BOTH Made for Each Other - by Big Beautiful Dreamer (~BHM, ~BBW,~SWG)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~BHM, ~BBW, ~SWG - A new co-worker helps a guy chase away the clouds of guilt and self-doubt and discover a surprising love of life.

Made for Each Other​

by Big Beautiful Dreamer​

“Ooohhhhh.” I leaned back on the chaise lounge, took a swallow of ice-cold pop, and groaned as I drowsily rubbed my aching belly. I had just eaten my weight in hot dogs from the poolside grill, and it wasn’t even lunchtime. Or was it? I was rapidly losing all sense of time.

The sun beat down, the cold drink tasted so sweet and so good, there was a pleasant trickle of sweat lazing down my bare chest, and my stomach, bulging with too much food, felt heavy and warm. Half-asleep, I continued to massage its engorged tension, feeling the stretch of my swimming trunks’ waistband against my full belly.

I half-dozed and half-watched the women padding around in bikinis. Life was good.

My girlfriend and I had had a monumental, relationship-ending fight a week before we were supposed to have gone on the cruise. I had decided to go anyway, figuring it would be diverting. Which it was. The occasional dark cloud of unhappiness over the ending of our relationship quickly got blown away by sea breezes, amazing food, drinks, activities, and ….

*zz--* I blinked awake. The PA was going off, announcing lunch. I stood, groaned, stretched, and ambled back to my room to shower and dress. I seemed, amazingly, to be hungry again.

The cruise lasted a week, and it was just what the doctor ordered. By the time I had unpacked and prepared to return to work, I had all but forgotten Theresa, and that name’s woe.

“Whoa. Dude!” Kevin, my next-cubicle neighbor, greeted me admiringly on my first morning back.

I cocked an eyebrow.

“Someone chowed down,” he crowed, patting his midsection.

“Yeah. Yeah. Cruise food,” I said dismissively, and poured myself a cup of coffee.

Kevin was the first, but not the only, commentator that day. I received half a dozen comments on the evidently visible results of the cruise. The tan got a mention, but only after a joke or reaction to how good the food must have been and how much of it I had clearly consumed.

That evening, I padded into the bathroom and peeled off my clothes. I stepped on the scale, which read back … 203. Well, now. My “usual” was somewhere around 185, so no wonder I was getting some comments. I looked myself over.

Great tan, dark blond hair cut full and with lighter streaks from the sun, ordinary enough face, broad shoulders, decently defined muscles … and a small pot belly pooching forward. I shrugged and pulled on my workout gear.

The tan faded over the next few weeks. The belly? Not so much. In retrospect, I suppose I would have needed to have changed up my eating and exercise habits to shed those ten … fifteen … eighteen pounds.

My work trousers, already snug when I returned from the cruise, were starting to be ridiculously hard to fasten and clearly too small. The hook strained, the zipper was working too hard, pockets gapped, and I was afraid to sit down for fear of ripping the back seam when I stood back up. I finally took the plunge and popped for some trousers in a larger size to accommodate my temporary spare tire.

“Yo, Stewie,” Kevin greeted me. “New threads, dude.” He lifted a doughnut from the box.

“Yup.” I followed his lead.

Kevin gave me a wide-eyed look.

“What?”

“Dude, that cruise of yours was like a month ago. You look like you’re still hitting the buffets.”

“The soul of tact, as ever,” I said, my dignity undercut by a mouthful of old-fashioned.

“Just sayin’.”

Most people weren’t quite as direct, but when a group of us went out to lunch or for beers after work, I began sensing my colleagues observing my intake. I overheard a men’s-room conversation in which both participants agreed unequivocally that Stewart was packing it on. The front desk receptionist, who always used to urge me to take some candy from her dish, stopped offering. Once or twice I caught a quickly veiled, uncomfortable glance from her when I did help myself.

And the new trousers, dammit, were getting snug. I dragged the scale out again. It read 212. Clearly, I needed to do something.

During my workout, I reflected on recent developments. Comments at work, both to my face and behind my back. The looks over lunch. The fact that I’d had to buy trousers with a more forgiving waistband twice now … and probably would again. And the guilt that now sat permanently on my shoulders, like a large unfriendly bird of prey. I was faintly embarrassed to eat lunch at all, yet unwilling to run the gauntlet that would ensue if I ordered a salad. I felt guilty at eating breakfast and had tried skipping it a couple of times, but that always drove me to the vending machines instead.

It had gotten so that I could not eat or drink anything without feeling furtive and ashamed about it, and having to buy larger trousers was mortifying, as though every sales clerk was pointing and laughing. My general satisfaction with life was clouded over by guilt and shame that had boiled up and now hung over me. And it was an artificial guilt and shame. Society invented these standards and we all mindlessly and ruthlessly enforced them, even to our own detriment – hell, even to the point of death from eating disorders sometimes. My colleagues were embarrassed for me, the receptionist was embarrassed for me, I was embarrassed because they were embarrassed, and it was a vicious and utterly unproductive circle.

