on David Bowie that the company had high hopes for there was unusually copious food and drink.
Callie wore some red silk pants that had always been a bit tight, but now were stretched to their limit, clinging fast to her pot belly and the new curves of her bottom. She fell upon the food with glee -- she hadn't had time to eat much that day. As she scooped three spicy sausages and some enchiladas onto her plate, she overheard one male colleague muttering, "Callie's tucking into her food these days!"
Instinctively she reached for a fourth sausage.
With the pre-autumn rush over, it was time for her holiday. She and Claire had planned it for a month. Ten days on the Greek island of Lesbos. Frankie, her gay friend, thought the choice of place hilarious. "Don't drink the water," she teased, "or else you'll come back a lesbian""
"In your dreams," said Callie.
She was glad to get away from the London hurly-burly. Quiet and quiet and relaxation was what she wanted. Claire talked of swimming and walking, but even those seemed too strenuous for Callie: she'd be happy sitting on the beach, reading a book, or sketching in a pad -- something she used to do at college but now seemed to have no time for. Still, she'd packed her swimsuit, though she thought it might be a little too tight after the weight she'd put on over the summer.
The hotel was fancier than they had expected. The rooms were clean, with TV and minibar. There was a bar and disco, a restaurant, and an all-you-can eat breakfast buffet, something Callie had never experienced before.
"It's a good job I've started eating breakfast, or I'd have no room!" she said.
On the first morning, Callie loaded up her tray with cereal, waffles, doughnuts and a milkshake.
"Callie, you can't possibly eat or want all that!" said Claire, who still ate like a sparrow.
"But its free! And besides, I'm on holiday."
She certainly was, and the holiday spirit had got to her. During the day she lazed around on the beach, reading, sun-bathing, sleeping; at night, lots of drink and food. In between meals, ice cream and Greek desserts -- Callie's sweet tooth loved those. For so long she had beaten herself up mentally over the consequences of giving in to the food she liked, ice cream and pastries. Now she felt such freedom, eating what she wanted, when she wanted. Claire was amazed at Callie's appetite, but for the time kept her thoughts to herself.
As the holiday drew to a close, the weather turned hotter still. They lay on the beach, alternating between sun and shade, both in bikinis. Once again, Claire was struck by the ring of fat round Callie's middle, now much bigger and deeper than before. "Girl, you're really filling out!"
"I know. I've been gaining weight this summer."
"You've been gaining weight this week!" Claire looked at curve of her belly, her thickening thighs, her heavy breasts, and the second chin that formed whenever she lowered her head.
"I guess I have. I have been eating a lot. Much more than you. I can diet if I want when we get back."
"Its such a change for you, Callie. You were always so thin, as thin as me. I'm such a beanpole -- I probably last gained weight as a baby. Don't you mind all this fat?"
Callie prodded the flesh around her middle, the navel sunk in much deeper than before. "Actually no. Well, yes and no really. The part of me that was an anorexic is horrified, I suppose. But that me scarcely exists now, and there's another me that's so relieved. To be able to eat and not feel guilty, that's so great. And I'm beginning to like my new curves. Its not as though I'm fat, is it? I'm just a bit more rounded than I was. Like her --" .
Callie pointed to a young waitress at a beach-side cafe whom she'd kept on noticing during the week as she delivered drinks with a sexy swagger, big tummy bulge brazenly bared, firm round arms, luscious breasts, someone glorying in her plumpening form. Callie couldn't take her eyes off her.
"Well its your body," Claire said.
"Yes it is. Can we get some ice cream?"
That was the last time the two talked about it.
When she got home from Greece, Callie didn't need the scales to know that her weight had seriously shot up. Before she could still button up the jeans she traveled in. Now her belly was so prominent that she had to leave them loose at the top, covered up with her blouse. Her bottom had spread. Her bra felt much more constricted too, and she noticed her ribcage had finally vanished under a layer of fat that formed little rolls where the sides of the bra dug into her body. The pointer on the scales read 140 pounds, ten stone. In ten days she had gained fourteen pounds.
