May 1 -- This is the time of year when most people approach the bathroom scale with some fear and trepidation. They start breaking out their swimsuits and thinking about their dreaded winter weight gains. And they start dieting and exercising and torturing themselves.
Not me, though. Not this year, and maybe not ever again. Not that I am not a little scared of the scales right now; I am sure the scales will show what I secretly both desire and fear – that I am officially fat. It is not something I originally planned be or even wanted to be. But once I started gaining weight, well, it just seemed destiny.
This year, I am starting to get into gaining weight, into getting plumper; I'm getting turned on by adding some adipose around my midsection and just plain pigging out. In fact, all this really is confusing me a little. For two years, I had been denying that I had been getting fat, but there is no denying it now. There is flab hanging over the waist of my pants, and I can feel it, and I can see it. Whether I can believe it or not, it is there, and it has decided that it wants to grow and grow, to make me pleasingly plump, fat even.
161 pounds. That's what the scale said just two weeks ago on April 17. That may not sound like much to you. But on a 5'8" man, well, it's enough to pop the button on a 30-inch waistband, so to speak. And on someone who was 155 pounds just four months ago, it is getting hard to deny that I am growing some pretty serious fat here around my waistline.
With two more years to go until age 30, I knew someday my metabolism would slow down and so it has. I just never imagined I would be so fascinated with gaining weight. Two years ago, I weighed 135, the same weight I had been since my sophomore year of high school.
And since my April 17 weigh-in, these last two weeks, I have pigged out, eating everything in sight, obsessing about food, gaining weight, getting fat and fatter. I checked out the BMI calculator and found out that at 161 pounds, I was still 4 pounds shy of the "overweight" category and the "obese" label seems way down the line for me. That seemed horribly unfair, to not even be classified fat since I had grown an obvious potbelly. I decided to do something about it. I decided to put on at least 4 more pounds.
Have I consciously decided to gain weight? Well, some part of me apparently has. Maybe my consciousness is having a hard time with this decision, but my appetite has decided that getting fatter is a great idea, that gluttony should prevail over careful planning. And my belly has decided that growing a fresh crop of fat cells and covering my midriff with them is the right thing to do at this point in my life.
Whether I consciously accept this, whether my mind is really okay with fattening up or not, the rest of my body has apparently decided for me – I'm going to get fat. And once there, I'm going to get fatter. Middle-age spread, here I come, ready or not. Or maybe here comes middle-age spread, whether I'm ready or not. Who knows?
I have tried to relish gaining these last four pounds as a "thin" person. Actually, I feel far from thin. Sure, I was thin two years ago, maybe even a year ago, but I have really been putting on the weight quickly especially these last few months. Donuts, pizza, macaroni and cheese, brownies, peanut butter, cheesecake, chicken parmasagne, ice cream, lasagna, spaghetti, and yet more cheese – if it has calories, carbs and fat, it has found its way into my growing, gluttonous gut.
All this and more has deposited itself onto my midsection as layer upon layer of adipose have gathered there over the weeks. I can really tell that I am getting a potbelly, a belly shaped about the size and depth of an upside-down salad bowl – like the bowls in the kitchen I still occasionally use for salad – quite often pasta salad. I now eat mostly ice cream or macaroni and cheese out of those salad bowls.
I think one confusing problem I've had is that I have always appreciated fleshy females, and to enjoy my changing body this way, seems pretty weird – narcissistic even. What I may really enjoying is that this may be turning on others, especially Annie. I have recently confessed my confused thoughts in online weight-gain discussion groups, and others (women and men) seem turned on by my fattening. Yesterday, some posters wrote me to "Keep those donuts coming!" and "No one likes point bones in bed!" and "Get as fat as you want!"
These messages set off a kind of a feeding frenzy; by the end of the day, I felt so stuffed that I could barely move. Yet, once in bed, move, I did – nearly all night long. I moved smoothly and tirelessly into the early morning hours. Annie and I made love marathon-style as I thought about my pointy bones being padded with adipose. What a sacrifice I am making for her, I thought, smiling.
I have no idea why pleasing others by gaining weight is turning me on so. I have always been a thoughtful lover and would never feel satisfied if my lover didn't feel satisfied also. So maybe that's part of all this. The fact that others are turned on by my growing belly is also making me pretty hot. This all seems quite curious and at the same time quite wonderful.
After making love last night, I fall asleep, still as anxious as a kid on the night before Christmas, all nervous, excited, apprehensive. I am wondering what the morning will bring; will I get to "officially fat" status or not?
