elroycohen
Steampunk Psycho
~BBW, ~BHM, Memoir, ~~WG - A memoir.
The Partial Life and Times of a South Texas FA
by Elroy Cohen
Part I: The Back Story
Growing Up
For as long as I can remember fat people and people getting fat has been an interest of mine. Even before I was physically attracted to women who ate whatever they wanted and wore the results proudly in the form of round, soft bellies and large, jiggling backsides, I always took notice of overweight people and people who ate with reckless abandon.
In fact I remember at age six following my friends mother around like a little puppy dog when I would play at his house; with hips that were wider than I was tall and legs that were bigger around than I was wide, I would stand mesmerized as she waddled around the house. The best times were out at his pool. I would hastily leave a session of pretend drowning He-Man figures if she rose from sunbathing to go back into the house. I would follow behind in hopes the billowy skirt of her one-piece suit would flip up so I could catch an unobstructed glimpse of her jostling cheeks and watch with glee as they would slap together when she would reach behind with a pudgy set of fingers to dig the suit bottom (which gave her a wedgie every third or fourth step) out from between the flabby behemoths.
She was usually headed to the refrigerator where, upon opening, the booming voice of her husband would call out from his spot in front of the television, Get out of the fridge, woman, youre supposed to be on a diet!
Just getting a snack for the kids, she would reply.
As a dish of cold cuts and cookies got assembled, about a third would never make it to the plate and instead took a detour past her plump lips. Then she would turn to me (she always knew I was there) and hold a fat finger in front of a sly smirk.
I know I was young and confused about what my fascination with my friends mother really was, but as I look back know I always consider her my first crush.
Perhaps because my fascination started so early that was the reason I became immune to the perceived shame or embarrassment that goes along with being a man who is not turned off by people who carry extra weight. Sure I got teased; when my friends would point out an obese man or woman and joke and laugh I would give a comment of admiration and for the next few minutes my friends would look at me like me like I was from another planet. It never really bothered me; even as I got older and the strange looks turned into nasty insults directed toward me, I would simply shrug it off.
It did not take a psychologist to know why - my mother. She was the biggest influence on me since my father abandoned her before I was old enough to remember. Do not misunderstand, it was not exactly like she was a hard-working single mother barely scraping by. No, not at all, actually, because of her well-off parents, who felt sorry for her being all alone with a child, she never had to work a day in her life. They never visited or offered any help other than monetary, mind you, but I am sure in their eyes they were doing a great service.
Although it was well into the 80s, during my young years my mom continued to act and dress like it was the late 60s. A hippie holdover if there ever was one, she was a philosophy-spouting, book-reading, bra-burning feminist to the extreme. Above all else she loved food. Not that it was a replacement for male companionship, mind you. With alarmingly model-like facial features that needed no makeup and naturally white-blonde hair along with a caramel-colored complexion from the south Texas sun, my mother had no problem getting dates despite her off-center attitude. Being a devout foodie took precedence over men by a long shot, however. She would cancel a date in an instant to stay at home and devour two bags of chocolate chip cookies if the mood struck her.
It is no exaggeration when I say finished entire bags. In fact, leftovers were nonexistent in our house. If a package of food got opened, be it a bag of candy, a box of cereal or a sleeve of lunchmeat, rest assured my mother would finish it.
As you can imagine, with her as my only role model I soon took on her eating disorder as my own, and by the time I was eight I was about as overweight as a young boy could be. With my spherical shape combined with my mothers ballooning hourglass figure, we were the butt of many a joke at my elementary school. Even the gym teacher took to nicknaming me butterball. It all fell on deaf ears, however, as I was living out something of a dream; becoming the type of person I had admired all my young life. I would fall asleep every night burrowing into my mothers jelly-belly, nuzzling my round cheeks underneath her large soft breasts while rubbing and squeezing my own tub-of-lard.
As a sharp contrast to my mother, however, who was an extremely sedentary person, I was very active for an obese child, and it was that active nature coupled with my size that led to an accident that changed my life and probably kept me from being a 500-pound adult.
The Accident and the Aftermath
I was climbing a tree out in some old field with some friends when a challenge arose about how far out on a limb each of us could go out before we got scared. I was first and to my credit I was not scared, all the way out to the point the branch broke under my weight and I crashed down on top of the rusty chainlink fence that was below. Then I was terrified. The jagged edges of the link punctured my intestine; as a result a small chunk of which had to be removed. It was not nearly as bad as it could have been, although the memory of how I thought I had been cut in half is one that will probably never leave.
Regardless, less than two years later I was again back to climbing trees, although I was doing so at about half the size I had been. The one lingering result of my injury was that my digestive system was much less tolerant of just about everything I ate. Not much was off limits entirely, but quantity had to be severely limited or else I became painfully incapacitated while my shortened and damaged digestive track attempted to take on the meal.