In her first week back she bought two pairs of jeans in a larger size, and two bigger bras: she might have bought more if she had more money. The new jeans camouflaged some of her weight gain, but even the blindest of friends and colleagues were starting to notice that Callie was now no longer thin; indeed, she was starting to get just a little bit chubby.
At work Callie made light of things.
"I know I've put on a few pounds!" she said airily. But the thought of dieting never entered her head. She didn't even take it seriously when she mentioned it to Claire in Greece: it was just something to deflect the beanpoles disapproval. In the month after she came back from holiday she returned to her new food habits; enough for her to slowly gain a few more pounds.
The change was very apparent to Steve, her old boyfriend from up north, who came down for a weekend during November. In one way she looked the same; she was still Callie. But she was also different. She was 25 pounds heavier.
"I'm not saying this to be rude, but you've put on some weight!" he said, not unappreciatively, almost as soon as they met.
"Yes I've fattened up a bit this year. I hope you don't mind."
"You look really good. Different, but good. You've got a tummy too! It used to be so flat."
The talk moved on to other topics, but Callie's chubbier look still hovered in Steve's mind. When her small double chin appeared, he cried out involuntarily "Callie, I have to say it, you're so beautiful!"
Callie smiled. Their sexual relationship was over, she knew; but it was still good to get his approval as a friend. Steve was not one of the men she wanted to scare off. He could be demanding, but he was basically kind, and certainly fun. The problems Callie had experienced in the past were problems of commitment. Steve had wanted things to go further than she did. Luckily her move to London had intervened. It was hard having sex long-distance.
In fact the relationship was not over. Something within Steve stirred that weekend. Callie too found herself attracted to the possibility of a session in bed. She had not had sex for some months, certainly not since she'd been gaining weight. In the back of the mind she was wondering how it would feel for her, and what it would feel like for her partner, with these extra pounds on her body.
As Callie removed her clothes, Steve looked in awe. A layer of fat seemed to cover every limb, every part of her. Round her tummy the fat piled into a swelling curve, the navel almost lost to sight deep in the new flesh. Her breasts. Her hips. Everything was bigger and softer than Steve remembered. Her ribcage had vanished. Even the shoulder bones once as prominent as a coat hanger were starting to get upholstered.
In bed, Steve tenderly fingered her belly. But it was not only Steve that felt aroused by her new physique. Callie herself experienced a new sensuous thrill as her fattened body was stroked, squeezed, rubbed, and finally, in ecstasy, penetrated.
Lovemaking over, Steve wanted his sexual high to continue.
"Could you wear some tight clothes?" he asked, amazed at himself.
"You are perverse," Callie said. But she didn't decline. She fetched out some black jeans she thought she might still fit into, maneuvering them gingerly over her hips and bottom, buttoning them up as far as the fat on her tummy would allow. The top two buttons she had to leave undone. As she moved she could feel the pressure of her flesh bearing down on her jeans as never before.
"Will I be able to sit down wearing these?" she wondered. Next came a tee-shirt, which once hung down just beyond her waist but now rode up tightly with her enlarged breasts, leaving the way clear for her midriff roll and love handles to hang over her jeans.
She felt very constricted. She felt good. She felt sexy. And Steve was pleased. But not satisfied. He had another request.
"Can I" -- he hesitated -- "watch you eat?"
"You've seen me eat, its nothing exciting. We ate together last night."
"But now it would mean more."
She groaned, but again she didn't decline. She went to the fridge where a two liter carton of chocolate chip ice cream sat in permanent residence. She scooped out four balls, gave Steve an exasperated glance, sat down -- feeling her belly pushing hard against her jeans -- and ate, playfully lingering over each mouthful, licking every speck from the spoon, murmuring as though in ecstasy "Oh, that's so gooood!"
Afterwards, provocatively, she patted her stomach.
"Thank you," sighed Steve.
"That's alright. I was hungry."
The weekend was over. Steve went back up north, with a new admiration for Callie. When he hugged her goodbye, he impulsively clutched her waist, feeling the fat now wrapped around it and hoping that the next time he visited the love handles would be bigger still.
"I'd never have taken you for a plumper!" he said. Callie looked quizzical, but smiled.
