Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
~BHM, Eating, Romance, ~SWG - Sometimes suffering a little pain leads to ,ore than one would expect, as a certain Library Board member discovers
[Author's Note: Credit goes to Marriage and kids bad for your waistline, studies find, by Charles Stuart Platkin. The Honolulu Advertiser, April 14, 2004, for the study and quotations used in this story.]
All it took was a torn ankle in a Saturday touch football game. Bruce Goodman rocked back and forth on the muddy earth, cradling his ankle.
Teammates and opponents clustered around worriedly. Francis Hale, a doctor by trade, knelt by Bruce, waving the others back. Gently he peeled off Bruces clenched fingers and delicately probed, his fingers on the ankle but his eyes on Bruces face, noticing when Bruce winced, when he inhaled sharply. He shook his head.
More than a sprain, he said finally. Maybe a tear. He looked around at the anxious circle of guys. Ill drive you in my car to the hospital.
There were murmurs of concern as several guys helped Bruce up, and two of them made a cradle with their hands to carry Bruce, who knew better than to even try to put any weight on it.
At the hospital, where Francis knew the emergency room doctor on duty, Bruce was tended to quickly Saturday afternoons in the ER are often quiet and X-rays confirmed the torn ligament. The doctor wrapped it snugly, wrote a prescription for Vicodin and asked Bruce if he had any crutches. Bruce didnt but Francis did, so they left via Francis office, where they picked up the crutches.
Prescription filled, Francis drove Bruce not back to his car but home.
Ill round up somebody he meant Judith, his girlfriend to help me bring your car around later tonight, he said.
They brought the car and also Chinese takeout.
Thanks, buddy, Bruce said, heartfelt. He popped a couple of Vicodin and started in on the takeout, a large pile of sesame chicken, an equally large pile of rice, an egg roll. Chinese restaurants serve huge portions, but after all hed been through Bruce found he was starving. He tore through the food like a stray dog, gulping from a pint bottle of water. The Vicodin made him feel a little dopey, but it did take the edge of the pain.
Luckily, Bruce worked at home, editing computer manuals. The demand for such work was steadily increasing with no end in sight. Bruce, with degrees in English and computer programming and half a dozen years experience as a newspaper copy editor, was tailor made for the job. His editor sent him ZIP files, which he unzipped, edited, zipped back up and returned. The pay was good, the work steady.
Bruce also knew that he could easily become reclusive, so he made a point of having a social network. In addition to the Saturday football games, he was in a book club, on the church council, and a member of the library board. It was the last that brought Melissa into his life.
Melissa had been on the library board only a couple of months, and she and Bruce had, it must be said, scarcely noticed each other at the previous two meetings. Bruce crutching into the third meeting was slightly more conspicuous, however.
After the meeting, Melissa, who was sitting next to him, helped him up and shyly asked him if he wanted to join her at having coffee. He accepted, and they moved slowly down the street to a nearby coffee-and-dessert place. A jazz trio played quietly.
Melissa ordered coffee. Bruce did the same.
Dont you want to try our ice-cream blondie? The waitress pointed at the enticing photo on the menu.
Oh, why not, Bruce agreed.
Bruce was 510 or 511 and had been around 170 in college, but had slowly and gradually put on 25 pounds. His dark hair flopped over his hazel eyes and he had a boyish manner of flipping it out of the way that women found endearing. Most of the time he favored T-shirts and jeans, items that were gradually becoming snug. The coffee arrived and also the brownie, which was a fat butterscotch-chip blond brownie with a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, drizzle with maple and dotted with bits of walnut.
Mmmm, Bruce murmured involuntarily. He handed a spoon to Melissa, who shook her head regretfully.
I try to watch my figure, she murmured.
Bruce rolled his eyes.
I try, he admitted, but the last couple of years all Im doing is watching it get bigger. He snorted. This torn ankle isnt going to help.
Well Melissa said. She shrugged. Guys carry it better.
They chatted. Conversation came easily, and the huge dessert disappeared before Bruce knew it. He crutched her back to the library, and before they parted hed made a date with her for the Italian buffet later in the week.