I was depressed for a while, for most of my coveted belly had been lost during the months in the hospital and my post-accident appetite did not appear to be able to replenish it. I took solace in my mothers growing belly while she comforted me during the nights I would wake up spitting blood or just feeling queasy. I think it was during that time my notice and true appreciation, and not just curiosity, for all things fat formed.
While my new diet and active lifestyle had me blossoming into a fairly athletic adolescent, my mother blossomed into something completely different. With me eating less she seemed to pick up the slack and ballooned to immense proportions. Her dating life had cooled off considerably as mom moved from a busty if chubby woman to a fat, but well portioned, one to an obscenely top heavy mass of sweaty blubber. She still got dates and these dates were my first introduction to men who, like me, found overweight women attractive. It was also a rather abrupt introduction to feeders, which is hard to explain, since being introduced to them as they stuff your mother until she cannot lift herself off the couch is a tad disconcerting. It did not bother me too much as Mom always seemed quite tickled by the fact she could turn men on by sitting on her ass and eating what they put in front of her.
Quite a variety of feeders as well as wannabes tried their hand at dating my mother during my childhood. Some were quite terrible; one was convinced he had the talents of a gourmet chef when in reality it was a miracle he could boil water. Some were rather odd; one local hog farmer always cooked meals that had a bland grainy texture to them. After a few weeks, mom finally figured out he was mixing the same formula of ingredients he used to fatten his hogs into the dishes he made for mom. And some were downright creepy; a long-haired, overly spiritual, tree-hugger type swore he had a way to mix ingredients that could control where women stored fat.
His goal was to fatten Moms slender-for-her-size face and balance out her top-heavy form by adding fat to her legs. Mom thought he was crazy but kept him around because she found him very attractive. Crazy he might very well have been, but it was hard to deny that after the fourteen-month relationship ended, Moms cheeks swelled to where she looked like her mouth was always stuffed full, three chins sagged down and hid her neck where before had been only one and her formerly stout but solid thighs now had sheets of watery blubber cascading down past her knees. Most likely a coincidence, but I was certainly glad to see that guy leave.
High School
While my mom was navigating the dating scene for a massively overweight single mother, I was in the midst of navigating my way through the rigors of high school. I was something of a quiet loner, although my knack for athletics, specifically basketball and baseball, had me being accepted by the cool kids if only on the fringe. I suppose my looks had something to with it as well. Not that I am being conceited, but with my mothers blonde hair and dark complexion I had something of a redneck-surfer thing going which certainly did not seem to be off-putting to the girls.
Regardless of my looks, my first two years of high school I was much more interested in sports than females, but my interest in porky classmates was stronger then ever. Unfortunately, south Texas is the wrong place to be if you are an FA, at least my little corner of it, anyway. I had to look pretty hard to find a bulging belly or a flabby backside to admire. Sure a few teachers, softened by years of sitting at a desk barking orders at kids, certainly qualified as overweight. The science teacher, Mr. Barnum, seemed about five feet wide and could not put his arms flat against his side to save his life. Mrs. Poole appeared to be 12 months pregnant throughout my high school career.
Maybe the first signs of my noticing the fairer sex in a horny teenager way was when I stopped looking forward to Mrs. Poole wearing the slacks that would always slide just low enough beneath her belly for me to catch a glimpse of her sallow flesh hanging over her belt and began eagerly anticipating her sundresses that were tight enough to see the outline of her bra that dug into her back fat and revealed an overabundance of cleavage. Come to think of it, maybe I was more of an oversexed kid then I thought, because for the life of me I cannot tell you what Mrs. Poole taught.
As far as students were concerned, it was slim pickings for an FA. Even if there had been a plethora of chubby teenagers roaming the halls, it would have been nothing more than eye candy for me. See, even after I began noticing girls as more than people who had to sit to pee, I did not have the ability to ask them out. It was simply that I was not the most assertive young man. That meant approaching girls just to talk to them, much less ask them out, was something that was far out of my capabilities. That also meant my dating life was relegated to the few women who were comfortable enough to do the asking out. Because of the group I hung around with, the ones that did were typically stick-thin cheerleaders that needed a last-minute date to a school function or big party at one of the cool kids house.
Do not get me wrong, I can appreciate all beauty and the girls that were actually interested in me as more than a body to accompany them someplace I was most certainly affectionate with, to the extent that I would take part in some making out and over-the-clothes groping, but seldom was I motivated to go beyond that. In fact, had it not been for a very overzealous girl at a rival school who all but abducted me into the girls locker room after I dropped 40 points on her school's basketball team, I most likely would have remained a virgin going into college.
