~BBW, Eating, Adventure, ~SWG - A smart grad student not really interested in working decides to volunteer
So what do you do with a bachelor's degree in English if you don't want to teach?
I was pretty sure I had no clue. It was a Sunday morning, not long after my college graduation, and I was sitting in the kitchen, wearing only my sleep shirt, browsing through the Times classifieds and realizing how unqualified I was for just about any job that I cared about out there.
I took another bite of my bagel, piled high with cream cheese, cheddar, swiss and muenster -- just the way I liked it. I knew that Vivian, my mom would have some comment to make about my decidedly non-health-conscious tastes in foods, especially since I'd put on about eight pounds since I'd been home for Easter break -- on top of the seventeen pounds I'd gained since last
summer.
It's hard not to put on weight, I thought, when you're unemployable and broke and stressed-out, reduced to spending hours upon hours either studying or just channel-surfing and tortilla chip grazing.
Not that I really minded putting on the weight -- I found myself flaunting the extra poundage because that seemed to give it a sort of decadent cachet in my mind as well as an erotic thrill elsewhere. I'm not sure how it started, but one day I woke up and discovered that squeezing myself into an extra-tight pair of hip-huggers and a short white t-shirt made me very horny. And alking around campus in that outfit, wondering if anyone could tell that there was a pierced belly-button hiding behind the roll of blubber that bulged over the waistband practically sent me into spasms of excitement.
I finished the last bite of bagel, satisfied that I could feel the gentle pressure of my full belly against the waistband of my panties. My hand found its way up under the thin t-shirt I was wearing, and softly pinched the round bulge of blubber that rose over the elastic. I wasn't really fat -- borderline plump, I'd call it -- but no one ever made the mistake of calling me thin, either; I was that middle ground -- healthy, solid, womanly -- 5'6", 148 pounds, with long reddish-brown hair, green eyes and lips that I thought were my best facial feature -- formed in a permanent, smiling pout.
I'd just cleaned up the inevitable bagel crumbs and put my plate in the dishwasher when the door from the garage opened and my mom came slamming in.
"I can't believe it!" she was saying. "I just can't believe it! Two weeks to go and NOW he decides to quit!"
She pulled up a chair, plopped down on it backwards and rested her chin on the table. "I should have known. Men have never been anything but trouble for me. Starting with your father..."
"What's up?" I asked. "Who quit?"
"Raymond. That stupid little 28-year old BOY who was supposed to go with me to Romania. It's his master's project and I graciously accepted his request to take him on, even though I'm not on his committee, because I'm the only one doing Europe this summer. And what does he do? He meets some stupid little sophomore bimbo and decides he'll stay here and work in a fricking car wash or something because he can't stand to keep his dick out of her! And now, I'm sunk. The grant barely gave me enough money to cover the trip and the supplies and food -- definitely not enough to pay an assistant!"
"Something will work out, Mom," I said. "He'll change his mind or something. You've still got some time to convince him."
"What makes you think I WANT to convince him? The thought of taking him with me BEFORE all this happened was only slightly more appealing than eating my own excrement, but NOW? Forget it. I'll just let Voortman go in to MY tribe next fall and take all the credit for MY work and your father's work and I'll just stay home and get ridiculed by all the good for nothinng MEN in this profession who'll tell each other behind my back that a woman isn't really cut out for this work. Excepting Saint Margaret Mead, of course!"
I knew it was coming -- it always followed something bad happening to Mom -- and sure enough: "And what is going on with you? Didyou find a job yet? Or am I going to have to watch you sit around this goddamn house all summer on your lazy ass getting as fat as a horse? Are you looking at the retail things? Did you call the school like I told you? Of course you didn't. You'd have to let go of the remote control for a second or get your head out of the bag of chips."
Mom took a breath and I stood still, trying to avoid any extra attention. I knew the offensive would end in a minute if I could just keep quiet...
Of course, that's exactly when my stomach let out a loud and unexpected rumble. My mother looked up and said, "Was that my stomach or yours?"
"Ummm... I'm not sure," I said.
"Must've been mine," Vivian replied. "This whole thing's got me so upset, I didn't even eat breakfast this morning. It's going to get my whole metabolism out of whack. Look, I'm sorry about... y'know. Why don't you put up a couple of bagels and we'll sit down and talk like girls or roommates or friends -- anything but mother and daughter, okay?"
For a second, I thought about telling my mother that I'd already eaten, but my stomach rumbled again and I realized that the stress level must've done something to my appetite, since I really WAS hungry again.