Melissa offered to drive, for which Bruce was grateful, since he was having a tough time adjusting to driving with his left foot. When they arrived, it dawned on him that hed made a dumb choice. How was he supposed to fill his plate at a buffet while on crutches?
Melissa smiled and winked at him.Have a seat, she said. Ill serve you.
Bruce felt dumb, but it was a reasonable solution, he thought. Until Melissa came back with a plate heaped with a virtual pyramid of pasta and Alfredo sauce and a second plate piled with pizza, garlic bread, calamari, and olives.
Wow! Bruces eyes widened at the bounty.
Oh thats for both of us, right?
No. Melissa winked. Thats yours. Enjoy!
Wow! Bruce took a deep breath and surveyed the piles of food while he waited for Melissa to return, which she did, with a plate holding a moderate amount of food and another plate of salad.
Bruce took a swallow of iced tea and picked up his fork. He was hungry. He twirled pasta round his fork, munched olives, crunched into the buttery, savory garlic bread, washed down with iced tea. He and Melissa analyzed the local football teams chances at some length, Melissa impressing him with her knowledge. They talked about authors, about local funding for libraries, about whatever ideas came to mind. The conversation flowed as easily as the food, which vanished surprisingly quickly.
Without consulting Bruce, Melissa hopped up and headed for the buffet.
Bruce stacked the empty plates to one side.
Melissa returned with a plate of fresh fruit for her and some more pasta for him angel hair with marinara sauce, more garlic bread, more olives, more everything.
Blinking, Bruce surveyed the second helpings. He drew a deep breath. He was already pleasantly stuffed, his stomach pressing against the waistband of his slacks.
I dont know, he ventured. I may be getting kind of full. He hiccupped.
Melissa leaned forward, picking up his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. Such a handsome guy, she murmured. I bet youve got room for more.
Bruce wasnt at all sure he did, but he picked up his fork nonetheless. Plowing through the second helpings took some effort. Bruce felt his belly swelling with every bite, his stomach beginning to ache, the waistband of his pants slicing painfully into his expanding midriff. The skin stretched across his ballooning abdomen, making him feel as though he were about to pop. But the food was all delicious, and there was Melissa, looking at him as though he hung the moon. He felt as though hed swallowed it.
He pressed a hand to his bloated midsection. His abdomen was now tautly distended, firm and rounded below his polo shirt. His belt was practically creaking and he really ought to undo that pants button.
Melissa smiled at him. Ready to go?
He blinked, too full to speak. He levered himself to his feet and wobbled dangerously, the weight of his overloaded belly throwing him off and balancing on his one good foot. Solicitously, Melissa helped him retrieve his crutches and get balanced on them.
On the ride home, Bruce unashamedly leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. Melissa drove skillfully, gently massaging his engorged gut with her free hand. She drove them back to her apartment and helped him onto the sofa. Curling up next to him, she devoted her full attention to Bruces full tummy.
Bruce groaned at her ministrations.
Ate too much, he mumbled, hiccupping. He rolled his eyes. At this rate I wont be losing any weight any time soon.
Why should you? Melissa asked, still rubbing. Youre a good-looking guy, and men look better with a little on them. Guys who are too thin look well goofy.
She continued her gentle massage, which felt wonderful to Bruces aching and distended belly. I really like a guy with a certain sturdiness to him.
Hm, Sturdiness. I like the sound of that.
Thought you might, and Melissa leaned in for a kiss.
Just like that, Bruce had acquired a girlfriend. They went on picnics, to the beach, on double dates with Francis and Judith. The football games were on hold, of course, as was running, as were pickup basketball games.
Bruce was suddenly sedentary, thanks to the ankle, but with the acquisition of a girlfriend, he scarcely noticed. His belly took note, of course.
Before long Bruce and Melissa were essentially living together, and when it came time to renew the lease on her apartment, it just made sense for her to officially move in with him. Occasional arguments arose, but both were pretty laid-back and they truly enjoyed each others company.
Bruces steadily thickening waistline was a visible symbol of his contentment. Hed always thought it was a myth that men gained weight after getting married or beginning to cohabit but his belt was telling him differently.