“ENOUGH!” I shouted at the television. I set the weights down carefully, mindful of the downstairs neighbors. I padded into the bathroom. Peeled off my sweaty clothes. Looked myself over. Two hundred twelve … ish … pounds.

The small pot was now visibly larger, developing into a spare tire, my waistline noticeably thickening, some softness to my upper abdomen, the beginning of softness in my pecs. I was, in fact, getting fat. I took a deep breath, turned right and left, posed as if for pictures in the mirror. I grinned at my own silliness. Then I laughed out loud, for the first time since that fight. Who cared if I was beefing up? It made me look more … substantial. Slowly, fractionally, I felt some of the cloud of guilt dissipate. I kept looking, this time not averting my eyes as if I were looking at something shameful. I patted my gut, rubbed it, squeezed it, warm and soft. I stretched as tall as I could, sucked in, then relaxed, positively grinning as everything settled back into place. Here I am, I thought.

“Um. Dude,” Kevin said hesitantly the next morning, as we both reached for doughnuts.

“Yes? Kevin?” I fixed him with a politely attentive gaze.

“You ever think about … you know … reining in your belly? I mean,” he said awkwardly, “cruise was a couple months ago, and you’re not really losing that weight, kind of looks like you’re … adding to it. Just, you know, sayin’.” He looked away.

“Well, thank you, Kevin, for saying that.” My voice was kind and sincere and devoid of even a trace of sarcasm. “I appreciate that concern, I do.” I took a deep breath. “In fact, I do seem to have gained some weight. And that’s really okay with me. So let’s agree that it’s not open for discussion, all right? Thanks.” I clapped him on the shoulder and strode out quickly. My heart was pounding. That had been exhilarating and a little scary.

I waited for the fallout. And waited. And waited. Drew asked if I was going to lunch. I fell in with him and several others, including Kevin. I ordered and ate a Philly cheesesteak sandwich and a pile of fries. Talk was about sports, work, women. Not a word about Stewart putting on the feed bag or letting Stewart finish off the leftovers. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing happened. Bit by bit, the cloud of guilt wisped away, lifting slowly. Bit by bit, I found pleasure and not shame in my development.

I was eating – no, savoring – some deli takeout. Later, I worked out as usual. And in the shower I took my time soaping and contemplating my burgeoning belly. My softening pecs, the increasingly thick softness of my love handles, the protrusion of my belly, the crease around my navel. Afterward, toweled off, I looked at myself in the mirror again. For the first time, I saw not something shameful but my body, every inch of it, mine, and I felt a kind of pleasure and pride in its development. I was growing, changing, evolving. The added bulk made me feel stronger and sturdier, as though I had more presence. I liked what I saw.

I continued to eat as I usually did, only now without guilt, free of that undefined weight on my shoulders, without measuring calories or counting carbs, taking cream in my coffee, regular pop, fries with lunch, an occasional dessert, break room doughnuts. The guys let the subject drop, and the more comfortable I got with myself the less I cared.

Allison Fowler started working in our department. Tall and curvaceous with short blond hair and a very dry sense of humor. I was instantly smitten.

So was everyone else, of course, and I watched with amused detachment as several guys approached and struck out. She started to get a reputation among the men at work as being kind of chilly. But here and there I saw glimpses of that humor, and the confidence in her stride, and how clearly she seemed to be enjoying life.

I was halfway through a jelly doughnut when she strolled into the break room one Friday morning. I swallowed hastily.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she replied, smiling at me. She poured some coffee and took a doughnut.

“Doughnuts make the world go round,” she remarked, taking an appreciative bite.

“Knew it was something,” I said, feeling my face warm with embarrassment.

I cleared my throat. “It appears to be Friday. Um … would you care to go out with me this evening?”

Allison looked at me interestedly. “Yes, please,” she said.

We agreed to meet at a small quirky restaurant that was seldom frequented by colleagues.

Over a shared appetizer I learned that Allison’s quick wit and dry humor fitted in well with my own slightly quirky outlook. We conversed easily, laughed often, and dragged out the meal, enjoying each other’s company.

By the time we finally, reluctantly, departed the restaurant, I was grunting with effort at every step, my growing belly stuffed to capacity and straining heavily against my (new) trousers. Overloaded and tender, my stomach grumbled and sloshed and I was sure Allison could hear my efforts at digestion.

For her part, Allison’s skirt seemed a hair snug in the waistband, and she was resting a hand on her tummy, which was visibly rounded.

“Oh, that was so good,” she groaned. “Hic! Oh … I’m full.”

I slid my arm around her waist, casually. “Oof, me too.” I only just succeeded in stifling a belch.

By silent mutual consent we strolled … slowly … to a nearby park bench and sank onto it.

“Question,” she said, still massaging her midsection.

“Shoot.”

“Why did you wait so long … ooh … to give me a tumble?”

I grinned in the twilight. “Avoid the rush.”

“Mmm.”

“Why did you say yes?” I returned.

“Mmm. You like yourself.”

“Who, me?”

“Yeah. Hic! You. You’re … confident … you’re a big strong guy … nobody—hic—gives you a hard time.”

I laughed shortly. “You mean I’m fat.”