And then, just before dawn, I have the strangest dream. I am sitting in the kitchen on a strange legless round cushiony seat suspended above the floor. It is attached by ropes to a hanging scale, something like a scale you would use to weigh fish at a boatdock. I am dressed only in my stretched-out underwear briefs, with 30-inch waistband stretched across my bulging 32-inch-plus gut.
Annie is in the dream. She is feeding me lasagna straight out of a 20-inch pan sitting atop the stove. She is dressed in too-tight size 9 panties and a very tight t-shirt which rolls up on top of her bulging belly, exposing all that beautiful fat encircling her deepening navel. Her love handles look positively luscious hanging over and rolling down the sides of her panties. She is laughing, obviously enjoying stuffing me full. Occasionally, she looks at the number on the scale and smiles proudly as if she were creating a work of art instead of simply fattening up my belly.
"Hmmm, that's a good boy," she purrs occasionally as I slowly enjoy the taste of the lasagna.
The scale creaks and bounces with every bite I take, and the numbers creep up, 161, 162, 163. Annie sets the lasagna aside and rubs my belly softly and slowly.
"Ooooh, I just love how round you're getting!" she shrieks with delight. She grabs the flab below my navel and shakes it, setting off a series of jello-like jiggles. Then, while she watches my jiggling gut, she takes a few forkfuls of the lasagna and eats them herself while looking at my quivering belly. She seems mesmerized, and she closes her eyes as if savoring every bite.
Suddenly, she opens her eyes, laughs wickedly, pats her own bulging belly and starts feeding me the lasagna again. The scale continues to climb, 170, 182, 184 . . . The fattening continues unabated with Annie's enjoyment and my insatiable hunger. And my body is laying on fat pretty fast. This is a dream, after all. My underwear stretch until the fabric grows thin and looks like it might rip. But that cloth is the only thing growing thin.
Fat around my middle begins to hang over the rolled-down stretched-out waistband. Even my arms and legs fatten, and my breasts start to get flabby. Then, I finally feel full, but Annie won't take no for an answer. She continues to ply me with fork after fork of lasagna. Then, she seductively says, "I know what you like."
And poof! The fork has become a spoon, and it is loaded with cheesecake. Two cheesecakes sit on the table beside Annie. I give in and eat.
And eat and eat. 189 . . . 193 . . . Finally, I feel I can eat no more.
"Come on, babe," Annie moans seductively. "It's creamy and smooth and delicious, just like you."
She reaches out and lovingly pinches my love handle. She then takes a bite of cheesecake herself, and she closes her eyes in a moment of ecstasy. She seems almost in a trance. I see now that she has also gotten plumper, and her chubby belly sticks out even more sexily as she opens her eyes and smiles wickedly at me.
I shake my head and keep my mouth shut. I feel stuffed to the gills. Strangely, my belly doesn't hurt, but I feel so fat that I don't know if I can move.
"Now, sweety, you know you've got to eat," my temptress says. "We don't want you wasting away! Get as fat as you want! Nobody likes bony bodies in bed!" And then she laughs again and takes a few more bites of the cheesecake.
She looks so great that I can't resist. I open my mouth gladly now, and she shovels in most of the remaining cheesecake almost faster than I can taste and appreciate it. The scale bounces and creaks 196 . . . 197 . . . As it approaches 200, the ropes moan and strain, then begin to unravel. 198 . . . 199. . .
"Yeah, baby, almost there," Annie whispers.
And then – Crash!! The rope breaks, and I fall to the floor, a fat blob. With the cushiony seat and my own built-in cushiony rear, I don't get hurt.
Annie leans over and asks, "Do you want some more?"
Then, she gets on top of me, straddling my fat waist with her long thick thighs. Her belly rubs up against my belly. She feeds me the last bite. Then, she reaches down between us and rubs my belly as I nearly explode in ecstasy.
I awaken in a sweat, more turned on than I think I've ever been. Annie is asleep, her head lying on my left shoulder, curled up against me. Her face is smiling, and her left hand is busy down below the covers. With her right hand she rubs my flabby belly, rubbing the little fat deposited all around my belly button. She moans in her sleep, and I wonder if I'm still dreaming.
I have a full-belly feeling. Was I dreaming, or was that real? I wonder if I've eaten my pillow or gnawed on Annie's chubby arm while dreaming. Then, I remember the day before when I had stuffed myself in a mindless response to those encouraging emails. Later that night, Annie and I had gone to a Mexican restaurant which serves huge portions, and I had cleaned both my plate and hers. No wonder my belly still feels full.