In passing one day, he noticed an item online: a Yale professor was explaining just why men tended to pack on the pounds once a woman entered the house: increased responsibilities, decreased leisure time and reduced time spent on exercise as well as the fact that eating in company makes it OK and more fun to eat the bad stuff, like cookies and ice cream.
All true, Bruce thought, as was the articles noting that such men ate more regularly, ate full proper meals more often, and ate out a lot more.
He was finished with the Vicodin, and the worst of the pain was gone, but he was still hobbling around on crutches, and he spent most of his waking hours sitting, his foot propped up.
Meanwhile, someone was now cooking for him; plates full of scrambled eggs, sausage and toast would appear in front of him; sandwiches piled high and a mountain of chips; lasagna or roast beef or baked chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, succotash, rolls, salads, and the desserts brownies, cookies, pie mmm, pie. He cleaned his plate, sometimes two or three times, then leaned back, cradling his bloated belly and massaging the swollen bulge.
In time, the ankle healed, but he was reluctant to dive back into sports. He and Melissa were often busy doing other things on weekends, anyway. Of course, decreased activity and a noticeable uptick in calories had broadened his belly. His face grew fuller and his arms thicker and his chest softer, but most of the added pounds seemed to go right to his broadening gut. His burgeoning waistline now spilled over his pants, giving him a regular muffin top. Chairs seemed to grow a little smaller and his shower stall was suddenly more snug.
Melissa invited him to join her family for Thanksgiving dinner, and he happily agreed. His parents had divorced and re-formed years ago, and Thanksgiving on his side of the family was complicated and uncertain. Hed much rather be with Melissa and her family. They drove the three hours to Columbus, fighting traffic and spitting snow, but finally arrived safely.
Ah, you made it! Melissas father embraced her, then broke loose and gave Bruce a hearty handshake. Come on in and have some Irish coffee. Heck of a drive you had.
Bruce followed Mr. Mathieson into the living room, first stopping in the kitchen to greet Mrs. Mathieson. He was introduced to Melissas brother and his wife, the family dog, and the teen-age sister and handed a mug of something warm and rich-smelling. Hed clocked in that morning at 200 on the dot.
Contented at being within a happy family gathering, he sank onto the sofa and sipped gratefully at the roped coffee, joining in the pre-football-game chatter on the television and in the room. Mr. Mathieson asked a few questions here and there, but not being interrogatory, just paternal.
Dinner was served, and it was astonishing. Every inch of the table was jammed, and a side table on wheels was pulled up alongside to hold more dishes. Excited chatter quickly subdued itself to clink-and-swallow as everyone dived in eagerly.
Saying little himself, Bruce savored the food and the company, slowly and steadily enjoying each delicious bite as it slid down his throat, helped along by a generous glass of wine and a tall tumbler of water. His plate was never quite empty, exactly he would be offered a second or third helping of something as he was plugging along on the other foods. Like a barfly having his drink topped off again and again, he kind of lost track of how much he was eating.
His stomach knew. As food piled into his expanding belly, his stomach stretched and sagged to accommodate it. Soon his waistband was slicing heavily into his bulging waistline, the button straining, his tummy inching steadily forward. He let out his belt a notch. His gut sagged heavily as he swallowed bite after bite, sides beginning to ache, his midsection feeling stretched and warm. He finished off his cranberry sauce and let out his belt another notch as Melissa slid some more onto his plate. It merged with the stuffing, creating a moist sweet-savory mush.
His belly was becoming tautly distended, the skin of his abdomen stretching thinly over his bulging gut. He was slowing down without realizing it, becoming a little short of breath.
The clinking of forks slowed to a stop. Chairs were pushed awkwardly back, and everyone was struggling to his or her feet. The eating was over, the groaning and complaining beginning. Melissas sister, her jeans unbuttoned and her small belly ballooning out, stumbled straight to her bedroom for a nap. Melissas sister-in-law joined Melissa and Mrs. Mathieson in the kitchen, while the men waddled heavily into the living room, sinking slowly into the comfortable cushions of sofa and chairs.
Melissas brother, Richard, put his feet up and belched.
Whoa, he exhaled, slapping his visibly bulging belly. Am I stuffed.
Mr. Mathieson slowly rubbed his stomach, protruding beneath his plaid shirt. Ditto, he admitted.
