“Today, sweetie, we’re going to the mall!” She made the announcement one warm summer Saturday in a voice that indicated the matter was already decided.
“OK,” I said tentatively, “and what exactly are we going to do there?”
“Today I get to show off my honey for the first time.”
Laura and I had been going together for about six weeks, and during that time my already substantial weight had increased by 30 pounds. I had been fat my entire life, but now I was fatter than I had ever been before. A weight gain of 30 pounds doesn’t sound like all that much, but when you’re already at 363 to begin with, 30 pounds is like the straw that breaks the camel’s back, so to speak. I was now a mere seven pounds away from the 400 club and my Body Mass Index was off the charts.
My skinny little doctor always looked at me as if calculating my mortality in terms of weeks or months rather than years. My oversize belly now hung massively over my beltline and it had been years since I had seen my feet, or for that matter my pathetic little pecker, buried as it was under wads of flab. I had a rear end that almost matched the size of my belly and large, heavy boy breasts that continued around to my armpits, pushing my arms out sideways. To make things worse, I was short, only 5 feet 6 inches, and all in all, I thought I looked like a beach ball with tits.
Like many fat people, I tried to avoid mirrors and was shocked when I walked down the main street of my Midwestern city and caught a reflection of myself in the store windows. I had developed a real fat man’s waddle, and I moved with excruciating slowness while involuntarily swinging my arms back and forth. I suppose you could say I was “poetry in motion,” with everything jiggling and swaying all at once. Joggers would taunt me by speeding past on the sidewalk, and if I were to time my own forward progress, I would find that it took me almost 10 minutes to walk a single city block. No matter how conservatively I dressed, it was no longer possible to hide my quivering mountain of fat.
But I still had a cute, round, baby smooth face, with chubby kissable cheeks and a large wiggly wedge of fat under my chin. My wavy brown hair and sensual blue eyes completed the picture, and my face looked like those rosy-cheeked cherub angels that you see in the paintings of the old masters.
Maybe it was this innocent cuteness that attracted Laura. I never really did understand what it was that turned her on in the first place. We first met at a local coffeehouse. I was sitting at a tiny table drinking my tall with extra half and half, and she was sitting nearby engrossed in her laptop. From time to time, I noticed that she would look up from behind her computer and cast a curious glance my way. Not once, not twice, but several times. For some reason, it seemed like she could not keep her eyes off of me, even with my oversized butt cheeks flowing over the edges of a chair that was much too small for me.
It made me nervous and uncomfortable, because as my weight went up and up over the years, the number of interested female glances became less and less. She’s probably never seen a guy so fat before, I said to myself bitterly. Surely she’s just looking at me with disgust and loathing like everyone else.
But then to my complete surprise, she got up from her table and came over to me. “Hi, my name’s Laura,” she said with a friendly smile. “Why don’t you bring your coffee over and join me?”
I was flabbergasted, but a rare invitation like that was not something I could easily refuse. Besides that, she wasn’t that bad looking at all. They say that opposites attract, and the two of us were about as opposite as anyone can be. She was about my height, but with a weight difference of about 250 pounds. Petite and athletic looking, she had blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and small but interesting breasts that made a slight bulge in her gray jogging suit. No hips at all and a tiny ass, and if you looked at her just from the neck down, she might resemble a 10-year old boy with a hormone problem. She looked incredibly fit and it was obvious that she wasn’t wearing the jogging suit just for fashion’s sake.
But she had a lovely engaging smile, so I raised myself with an effort from my little metal chair and waddled boldly in her direction. We had a great conversation and after about two hours and several more coffees, she invited me over to her apartment for a bite to eat.
Well, to make a long story short, we really hit it off. Laura was absolutely wild about me and my body. We would sit for hours on her couch, French-kissing passionately with arms wrapped around each other. In my big arms she seemed like a tiny, fragile thing, but she was totally and hopelessly fascinated by the fat that covered my entire body. With her delicate hands she would explore every inch of me, squeezing and kneading my rolls of belly fat, my fat boobs, my thick arms, my large thighs, my fleshy buttocks, until I felt sore all over.
On top of that, she loved to feed me. She would cook huge delicious meals consisting of lasagna, spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, and other dishes cooked in fattening sauces. And then, as if that were not enough, she would finish it off with rich desserts: chocolate cake, cherry or blueberry pie, massive dishes of vanilla ice cream dripping with butterscotch topping. She would watch every bite as it disappeared into my mouth, sometimes spoon-feeding me herself like a mother feeds a baby.
I have to say, I made a pig of myself. I should have known better, but I enjoyed so much the attention that she lavished upon me, and the food was like a tangible, physical expression of her love.
So I gained, and gained, and gained. And when I stepped on the scale that Saturday morning after six weeks of her tender loving care, the dial stopped and she read off the number (since all I could see was my huge fat stomach in front of me).
“Honey, you weigh 393 pounds,” she shouted with an air of delight and accomplishment. “Let’s celebrate. Today, sweetie, we’re going to the mall!”
And thus did that fateful day start, a day I will remember for the rest of my life. I was left standing in the bathroom in my underwear, while Laura ran excitedly into the bedroom to get her outfit ready.
She came back ten minutes later wearing a pair of cute white tennis shorts, exposing her skinny legs well up to the thighs. On top she had a very tight-fitting pink T-shirt that hugged her slender frame like a glove.
“It’s for breast cancer awareness,” she explained. “And look, baby, we’re going to be twinsies.”
Laura eagerly revealed a pair of triple-wide white cotton shorts and a size 4X pink T-shirt and held each one up in turn for me to see.
“Try them on right now,” she said, barely suppressing the excitement in her voice. “You are going to look so fabulous.”
“I’m not going to put that on. People will laugh at me.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. You see all kinds of people at the mall. You’re no different than anyone else.”
But of course I knew that I was different, and in a very big way, and I looked at the pair of white shorts and the pink T-shirt with trepidation.
“Laura,” I protested, “I’m going to look like a big fat slob.”
“But you are a big fat slob, darling. That’s why I love you.”
So I meekly complied with her orders and got dressed. The shorts were so tight on my waist that my belly fat rolled over my waistline even more than usual. The legs were much too short for my size and exposed the greater part of my thick thighs. I forced myself to look in the mirror and saw what looked like a fat man wearing hotpants. Laura giggled and poked me playfully in the tummy. I said “tee hee,” but it really didn’t seem funny, at least not to me.
“Great! Now try on the shirt.”
I pulled the T-shirt over my head, but even as a 4X it was much too small for me. My huge boy-boobs stretched the material of the shirt so much that my nipples were clearly visible, and it looked like I was wearing a tube top. Then I tried to pull the rest of the shirt down over my belly, with even worse results. The shirt was so small and my belly so big that the shirt came only about halfway down to my waist, laying bare a huge amount of soft, white flesh.
“Laura, they’ll be able to see my big fat belly,” I moaned.
“That’s OK, a little skin never hurts, you’ll see, a lot of people dress like that nowadays.”