When the food was ready and the coffee was poured, I sat down and said, "Look, Mom: I don't want to be sitting around here all summer either. I know I have to get a job, but -- what? Burger World? the mall? a secretary? I mean, is that what I went to college for?"
"What DID you go to college for?" Vivan asked. "What did you think you were going to do with an English degree? Do you want to go to grad school? IF you did, well -- teaching isn't so bad. Look at me: three days a week for eight months of the year, every possible holiday off, summers free, and all you have to do is some startlingly ground-breaking and impossibly original research in your free time. And speaking of which, I've got to go see what I can do to salvage this thing, so if anyone calls just take a message 'cause I'm going to lock myself in my office and see what I can finagle with the budget I've got..."
I watched my mother walk out of the room and thought, Why couldn't I be like her? Smart, determined, resourceful, fearless. She beats me in every possible category. I got up and began clearing the breakfast dishes
again and caught a glimpse of my shadow.
The bright morning light coming through the big kitchen windows created a silhouette of my nearly naked
body on the dark glass door of the refrigerator. The shape of my full breasts were clearly outlined as well as the rounded protrusion of my pudgy tummy and the gentle swell of my soft ass and thick thighs.
I pictured my mom's body -- thin and boyish with practically non-existent breasts and legs like sticks -- and I thought, Well, anyone could say she beats me in every category but one -- even though I'm getting fat, I've still got a MUCH better body!
It was six o'clock before I got up the nerve to knock on the door of my mother's office. I'd passed the day productively, writing cover letters to jobs I knew I'd never get, and looking over the graduate school bulletins I'd collected over the past several months. But now I wanted to find out what we'd be doing for dinner. Vivian opened the door and I could tell immediately she'd been crying.
"It's just not going to work," she said. "A whole year of planning blown to bits because of a testosterone overdose."
"You don't have any options?" I asked. "Oh sure, I do: I could find some rich benefactor who'd gladly give me an extra ten thousand dollars so I could properly compensate a paid employee, or I could find some independently wealthy soul who wants nothing better than to spend the entire summer in the middle of Romania with a tribe of mountain-folk who've somehow managed to avoid anything but cursory contact with Western civilization for the past several hundred years. Of course I have options!"
It hit me suddenly and I said, "Well, what about me?"
"What about you? You're always worrying about yourself. You've got plenty of options. There's jobs all over if you'd just look. And if it's grad school -- don't worry, Bill Preston would love to have you in his program."
"That's not what I mean," I said. "What about taking me along to Romania? You don't have to pay me or anything -- all you have to do is feed me!"
"Look, Joellen, it's sweet of you and all, but -- you're not really qualified. I need someone who knows what's going on and proper methods of observation..."
"Oh, come on, Mom! I'd been on more field work by the time I was ten years old than this Raymond jerk has been on in his whole life. And as far as observation goes -- do you think I've had my brains turned off for my whole life? Do you really think I could've sat at dinner tables and in mess tents every summer with you and Daddy and whatever crew you were with and not have absorbed more actual anthropology training than any graduate student?
"And, besides all that, you know as well as I do that the amount of observation and fieldwork that your assistant is going to be responsible for is practically nil. You know perfectly well that Raymond's responsibilities would mostly involve carrying things and cooking and cleaning and re-copying your notes. I think I'm certainly capable of that!"
She just looked at me for a couple of minutes, shaking her head slowly, until I said, "Mom, you don't really have too many options. Dad lost his life for this research; you don't want to lose this chance and your career, too."
"Okay," she said, finally, "but it's not going to be like when you were a kid: no sulking in the tent and reading or hiding or whatever else you used to do with your time. And no mistaking who's the boss. We're stuck out there -- really isolated -- for a purpose and I've got to be able to depend on you."
"You can, Mom!" I replied, actually feeling enthusiastic for a change.
She stood up and looked hard at me for a second, then gave me a big hug, saying, "You saved my ass, you know."
"Well, it's not hard to save a scrawny little ass like yours! I won't let it got to my head though!"
"Forget about not letting it go to your head: don't let any more of it go to YOUR ass. I can only afford one airplane seat for your butt!"
"Don't worry, Mom -- I'll do anything to avoid having to look for a job!"
We went out to dinner to celebrate our decision, agreeing on Mexican after only a couple of minutes of discussion. Mom did her usual, ordering appetizer and soup and salad and finding herself totally stuffed before the entree hit the table. We had a couple of pitchers of margaritas, getting totally wasted and talking non-stop about what we'd need to do to close up the house for three months and what kind of clothes we'd need and what language-training options there were for me and how her colleagues would react when they heard that she was taking me with her.