More of Moms Love Life
College was made possible financially by my basketball playing ability. At 6-2 I was far from an opposing force next to the near seven-footers that often ran on the same court, but my perseverance and work ethic along with a sweet jumpshot was enough to warrant a full scholarship from a Podunk little division two school up in the Midwest. For that kind of money I was willing to accept residence in a place that seldom got above triple digits temperature wise and often got something called snow. It also meant I was not going to have to be indebted to my grandparents for tuition money.
More concerning to me than leaving the safety of sunshine and barbeque was leaving my mother. Not because her constant binging had left her immobile and unable to care for herself. No, in fact, it was quite the opposite; at 59, even though she had ballooned to somewhere just north of 300 pounds, she was quite capable of moving around, albeit at a slow waddle. No, the disconcerting thing about her current situation was her boyfriend.
Reggie was a slimy weasel if ever there was one. I dont think he ever told us his last name, nor did he ever pay for anything during the time he moved himself in with Mom and I. Middle aged, shriveled and hunched over, he had a very Gollum type look to him. While I could get past the look, I never really got past the way he treated Mom. It became harder to stomach the summer before I left for college, since I was home more often than during the school year. He was a feeder and had a tendency to take a very active role in the meals. It was not unusual for him to stand over her squeezing a bottle of chocolate syrup down her throat until she had to physically push him back so she could get air. His other quirks included name calling and a very annoying habit of roughly slapping various parts of my mothers anatomy when she was not expecting it.
She assured me it was all part of foreplay, which really did not make me feel any better about things. She did give it back to him, name calling him as often as he did and it was not unusual for her to wake him up from a nap on the couch by collapsing her colossal weight on top of him. So I endured their very public displays of affection, for a while anyway. I tried to get out of the house more and party it up with my friends since it was my last summer at home, but I felt guilty every night I left her alone with Reggie.
So as the summer went on, my party nights got fewer and farther between. The home stress added to my nervousness about college culminated in one early morning incident that woke me out of a deep sleep and pushed me over the edge.
It was a very odd-sounding whimper coming from my mothers room that awoke me out of a dead sleep, an almost crying sound that was very childlike. In my still half asleep daze I assumed it was Mom being manhandled in some way by Reggie and that was the last straw. I lumbered down the hall and threw open the door with the intention of beating some much needed sense into Reggie, but I learned immediately a very important lesson about bursting into a parents room without announcing yourself first. My mother was in no discomfort whatsoever. In a skimpy little negligee she was standing over a bent over Reggie with a paddle that looked like a gag gift from one of those adult shops you see off the side of the highway. I will spare you too many more details, other than to say Reggie was wearing a long black wig and appeared to be made up to resemble some nightmarish version of Demi Moore. Suffice it to say I realized then and there why Reggie put on such an aggressive act in front of me; he did not want to let on that behind closed doors he was my moms bitch.
I left for college with no worries at all about my mother. In a weird way, I was kind of hoping to myself her and Reggie would become a long term thing.
College
With my home life hundreds of miles away, I was free to experience a whole new world at college. I quickly developed something of a compulsion for perfection in school. For basketball I was certainly able to live up to that, but in academics I did not quite posses the brain power to easily reach my own high standards. This self-imposed stress, along with the long hours spent practicing and working out for basketball, pushed dating way down the list of priorities for me. I had not turned into any more of a ladies' man since leaving Texas, so once again I was relegated to admiring from afar or accepting offers for dates from outgoing ladies who asked me. Luckily, in the upper Midwest the ratio of chubby women to thin ones is a polar opposite to what it was down south, so even with my wallflower of a personality I managed to date a few girls who physically fit my ideal of attractive.
Even better was my introduction to the freshman fifteen. By the end of freshman year, coeds across campus had begun to develop small beer guts and stretch their form-fitting clothes to their very limits. I did not think it appropriate to bring attention to the increased size of the girls I knew or even the ones I dated, but when it came up in conversation I was not subtle about letting them know I found their now size 12 (or whatever) forms much more attractive then their former size 8 (or thereabouts) ones.
The girls usually played it off like I was just being overly complimentary and assured me they would lose the weight over the summer. Most did not and even more would be happy to meet me for lunches at Pizza Hut and spend weekends drinking until bar time and then heading over to Dennys for an early morning breakfast. But it did not really matter to me, because, as it was with a majority of college romances, most of my relationships were lucky to last a few months, much less through a semester.