Me too (hic!) Bruce contributed. He shook his head ruefully. This stomach is full. He cradled his distended gut as it rose from his now-unbuttoned jeans. Smooth and hard as a drum, his belly curved in a large bloated arc from sternum to south of the belly button, now hiding in a tiny valley in the vast rounded desert of his aching gut.
I ate (urrrrp) moren you, Richard boasted.
Bruce snorted. No way, man. He slapped his swollen and aching belly, producing a hollow thunk.
Impressive, Richard admitted. But I bet I outdid you. He lifted his head slightly. Hey. Melissa.
Melissa appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands. Her eyes widened at the sight of her brother and boyfriend, reclining, bloated and swollen bellies rising from overworked waistbands.
Which (hic!) which one of us ate more? Richard demanded.
Melissa rolled her eyes. Youre both pigs.
Here, Richard persisted. Measure us.
After some token protests from Melissa and Bruce, Melissa fetched her tape measure. With much grunting and complaining, Bruce and Richard struggled to their feet and tugged their now-snug shirts aloft. Her lips twitching, Melissa pulled the tape measure around Richards taut belly. Thirty-eight.
Richards eyes widened. Wow. These jeans are 36s.
Melissa playfully smacked his butt. No wonder theyre, ahem, unbuttoned?
She wound the tape measure around Bruces belly, round and full, and pulled it tight. And 41! Not even close! she crowed.
Richard clapped Bruce manfully on the shoulder. You win, dude. But he winked. Wait till next year.
Melissa stood on tiptoe and whispered in Bruces ear. Ill make sure that you win. She twined her arms around him, pulling him close, leaning into his gorgeously taut belly.
* * *
Next year was no contest. Richard didnt even try. Greeting his sisters new husband, he tossed up his hands and crowed, Make way for Gigantor!
He slapped Bruces triumphant belly in greeting. Dang, man, which one of you is pregnant?
Bruce, who now carried 250 pounds on his 510 frame, grinned as he put his arm around his wife, who similarly had a taut, protruding belly though hers was temporary. Lets say were both eating for two.
[Author's Note: Credit goes to Marriage and kids bad for your waistline, studies find, by Charles Stuart Platkin. The Honolulu Advertiser, April 14, 2004, for the study and quotations used in this story.]
Growing in Love
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
All it took was a torn ankle in a Saturday touch football game. Bruce Goodman rocked back and forth on the muddy earth, cradling his ankle.
Teammates and opponents clustered around worriedly. Francis Hale, a doctor by trade, knelt by Bruce, waving the others back. Gently he peeled off Bruces clenched fingers and delicately probed, his fingers on the ankle but his eyes on Bruces face, noticing when Bruce winced, when he inhaled sharply. He shook his head.
More than a sprain, he said finally. Maybe a tear. He looked around at the anxious circle of guys. Ill drive you in my car to the hospital.
There were murmurs of concern as several guys helped Bruce up, and two of them made a cradle with their hands to carry Bruce, who knew better than to even try to put any weight on it.
At the hospital, where Francis knew the emergency room doctor on duty, Bruce was tended to quickly Saturday afternoons in the ER are often quiet and X-rays confirmed the torn ligament. The doctor wrapped it snugly, wrote a prescription for Vicodin and asked Bruce if he had any crutches. Bruce didnt but Francis did, so they left via Francis office, where they picked up the crutches.
Prescription filled, Francis drove Bruce not back to his car but home.
Ill round up somebody he meant Judith, his girlfriend to help me bring your car around later tonight, he said.
They brought the car and also Chinese takeout.
Thanks, buddy, Bruce said, heartfelt. He popped a couple of Vicodin and started in on the takeout, a large pile of sesame chicken, an equally large pile of rice, an egg roll. Chinese restaurants serve huge portions, but after all hed been through Bruce found he was starving. He tore through the food like a stray dog, gulping from a pint bottle of water. The Vicodin made him feel a little dopey, but it did take the edge of the pain.