I ate my entree, but I still was pretty hungry -- starving, actually, since I'd eaten nothing except for my two breakfasts -- so I started picking at my mother's untouched burrito platter. Before I knew it, I'd finished everything on her plate, too, including the rice and the beans and the little dollop of sour cream, as well as all the tortilla chips in the second basket I'd asked the waitress to bring.
Mom was too drunk to notice my gluttony and was probably unable to focus well enough to see that not only had I unbuttoned my too-tight jeans, but I'd been forced to unzip them most of the way as well. I poured her into her bed and then I went into my room and stripped off my jeans with great relief. I lifted my shirt and put my hands on my belly, surprised at how hard and round it was. There was a full-length mirror on the inside of my closet door and I found myself in front of it, shaking my belly and doing a Ho-ho-ho, kind of thing.
What a little pig you are, I thought, pulling at my blubbery belly to expose my navel ring, then turning sideways and puffing my stomach out as far as it would go.
Rub the Buddha's belly, I thought, my hand roaming over the taut skin. My other hand began a little trick I'd taught myself after one of my old boyfriends had shown me one of his porn magazines: I grabbed my left tit and tweaked the nipple until it was rock hard, then lifted it up to where my mouth was straining downwards. I gave myself a great little chill as my tongue touched the nipple and my warm and wet lips made contact with the tender areolae.
The hand rubbing my stomach, meanwhile had begun migrating lower and lower, tangling itself in my pubic hair, then finding its way to the wet warmth of my waiting pussy. I ran my finger gently around the lips, dipping inside every once in a while into the velvety softness, then popping back out for a gentle tickle of my stiff clitoris. My mouth gave my other tit equal time and after what seemed like hours of teetering on the edge of release,
I stepped forward and flattened my fat belly against the cold glass of the mirror. The temperature shock was enough to push me over the edge, and my face was soon pressed against the glass as I slid down towards the floor, shuddering and shivering and gasping for breath. When I was able to stand again, I maneuvered myself to the bed and fell asleep, hugging my gorged belly.
This was going to be a full and erotic summer.
The Secret of T rgu Gordes
-- an unfinished story by Melanie Bell
[a fragment from 1996 of the great and deeply missed Melanie Bell. See her other works at http://www.dimensionsmagazine.com/dimtext/stories/melanie/]
-- an unfinished story by Melanie Bell
[a fragment from 1996 of the great and deeply missed Melanie Bell. See her other works at http://www.dimensionsmagazine.com/dimtext/stories/melanie/]
So what do you do with a bachelor's degree in English if you don't want to teach?
I was pretty sure I had no clue. It was a Sunday morning, not long after my college graduation, and I was sitting in the kitchen, wearing only my sleep shirt, browsing through the Times classifieds and realizing how unqualified I was for just about any job that I cared about out there.
I took another bite of my bagel, piled high with cream cheese, cheddar, swiss and muenster -- just the way I liked it. I knew that Vivian, my mom would have some comment to make about my decidedly non-health-conscious tastes in foods, especially since I'd put on about eight pounds since I'd been home for Easter break -- on top of the seventeen pounds I'd gained since last
summer.
It's hard not to put on weight, I thought, when you're unemployable and broke and stressed-out, reduced to spending hours upon hours either studying or just channel-surfing and tortilla chip grazing.
Not that I really minded putting on the weight -- I found myself flaunting the extra poundage because that seemed to give it a sort of decadent cachet in my mind as well as an erotic thrill elsewhere. I'm not sure how it started, but one day I woke up and discovered that squeezing myself into an extra-tight pair of hip-huggers and a short white t-shirt made me very horny. And alking around campus in that outfit, wondering if anyone could tell that there was a pierced belly-button hiding behind the roll of blubber that bulged over the waistband practically sent me into spasms of excitement.
I finished the last bite of bagel, satisfied that I could feel the gentle pressure of my full belly against the waistband of my panties. My hand found its way up under the thin t-shirt I was wearing, and softly pinched the round bulge of blubber that rose over the elastic. I wasn't really fat -- borderline plump, I'd call it -- but no one ever made the mistake of calling me thin, either; I was that middle ground -- healthy, solid, womanly -- 5'6", 148 pounds, with long reddish-brown hair, green eyes and lips that I thought were my best facial feature -- formed in a permanent, smiling pout.
I'd just cleaned up the inevitable bagel crumbs and put my plate in the dishwasher when the door from the garage opened and my mom came slamming in.