I felt the change in her demeanor. “If you want to call it that … hic … sure … I think you’re very handsome.” She leaned in, grunting a little, and stroked my overloaded belly, distended and sore, the light, warm touch of her hand a relief.

“Don’t think I’m too forward,” she said, her tone changing, “but could we please go back to your place? If I don’t get to undo my skirt I’m going to pop.”

We both laughed, then clutched our aching stomachs. I hailed a cab.

“So the fact that I’ve put on … oh … forty pounds or so … you’re okay with that,” I said tentatively.

“I would love to snuggle with you,” she said simply. Then, a catch in her voice, “I’m not a skinny Minnie myself.”

“Hey,” I said. “Hey. You are beautiful. You are striking, you are amazing. You are a goddess.”

She leaned her head against my shoulder.

Back in my apartment, I hastily changed into sweats and provided Allison with a T shirt and a pair of elastic-waist drawstring shorts. She looked adorable. We sank onto the battered leather sofa and reclined our feet.

“Ahhhh. Hic!” Allison clutched her belly, a small taut mound under the shirt.

I had my hand on my bloated abdomen under my sweatshirt, cradling it as if to keep it from making any sudden moves.

Allison dozed off. Semiconscious, I covered her and stumbled off to bed.

No one at work had a clue. Allison and I took great pleasure in hearing office gossip about how unapproachable and stuck-up she was and how fat I was getting. I was spending my evenings with a woman who snorted when she laughed and who laughed herself helpless over even mildly funny entertainment, and she claimed to have found herself a man who was sure of himself without being an arrogant S.O.B.

We ate out often, and took pleasure in it. We enjoyed different cuisines, savored our food, cooked for each other (well, she cooked), and it was different and a little scary to be free of societal pressures about weight and figures, but mostly exhilarating. And the gradual dissipation of the cloud of guilt that had once hung over me was hastened by Allison’s love. She didn’t just accept me, putting up with my size because she liked other stuff about me. No – she loved me for who I was, she loved my size as she loved any other of my attributes. She loved my thickening folds of spare tire, my snuggly double chin, my softening backside, the cushioning of my pecs, and said and demonstrated said love often.

And I loved every inch of Allison, her abundant curves, her generous handfuls of breast, her warm, soft torso, the give and fold and pliable warmth of her tummy, the comfy padding of her hips, the welcoming embrace of her strong thighs overlaid with a womanly coat of supple flesh. I delighted in cradling her in my arms and becoming one with her stupendous hips, in drawing her bounteous backside closer, in nuzzling her soft creamy shoulders and nibbling at the hammock of her second chin. I loved patting the little hillock that was formed when I scooped her breasts together and squished them into a new and glorious creation. I loved burying my face in the inviting rolls of her tummy and finding her navel with my eager tongue.

… As long as we were alone together, in my place or hers.

“Discreet” simply didn’t cover it. When Allison and I were in the same departmental meeting or part of a team on a project, we acted as though we just barely knew each other’s names. We refrained from emailing each other at work. And meanwhile, we were both well past the point where our lives were thoroughly enjoyable with each other in them and unbearable without.

My weight climbed slowly and steadily, my visibly thickening waistline necessitating periodic wardrobe updates. My chin softened and a cushion slowly slunk out from beneath it to make a double. My cheeks were fuller, my arms thicker. My pecs formed a soft layer over the muscle from my workouts. The scale climbed steadily through the 220s, 230s, 250s, over the year or so since the cruise I had marched toward a hundred-pound gain.

Allison, who had informed me that when she’d started with our department she had carried 170 pounds on her five-seven frame, was into the 230s herself. Her face glowed with happiness, apple cheeks curving to that adorable second chin. The plump hammock of cleavage was enticingly visible most days, which made it hard for me to concentrate if I wasn’t careful where I looked. Her figure was magnificently lush, a goddess in a suit, tall, soft and womanly. I was increasingly afraid that I would spill the beans, not with my mouth, but elsewhere.

More to the point, I was distracting myself with the occasional dark notion that flitted through my head of life without Allison: bleak, lonely, and invariably overshadowed by the storm clouds of guilt that would, I knew, come roaring back. I would not, I could not let that happen. Ever again.

It was karma, it was beautiful, triumphant fate that on that Friday afternoon the first person we should encounter was Kevin.

We strolled into the break room, me with a rosebud in the lapel of my new gray suit that draped my two hundred and ninety-some pounds with ease and, I thought, some elegance; and Allison (two forty-some) in a cream-colored dress with lace insets on the sleeves and a handkerchief hem swirling around her magnificent calves.

Kevin’s eyes widened at the sight of us. We were holding hands and beaming.

“Kevin. Dude,” I said, chuckling gently. “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Stewart Braden.”

“We were married today at the courthouse,” Allison added.

Kevin imitated a goldfish for several moments before he regained his powers of speech.

“Well … well … c-c-congratulations,” he managed. He swallowed. “Hey. You two are made for each other.”

Possibly there was meant to be a mild gibe in Kevin’s comment. I didn’t care. Allison and I were made for each other, indeed.

 

[deepfriedgrits]