Luckily, Bruce worked at home, editing computer manuals. The demand for such work was steadily increasing with no end in sight. Bruce, with degrees in English and computer programming and half a dozen years experience as a newspaper copy editor, was tailor made for the job. His editor sent him ZIP files, which he unzipped, edited, zipped back up and returned. The pay was good, the work steady.
Bruce also knew that he could easily become reclusive, so he made a point of having a social network. In addition to the Saturday football games, he was in a book club, on the church council, and a member of the library board. It was the last that brought Melissa into his life.
Melissa had been on the library board only a couple of months, and she and Bruce had, it must be said, scarcely noticed each other at the previous two meetings. Bruce crutching into the third meeting was slightly more conspicuous, however.
After the meeting, Melissa, who was sitting next to him, helped him up and shyly asked him if he wanted to join her at having coffee. He accepted, and they moved slowly down the street to a nearby coffee-and-dessert place. A jazz trio played quietly.
Melissa ordered coffee. Bruce did the same.
Dont you want to try our ice-cream blondie? The waitress pointed at the enticing photo on the menu.
Oh, why not, Bruce agreed.
Bruce was 510 or 511 and had been around 170 in college, but had slowly and gradually put on 25 pounds. His dark hair flopped over his hazel eyes and he had a boyish manner of flipping it out of the way that women found endearing. Most of the time he favored T-shirts and jeans, items that were gradually becoming snug. The coffee arrived and also the brownie, which was a fat butterscotch-chip blond brownie with a huge scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, drizzle with maple and dotted with bits of walnut.
Mmmm, Bruce murmured involuntarily. He handed a spoon to Melissa, who shook her head regretfully.
I try to watch my figure, she murmured.
Bruce rolled his eyes.
I try, he admitted, but the last couple of years all Im doing is watching it get bigger. He snorted. This torn ankle isnt going to help.
Well Melissa said. She shrugged. Guys carry it better.
They chatted. Conversation came easily, and the huge dessert disappeared before Bruce knew it. He crutched her back to the library, and before they parted hed made a date with her for the Italian buffet later in the week.
Melissa offered to drive, for which Bruce was grateful, since he was having a tough time adjusting to driving with his left foot. When they arrived, it dawned on him that hed made a dumb choice. How was he supposed to fill his plate at a buffet while on crutches?
Melissa smiled and winked at him.Have a seat, she said. Ill serve you.
Bruce felt dumb, but it was a reasonable solution, he thought. Until Melissa came back with a plate heaped with a virtual pyramid of pasta and Alfredo sauce and a second plate piled with pizza, garlic bread, calamari, and olives.
Wow! Bruces eyes widened at the bounty.
Oh thats for both of us, right?
No. Melissa winked. Thats yours. Enjoy!
Wow! Bruce took a deep breath and surveyed the piles of food while he waited for Melissa to return, which she did, with a plate holding a moderate amount of food and another plate of salad.
Bruce took a swallow of iced tea and picked up his fork. He was hungry. He twirled pasta round his fork, munched olives, crunched into the buttery, savory garlic bread, washed down with iced tea. He and Melissa analyzed the local football teams chances at some length, Melissa impressing him with her knowledge. They talked about authors, about local funding for libraries, about whatever ideas came to mind. The conversation flowed as easily as the food, which vanished surprisingly quickly.
Without consulting Bruce, Melissa hopped up and headed for the buffet.
Bruce stacked the empty plates to one side.
Melissa returned with a plate of fresh fruit for her and some more pasta for him angel hair with marinara sauce, more garlic bread, more olives, more everything.
Blinking, Bruce surveyed the second helpings. He drew a deep breath. He was already pleasantly stuffed, his stomach pressing against the waistband of his slacks.
I dont know, he ventured. I may be getting kind of full. He hiccupped.
Melissa leaned forward, picking up his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. Such a handsome guy, she murmured. I bet youve got room for more.
Bruce wasnt at all sure he did, but he picked up his fork nonetheless. Plowing through the second helpings took some effort. Bruce felt his belly swelling with every bite, his stomach beginning to ache, the waistband of his pants slicing painfully into his expanding midriff. The skin stretched across his ballooning abdomen, making him feel as though he were about to pop. But the food was all delicious, and there was Melissa, looking at him as though he hung the moon. He felt as though hed swallowed it.