"I can't believe it!" she was saying. "I just can't believe it! Two weeks to go and NOW he decides to quit!"
She pulled up a chair, plopped down on it backwards and rested her chin on the table. "I should have known. Men have never been anything but trouble for me. Starting with your father..."
"What's up?" I asked. "Who quit?"
"Raymond. That stupid little 28-year old BOY who was supposed to go with me to Romania. It's his master's project and I graciously accepted his request to take him on, even though I'm not on his committee, because I'm the only one doing Europe this summer. And what does he do? He meets some stupid little sophomore bimbo and decides he'll stay here and work in a fricking car wash or something because he can't stand to keep his dick out of her! And now, I'm sunk. The grant barely gave me enough money to cover the trip and the supplies and food -- definitely not enough to pay an assistant!"
"Something will work out, Mom," I said. "He'll change his mind or something. You've still got some time to convince him."
"What makes you think I WANT to convince him? The thought of taking him with me BEFORE all this happened was only slightly more appealing than eating my own excrement, but NOW? Forget it. I'll just let Voortman go in to MY tribe next fall and take all the credit for MY work and your father's work and I'll just stay home and get ridiculed by all the good for nothinng MEN in this profession who'll tell each other behind my back that a woman isn't really cut out for this work. Excepting Saint Margaret Mead, of course!"
I knew it was coming -- it always followed something bad happening to Mom -- and sure enough: "And what is going on with you? Didyou find a job yet? Or am I going to have to watch you sit around this goddamn house all summer on your lazy ass getting as fat as a horse? Are you looking at the retail things? Did you call the school like I told you? Of course you didn't. You'd have to let go of the remote control for a second or get your head out of the bag of chips."
Mom took a breath and I stood still, trying to avoid any extra attention. I knew the offensive would end in a minute if I could just keep quiet...
Of course, that's exactly when my stomach let out a loud and unexpected rumble. My mother looked up and said, "Was that my stomach or yours?"
"Ummm... I'm not sure," I said.
"Must've been mine," Vivian replied. "This whole thing's got me so upset, I didn't even eat breakfast this morning. It's going to get my whole metabolism out of whack. Look, I'm sorry about... y'know. Why don't you put up a couple of bagels and we'll sit down and talk like girls or roommates or friends -- anything but mother and daughter, okay?"
For a second, I thought about telling my mother that I'd already eaten, but my stomach rumbled again and I realized that the stress level must've done something to my appetite, since I really WAS hungry again.
When the food was ready and the coffee was poured, I sat down and said, "Look, Mom: I don't want to be sitting around here all summer either. I know I have to get a job, but -- what? Burger World? the mall? a secretary? I mean, is that what I went to college for?"
"What DID you go to college for?" Vivan asked. "What did you think you were going to do with an English degree? Do you want to go to grad school? IF you did, well -- teaching isn't so bad. Look at me: three days a week for eight months of the year, every possible holiday off, summers free, and all you have to do is some startlingly ground-breaking and impossibly original research in your free time. And speaking of which, I've got to go see what I can do to salvage this thing, so if anyone calls just take a message 'cause I'm going to lock myself in my office and see what I can finagle with the budget I've got..."
I watched my mother walk out of the room and thought, Why couldn't I be like her? Smart, determined, resourceful, fearless. She beats me in every possible category. I got up and began clearing the breakfast dishes
again and caught a glimpse of my shadow.
The bright morning light coming through the big kitchen windows created a silhouette of my nearly naked
body on the dark glass door of the refrigerator. The shape of my full breasts were clearly outlined as well as the rounded protrusion of my pudgy tummy and the gentle swell of my soft ass and thick thighs.
I pictured my mom's body -- thin and boyish with practically non-existent breasts and legs like sticks -- and I thought, Well, anyone could say she beats me in every category but one -- even though I'm getting fat, I've still got a MUCH better body!
It was six o'clock before I got up the nerve to knock on the door of my mother's office. I'd passed the day productively, writing cover letters to jobs I knew I'd never get, and looking over the graduate school bulletins I'd collected over the past several months. But now I wanted to find out what we'd be doing for dinner. Vivian opened the door and I could tell immediately she'd been crying.
"It's just not going to work," she said. "A whole year of planning blown to bits because of a testosterone overdose."
"You don't have any options?" I asked. "Oh sure, I do: I could find some rich benefactor who'd gladly give me an extra ten thousand dollars so I could properly compensate a paid employee, or I could find some independently wealthy soul who wants nothing better than to spend the entire summer in the middle of Romania with a tribe of mountain-folk who've somehow managed to avoid anything but cursory contact with Western civilization for the past several hundred years. Of course I have options!"