I'm naked. I've been sleeping naked a lot lately. Before I started accepting my body and actually liking the idea of getting bigger, I was embarrassed about how much weight I had gained, shy about my little bit of pudge. I would hurriedly undress and dress while Annie was in the bathroom. I would slip beneath the covers so she couldn't see the blimp I had envisioned that I was becoming. Lately, though, I've strutted my fat stuff around in the flesh – and it's getting fleshier and jigglier and softer all the time. I've even started dressing in front of her – slowly and stretching and scratching my belly. It's a lot of fun, and she often reaches out for me and pulls me back to bed.
Leaving Annie asleep, I slip out of bed and head down the hall to the bathroom. First things first. To get an accurate reading of my true weight, I do my business, so to speak. No use weighing something I'm going to get rid of very soon anyway. I just want to know how heavy I'm really getting, not how much my bladder can hold. I want to know if all this eating is paying off and whether some pounds have deposited themselves on my chubby bod.
We have an ancient green plastic bathroom scale. I don't even know where we got it. Maybe we got it from the last place we lived, or some relative gave it to us. The maximum weight on it is 250 pounds, and the only time it got to 200 was more than a year ago when Annie weighed herself and became upset about crossing over that line. Since then, she has lost some weight but none of her beauty. And strangely, she seems now to be more contented with feeding me than with feeding herself. It seems odd now that I am looking heavily at those higher scale numbers and thinking about crossing that line at 200 myself.
That's for another day, though. Today is a day for just seeing if I am finally officially fat or not. Before this year, I rarely weighed myself ever, only at the doctor's office. Part of my denial program, denial that I was getting chubby. Just like I denied that I was growing out of my clothes until pants-buttons popped and I had to pin them closed around my rounding gut.
My doctor has to have noticed that I have been gaining weight over the last two years, but she has never mentioned it. A gain of 10 pounds a year for the last two years is pretty significant, I would think. I wonder if my doctor will ever mention my weight to me and what I will say if she does. I may find out at the next checkup later this spring. Because certainly, I am putting on more than the usual 10 pounds this year! And when she has me take off my shirt to listen to my guts and lungs, she will have to see that I have finally arrived at corpulence – that I have a real belly and that I am much plumper than before, fat even.
I place the scales in the middle of the floor, pause a minute, breathe in and out, then step onto them. I look past my little globular tummy to see the dial spinning around and bouncing back and forth. An eternity seems to pass before it settles.
164 pounds. What? I am disappointed. I have not gotten there yet, not quite fat. I think about going in the kitchen and just have a good old-fashioned pig-out, drinking a quart of orange juice, pigging out on pastries, finishing off that leftover cheesecake, eating a four-egg omelet, some bagels with cream cheese, then returning in glory to witness my birth as a fat man. I get off the scales and start to set them back next to the commode.
I then notice that they are not set at zero, that they appear to be off just a little, that they may have not registered every pound of donuts and pasta I have consumed. I smile. I set them back in the middle of the floor, turn the dial carefully to align the black line in the plastic window with the red line for 0. I am happy because I am sure that I have reached my goal – that no one can say that I am not fat.
I step back on them, again look down past my deepened navel at the bouncing dial. I try to imagine what it would be like to be so fat that I could not see the scales. Such a thought makes my little potbelly growl hungrily, for some reason. I shiver a little at this reaction. The dial continues to move back and forth, slowing and moving less each time. I close my eyes for two seconds, knowing it has stopped. I open them and look down.
166 pounds! Wow! Not only officially "overweight" but one pound on my way to the definition of obesity. I shudder at that thought, wondering if I really should think about such a thing. 200 pounds! That's a lot. I place that thought in another place in my mind. Then, I decide to celebrate the moment, and I do a little victory dance right there in the bathroom in the buff.
I watch my little belly jiggle and my thighs and my rear wobble a little. I get a little aroused, and soon my flab is not all that is bouncing. I dance around the scales, then lift them high above my head and do an Irish jig. Then, I stop, smile at myself in the cabinet mirror, put the scales back in their place. I want to go get something to eat. Right now. Suddenly, I hear something.
It's Annie's voice whisping down the hallway. "Hey, it's Sunday! What are you doing? Come back to bed!"
My tummy growls again. "I gotta get something to eat," I say loud enough for her to hear.
"Well, bring me something too. I'm starved. How about a bagel and cream cheese?"
"Sure." I smile at the thought of a treat or two in bed with her.
She says something else, but I can't tell what it is.
"What?" I yell.
"I said, I'm starving for you and your body, too." She laughs lustfully. "Get yourself back in here, big boy, and bring those bagels and cream cheese. And that leftover cheesecake too. We can share it."
I am reminded of my dream, and I, of course, obey. I head for the kitchen, bouncing happily as I never have before. And knowing that my "officially fat" celebration is just beginning.