He pressed a hand to his bloated midsection. His abdomen was now tautly distended, firm and rounded below his polo shirt. His belt was practically creaking and he really ought to undo that pants button.
Melissa smiled at him. Ready to go?
He blinked, too full to speak. He levered himself to his feet and wobbled dangerously, the weight of his overloaded belly throwing him off and balancing on his one good foot. Solicitously, Melissa helped him retrieve his crutches and get balanced on them.
On the ride home, Bruce unashamedly leaned his seat back and closed his eyes. Melissa drove skillfully, gently massaging his engorged gut with her free hand. She drove them back to her apartment and helped him onto the sofa. Curling up next to him, she devoted her full attention to Bruces full tummy.
Bruce groaned at her ministrations.
Ate too much, he mumbled, hiccupping. He rolled his eyes. At this rate I wont be losing any weight any time soon.
Why should you? Melissa asked, still rubbing. Youre a good-looking guy, and men look better with a little on them. Guys who are too thin look well goofy.
She continued her gentle massage, which felt wonderful to Bruces aching and distended belly. I really like a guy with a certain sturdiness to him.
Hm, Sturdiness. I like the sound of that.
Thought you might, and Melissa leaned in for a kiss.
Just like that, Bruce had acquired a girlfriend. They went on picnics, to the beach, on double dates with Francis and Judith. The football games were on hold, of course, as was running, as were pickup basketball games.
Bruce was suddenly sedentary, thanks to the ankle, but with the acquisition of a girlfriend, he scarcely noticed. His belly took note, of course.
Before long Bruce and Melissa were essentially living together, and when it came time to renew the lease on her apartment, it just made sense for her to officially move in with him. Occasional arguments arose, but both were pretty laid-back and they truly enjoyed each others company.
Bruces steadily thickening waistline was a visible symbol of his contentment. Hed always thought it was a myth that men gained weight after getting married or beginning to cohabit but his belt was telling him differently.
In passing one day, he noticed an item online: a Yale professor was explaining just why men tended to pack on the pounds once a woman entered the house: increased responsibilities, decreased leisure time and reduced time spent on exercise as well as the fact that eating in company makes it OK and more fun to eat the bad stuff, like cookies and ice cream.
All true, Bruce thought, as was the articles noting that such men ate more regularly, ate full proper meals more often, and ate out a lot more.
He was finished with the Vicodin, and the worst of the pain was gone, but he was still hobbling around on crutches, and he spent most of his waking hours sitting, his foot propped up.
Meanwhile, someone was now cooking for him; plates full of scrambled eggs, sausage and toast would appear in front of him; sandwiches piled high and a mountain of chips; lasagna or roast beef or baked chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, succotash, rolls, salads, and the desserts brownies, cookies, pie mmm, pie. He cleaned his plate, sometimes two or three times, then leaned back, cradling his bloated belly and massaging the swollen bulge.
In time, the ankle healed, but he was reluctant to dive back into sports. He and Melissa were often busy doing other things on weekends, anyway. Of course, decreased activity and a noticeable uptick in calories had broadened his belly. His face grew fuller and his arms thicker and his chest softer, but most of the added pounds seemed to go right to his broadening gut. His burgeoning waistline now spilled over his pants, giving him a regular muffin top. Chairs seemed to grow a little smaller and his shower stall was suddenly more snug.
Melissa invited him to join her family for Thanksgiving dinner, and he happily agreed. His parents had divorced and re-formed years ago, and Thanksgiving on his side of the family was complicated and uncertain. Hed much rather be with Melissa and her family. They drove the three hours to Columbus, fighting traffic and spitting snow, but finally arrived safely.
Ah, you made it! Melissas father embraced her, then broke loose and gave Bruce a hearty handshake. Come on in and have some Irish coffee. Heck of a drive you had.
Bruce followed Mr. Mathieson into the living room, first stopping in the kitchen to greet Mrs. Mathieson. He was introduced to Melissas brother and his wife, the family dog, and the teen-age sister and handed a mug of something warm and rich-smelling. Hed clocked in that morning at 200 on the dot.