When I did not have the benefit of a curvy young coed to keep my attention, I had an ongoing interesting development with my roommate, Seth. We never really connected as friends, in fact, the only talking done between us was complaining on his part. Apparently, he came from a very controlling family where his parents allowed him to do nothing without their approval. Of course to rebel against this as soon as he could, he chose a college halfway across the country from them and indulged in every off limit activity that was not allowed him back home. Some of these activities were somewhat hard to deal with. A virtual cornucopia of pornography almost always decorated the floor of our dorm room along with little wadded up pieces of tissue.
He did have one tendency that was quite intriguing to me as a person who appreciates gluttony and weight gain; Seth would gorge on every type of junk food and binge drink every kind of alcoholic beverage he could until he could consume no more. Every night he went out to the bars and every meal was from a fast food restaurant and was always supplemented with enough sugary snacks in between to fend off a town full of trick-or-treaters.
Im sure it will sound like exaggeration, but by the middle of sophomore year the dirty 32-inch waist jeans he left scattered around the room were gone and in their place were 40-inch ones. He went from a wiry little freshman to a beer-bellied blob in little more than a year and a half.
It was hard not to take advantage of the situation I was in. I felt almost guilty, not because I never revealed my fascination for all things fat to him yet I would admire his large distended belly with all its pink stretch marks when it would peek out from under his t-shirts or how I would marvel at his development of softball size man-boobs that would flop and bounce when he would collapse on his bed after a night of binge drinking. No, the guilt came from the family size packages of Oreos and bulk packages of Pop-Tarts I would buy knowing full well I would not get to eat any of them. The guilt, however, was overshadowed by the visceral thrill I got from seeing empty packages strewn about on the floor mere days, if not hours, after I brought them home.
I have no idea just how big Seth got by the time graduation came about. Somewhere between sophomore and junior year he gave up on pants and settled for XXL sweats. His rapid expansion seemed to go mostly to his belly, which jutted out further than he could reach with his flabby arms. The constant beer drinking also gave him a very bloated face that was all but unrecognizable as the picture on his student ID from freshman year. Excess alcohol also gave him a bulbous set of cone-shaped tits that were very unmasculine and not in the least bit feminine at the same time.
When I was not dating or admiring my glutton of a roommate, I was quite often exploring the various internet outlets for like-minded individuals who enjoyed discussing their obsession with the plus-sized and those who were on their way to becoming plus-sized. Most chat rooms were a little more sexually specific than I, even as a horny college student, preferred, but I did manage to find guys (and a few girls) like me who wished every woman would shop at Lane Bryant and eat without a care of how many calories were in a Whopper.
The group of us kept in touch throughout school, trading incidents from our lives, or about people that we admired, that pertained to our love of fat. None of us had that many real experiences, however, and eventually we degenerated into a game of trading elaborate stories of BBWs and weight gain fiction back and forth. The other guys all seemed to be very good at writing and wrote very beautiful erotic stories. Me, on the other hand, without any writing talent or too many erotic experiences to draw from, ended up being the comic relief. I rewrote blockbuster movies to fit our genre, including a version of Conan the Barbarian with a fat, doughy Conan. I retold the Scream trilogy with a 300-pound heroine. I know it probably sounds odd, but I think it was really good for me to be able to let loose from my near perfection in my schoolwork to write far from perfect nonsensical stories. It also managed to keep me out of the bars some nights.
It all worked out in the end; I graduated with a 3.8 grade point and had no problem finding work. In fact, I had only two weeks to go home and visit Mom before I had to start looking for a place even further up north, damn near closer to Canada than Mexico.
Back at Home
My hope of Mom and Reggie making it as a couple did not come to fruition. In fact, the falling out was kind of hard for my mom. At her peak of romantic bliss with Reggie, she had ballooned to a whopping size of well over 350 pounds. The heartbreak combined with some health issues caused her to sink back down closer to 300 pounds by the time I came home.
You would never know she was cutting back, to see her. When I walked in she was plowing through a peanut-butter delight, which was a loaf of bread cut length-ways into four thick pieces. Each one of those pieces was slathered with peanut-butter and sprinkled liberally with Oreo crumbles. The loaf was then slapped back together, pressed down to a thickness that could be bitten into and then toasted in the oven until the outside got crunchy and the inside melted into a sweet, gooey mess.
You had to know my mom in order to know that a meal like that was indeed cutting way back for her.
Mom was grumpy the whole two weeks. She complained constantly and seemed to be very bothered by the fact that most of the weight she lost seemed to come out of her enormous breasts. Not exactly the kind of discussion a son wants to engage in with his mother, but I did have to admit her rack, which used to look like two lumpy laundry bags overstuffed with wet clothes, now resembled empty garbage bags.
It was another thing you would have to know about Mom to know that complaining was her way of saying everything is fine. So, with a kiss and a restatement of the reassuring comment I had made hundreds of time that visit that her rack was still traffic stopping, I headed off to report for my first day of work.