It hit me suddenly and I said, "Well, what about me?"
"What about you? You're always worrying about yourself. You've got plenty of options. There's jobs all over if you'd just look. And if it's grad school -- don't worry, Bill Preston would love to have you in his program."
"That's not what I mean," I said. "What about taking me along to Romania? You don't have to pay me or anything -- all you have to do is feed me!"
"Look, Joellen, it's sweet of you and all, but -- you're not really qualified. I need someone who knows what's going on and proper methods of observation..."
"Oh, come on, Mom! I'd been on more field work by the time I was ten years old than this Raymond jerk has been on in his whole life. And as far as observation goes -- do you think I've had my brains turned off for my whole life? Do you really think I could've sat at dinner tables and in mess tents every summer with you and Daddy and whatever crew you were with and not have absorbed more actual anthropology training than any graduate student?
"And, besides all that, you know as well as I do that the amount of observation and fieldwork that your assistant is going to be responsible for is practically nil. You know perfectly well that Raymond's responsibilities would mostly involve carrying things and cooking and cleaning and re-copying your notes. I think I'm certainly capable of that!"
She just looked at me for a couple of minutes, shaking her head slowly, until I said, "Mom, you don't really have too many options. Dad lost his life for this research; you don't want to lose this chance and your career, too."
"Okay," she said, finally, "but it's not going to be like when you were a kid: no sulking in the tent and reading or hiding or whatever else you used to do with your time. And no mistaking who's the boss. We're stuck out there -- really isolated -- for a purpose and I've got to be able to depend on you."
"You can, Mom!" I replied, actually feeling enthusiastic for a change.
She stood up and looked hard at me for a second, then gave me a big hug, saying, "You saved my ass, you know."
"Well, it's not hard to save a scrawny little ass like yours! I won't let it got to my head though!"
"Forget about not letting it go to your head: don't let any more of it go to YOUR ass. I can only afford one airplane seat for your butt!"
"Don't worry, Mom -- I'll do anything to avoid having to look for a job!"
We went out to dinner to celebrate our decision, agreeing on Mexican after only a couple of minutes of discussion. Mom did her usual, ordering appetizer and soup and salad and finding herself totally stuffed before the entree hit the table. We had a couple of pitchers of margaritas, getting totally wasted and talking non-stop about what we'd need to do to close up the house for three months and what kind of clothes we'd need and what language-training options there were for me and how her colleagues would react when they heard that she was taking me with her.
I ate my entree, but I still was pretty hungry -- starving, actually, since I'd eaten nothing except for my two breakfasts -- so I started picking at my mother's untouched burrito platter. Before I knew it, I'd finished everything on her plate, too, including the rice and the beans and the little dollop of sour cream, as well as all the tortilla chips in the second basket I'd asked the waitress to bring.
Mom was too drunk to notice my gluttony and was probably unable to focus well enough to see that not only had I unbuttoned my too-tight jeans, but I'd been forced to unzip them most of the way as well. I poured her into her bed and then I went into my room and stripped off my jeans with great relief. I lifted my shirt and put my hands on my belly, surprised at how hard and round it was. There was a full-length mirror on the inside of my closet door and I found myself in front of it, shaking my belly and doing a Ho-ho-ho, kind of thing.
What a little pig you are, I thought, pulling at my blubbery belly to expose my navel ring, then turning sideways and puffing my stomach out as far as it would go.
Rub the Buddha's belly, I thought, my hand roaming over the taut skin. My other hand began a little trick I'd taught myself after one of my old boyfriends had shown me one of his porn magazines: I grabbed my left tit and tweaked the nipple until it was rock hard, then lifted it up to where my mouth was straining downwards. I gave myself a great little chill as my tongue touched the nipple and my warm and wet lips made contact with the tender areolae.
The hand rubbing my stomach, meanwhile had begun migrating lower and lower, tangling itself in my pubic hair, then finding its way to the wet warmth of my waiting pussy. I ran my finger gently around the lips, dipping inside every once in a while into the velvety softness, then popping back out for a gentle tickle of my stiff clitoris. My mouth gave my other tit equal time and after what seemed like hours of teetering on the edge of release,
I stepped forward and flattened my fat belly against the cold glass of the mirror. The temperature shock was enough to push me over the edge, and my face was soon pressed against the glass as I slid down towards the floor, shuddering and shivering and gasping for breath. When I was able to stand again, I maneuvered myself to the bed and fell asleep, hugging my gorged belly.
This was going to be a full and erotic summer.