Contented at being within a happy family gathering, he sank onto the sofa and sipped gratefully at the roped coffee, joining in the pre-football-game chatter on the television and in the room. Mr. Mathieson asked a few questions here and there, but not being interrogatory, just paternal.
Dinner was served, and it was astonishing. Every inch of the table was jammed, and a side table on wheels was pulled up alongside to hold more dishes. Excited chatter quickly subdued itself to clink-and-swallow as everyone dived in eagerly.
Saying little himself, Bruce savored the food and the company, slowly and steadily enjoying each delicious bite as it slid down his throat, helped along by a generous glass of wine and a tall tumbler of water. His plate was never quite empty, exactly he would be offered a second or third helping of something as he was plugging along on the other foods. Like a barfly having his drink topped off again and again, he kind of lost track of how much he was eating.
His stomach knew. As food piled into his expanding belly, his stomach stretched and sagged to accommodate it. Soon his waistband was slicing heavily into his bulging waistline, the button straining, his tummy inching steadily forward. He let out his belt a notch. His gut sagged heavily as he swallowed bite after bite, sides beginning to ache, his midsection feeling stretched and warm. He finished off his cranberry sauce and let out his belt another notch as Melissa slid some more onto his plate. It merged with the stuffing, creating a moist sweet-savory mush.
His belly was becoming tautly distended, the skin of his abdomen stretching thinly over his bulging gut. He was slowing down without realizing it, becoming a little short of breath.
The clinking of forks slowed to a stop. Chairs were pushed awkwardly back, and everyone was struggling to his or her feet. The eating was over, the groaning and complaining beginning. Melissas sister, her jeans unbuttoned and her small belly ballooning out, stumbled straight to her bedroom for a nap. Melissas sister-in-law joined Melissa and Mrs. Mathieson in the kitchen, while the men waddled heavily into the living room, sinking slowly into the comfortable cushions of sofa and chairs.
Melissas brother, Richard, put his feet up and belched.
Whoa, he exhaled, slapping his visibly bulging belly. Am I stuffed.
Mr. Mathieson slowly rubbed his stomach, protruding beneath his plaid shirt. Ditto, he admitted.
Me too (hic!) Bruce contributed. He shook his head ruefully. This stomach is full. He cradled his distended gut as it rose from his now-unbuttoned jeans. Smooth and hard as a drum, his belly curved in a large bloated arc from sternum to south of the belly button, now hiding in a tiny valley in the vast rounded desert of his aching gut.
I ate (urrrrp) moren you, Richard boasted.
Bruce snorted. No way, man. He slapped his swollen and aching belly, producing a hollow thunk.
Impressive, Richard admitted. But I bet I outdid you. He lifted his head slightly. Hey. Melissa.
Melissa appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands. Her eyes widened at the sight of her brother and boyfriend, reclining, bloated and swollen bellies rising from overworked waistbands.
Which (hic!) which one of us ate more? Richard demanded.
Melissa rolled her eyes. Youre both pigs.
Here, Richard persisted. Measure us.
After some token protests from Melissa and Bruce, Melissa fetched her tape measure. With much grunting and complaining, Bruce and Richard struggled to their feet and tugged their now-snug shirts aloft. Her lips twitching, Melissa pulled the tape measure around Richards taut belly. Thirty-eight.
Richards eyes widened. Wow. These jeans are 36s.
Melissa playfully smacked his butt. No wonder theyre, ahem, unbuttoned?
She wound the tape measure around Bruces belly, round and full, and pulled it tight. And 41! Not even close! she crowed.
Richard clapped Bruce manfully on the shoulder. You win, dude. But he winked. Wait till next year.
Melissa stood on tiptoe and whispered in Bruces ear. Ill make sure that you win. She twined her arms around him, pulling him close, leaning into his gorgeously taut belly.
* * *
Next year was no contest. Richard didnt even try. Greeting his sisters new husband, he tossed up his hands and crowed, Make way for Gigantor!
He slapped Bruces triumphant belly in greeting. Dang, man, which one of you is pregnant?
Bruce, who now carried 250 pounds on his 510 frame, grinned as he put his arm around his wife, who similarly had a taut, protruding belly though hers was temporary. Lets say were both eating for two.
