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BBW The Weight of Generations (~BBW, SSBBW, ~XWG, Gluttony, Stuffing)

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Benny Mon

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~BBW, SSBBW, ~XWG, Gluttony Stuffing - on the changing meaning of being superfat in America

The Weight of Generations

by Benny Mon

Part 1 of 3

Two minutes passed before Elena managed to roll over and slap a hand on her snooze button. Her body bumped into something sharp along the way and she had to squirm and twist herself into a position that revealed it as a mostly empty pizza box, lying open in the middle of her bed. Two slices (pepperoni) still sat in their original places, and the smell of greasy, lukewarm cheese turned her stomach a little. She looked over at the alarm clock: 6:34. She’d only gotten five hours of sleep because, finding herself insomniac and ravenous at 11:00, she’d ordered a second dinner of dominos and stayed up watching old sitcoms.

Elena painstakingly pushed herself up on the side of her bed, her huge belly fighting her every step of the way. She just sat there for a minute, naked, fat, and miserable, contemplating the painful inevitability of beginning her day. She felt the weight of her belly on her legs (also fat, but nowhere near the same league as her midsection), looked down at the flabby breasts that hung off either side of her upper belly. She rubbed her soft, sore shoulders and let her hands stray hesitantly to her generous double chin, and then sighed as she tied her long, brown hair into a loose bun, slid onto the floor, and padded into the bathroom.

While Elena brushed her teeth, a gleaming silver scale stared at her from the corner of her eye. It was as good as new, never once used, but the truth was she had owned it for over a year. It had replaced her old, mechanical scale, a hand-me-down from her parents whose 250-pound weight limit she had exceeded long ago. Elena looked back at the blobbish body reflected in the mirror and wondered just when she had lost control of herself. She had always been fat, of course, was born fat, and she had resigned herself to the fact that she would never be a size zero. But through her teenage years and her early twenties, she’d managed to keep her weight in the low two hundreds. It wasn’t until she’d graduated from college and started her job--and not even then, not right away--that she’d lost control. She slowly stopped exercising and began to indulge her worst impulses, and her weight gain picked up speed. For a while she kept weighing herself, telling herself that if she cared enough to do that she would eventually go on a diet and rein herself in. But that delusion was already two holiday seasons old. By the time she’d had to replace the old scale, she was already too far gone (and too scared) to weigh herself again. Who knows how fat she had become.

Elena spit into the sink and dropped her toothbrush in its cup, and her two bellies wobbled as she fled the scale back into her bedroom. Now that she was up and moving, the pizza was starting to smell good again. Maybe a bite or two wouldn’t hurt, and she couldn’t leave it on the bed all day anyway...

* * *

Twenty minutes later Elena waddled out to her car, dressed in gray slacks, a teal top that barely met the pants, a brown belt that did roughly nothing to accentuate her nonexistent waist, and a cream cardigan. She popped the last pizza crust in her mouth and wiped greasy crumbs from her fingers before unlocking the car and tossing her purse in the back seat.

Now came the hard part: fitting in the front seat. The steering wheel was already cocked up as far as it would go, the seat pushed as far back as possible, but it would still be a tight fit. This car had gotten too small for her about six months ago, and she knew she needed a new one, but she just didn’t have the money right now. She stood for a moment with a hand on the car roof, took a breath, and then stooped down to get into the seat. She felt the steering wheel dig into her bellies, found no wiggle room between her flabby back and the seat back, and it took four vigorous, awkward squirms to get her body wedged securely in place. Elena paused, panting. She pulled down the sun visor and flipped open the mirror to check her makeup, but she was taken aback by the sweaty, corpulent face and shoulders that stared back at her. She didn’t normally look this fat, did she? She dabbed at her round cheeks with a tissue and cleaned up a stray smear of lipstick with her thumb, and she pulled out of the driveway.

Elena was cursed to have three junk food breakfast joints on her short drive to work, and today she couldn’t resist: after all the effort of getting into the driver’s seat, she was feeling a little peckish. She pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru and placed her order.

“Two boston cream donuts please.”

“Will that be all?”

“No….” She stared at the menu. “I’ll also have a large caramel swirl frozen coffee. With cream.”

“Is that a--”

“And four more donuts. Boston cream.”

By the time she pulled out of the drive-thru and back onto the road, she was stuffing the last bite of her first donut into her mouth and reaching for the second. She wouldn’t be able to finish all six donuts right now, but she could leave three or four in the car for the drive home. Better to get more donuts now than face the temptation to stop again on the way home, right?
 

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