But wait, there’s some verbiage to crawl through first…
NOTE: If you are bothered by tales involving crying; low self-esteem; emotional instability; potential co-dependence; suicidal thoughts; firearms; atheism; frank discussion and commentary regarding human sexual thoughts, feelings, and actions; weight-gain; or fatlove; for your own peace of mind please click your browser back button and go away. If you are looking for a quick, hot & steamy wankoff tale (i like those sometimes), this may NOT work for you, as it is as much a romantic love story as a sex story (or so i fancy).
Please note that this was my first story, written many years ago (1995), and may not meet the standards of other contemporary stories nor even some of my own future offerings (which i can almost guarantee will suck less… er, will be better 
). This story was written at first in the present tense, then switched to past, etc. I have attempted to switch it all to present tense (to suit its original intent as a present-tense answer to a question being asked), but as i usually work in the past tense, the conversion may read stilted or be imperfect. The management apologizes.
Please also note that the rest of my stories are not as over-the-top narcissistic as this one is in places (keep your barf bags ready… it’s downright obnoxious). Remember, i wrote this to answer the survey question about my most often recurring innermost sexual fantasy, and my fantasies are actually more-or-less like this even though self-serving exchanges like the one below would never happen in the “real” world. And i guarantee future stories from me will not contain this stuff.
One final note: when i wrote this, i was surprisingly naïve about the realities of human fat, fatness, being fat, and weight gain, (being but a thin-to-normal-sized FA) (not that i have it all figured out now!). For the sake of “artistic integrity” and accurate reporting, i have left the content as it was originally written, even though i now suspect the weight numbers are unreasonably high, in some cases by hundreds of pounds (if they’re not, and you know this from personal experience, i [and i suspect others] would appreciate it if you would post details of your experience[s] here or email me. Fibbers, liars, and exaggerators can go blow chunks 
). Please feel free to adjust the weights (or anything else for that matter) in your own mind or on your own copy on your own personal computer (JUST DON’T REPOST IT MODIFIED please. Unless you clearly state it is modified, note who modified it, and credit as follows: “Based upon an original story by Sonic Purity.” Thanks).
Let us get going…
This is my first fatlove story, written late July 1995, during my early Internet days. I was romping around in alt.sex.fat (or related, via AOL at the time), and ran across this survey:
Subject: Sex in the 90's. survey From: Ladydi@cris.com (Diane Thomas) Date: 18 Jul 1995 02:21:53 GMT Message-ID: <3uf5s1$8a2@warp.cris.com> PLEASE YOU MUST BE 18!!! - o.k. Only participate in this survey if you are willing to be open, honest, and receptive!!!! - o.k. QUESTIONS FOR SURVEY FOR USE IN RESEARCH FOR BOOK; SEX IN THE 90'S, AN OPEN DISCUSSION OF ALL SEXUAL PREFERENCES, BEHAVIORS, AND LIFESTYLES: BY THOSE WHO LIVE IT PLEASE !!!!! ONLY COMPLETE THIS SURVEY IF YOU ARE AT LEAST 18 YEARS OF AGE !!!!!!!!!!!!!
I answered the questions:
1. male 2. yes 3. straight 4. Loneliness is: 1. The label applied by humans to the emotionally painful feelings of lacking an intimate interpersonal relationship. 2. A euphemism for lack of a satisfying sexual relationship with another.
etc. as expected, but soon became more verbose (#26 was something about one’s most exciting real-life sexual experience, or something like that):
26. a. <wheew> Feeling the fat belly and swollen breasts of my True
Love {defined as: girlfriend, living together} on top of me as we're having
sex in the conventional man-on-bottom position, telling me she weighed
slightly more than i did (her: 153 lbs. on a 5'4" frame) and did not want to
get any fatter (she didn't). b. The excitement that she was the fattest
she had ever been, weighed more than i did (i'm 6'0"), and feeling her
luscious fat.
When i hit question #39, something along the lines of “What is your most often recurring sexual fantasy?” (oh how i wish i hadn’t tossed that survey…), i went off. I kept typing and typing and typing, no doubt influenced by Melanie Bell’s (at the time) new serial “story - Melanie”. Pretty soon, i overran AOL client’s 24k buffer limit, and switched to SimpleText. It was not long before i hit SimpleText’s (well, OK, the Apple TextEdit routine’s) 32k limit, and transferred to WriteNow. About 8 hours after so innocently starting, the story was ended (at least in its initial form), the survey completed, and i arose from my computer chair. It was 5 a.m.; beginning to get light; birds chirping. Here i was, exhausted, drained, unemployed, no clear future ahead, having just “wasted” the night writing third-rate pornography instead of doing something “useful”. And i didn’t care! It was at that moment that i realized beyond a shadow of a doubt that i was insane, and life suddenly became much easier and more enjoyable. Here is that story:
39. <that would be most of them!> A chance meeting with the woman of my dreams, typically [fantasized to be] in her home. Brace yourself, it’s a long one: <begin fantasy - notes in brackets, like this>:
I’m a stereo repair technician <until recently, i actually was>. One potential customer keeps calling, trying to get the shop to do a house call, but we don’t do house calls <this too was real at my recent job>. Finally, my boss, noting that i have always wanted to do house calls, and that this caller lives near me, suggests that it would be O.K. for me to use shop equipment, and do the repair on my own time as an independent, if i wanted. I say yes.
I call the customer and make arrangements for a good day & time (after work), explaining the circumstances. At the appointed day & time, i gather my tools, equipment, and other paraphenalia, and head over to the customer’s house, wondering what kind of person would be so adamant about not bringing in their stereo to the shop like everyone else. I’m somewhat nervous and afraid, but excited.
Approaching the address, i see a small house i’ve never noticed before, hidden behind a thick group of trees (too small to be a grove). The yard is unkempt and junglelike, but looks safe enough. I enter and close the gate, walk up the steps, and ring the doorbell. Breathing deeply, i try to relax as i hear a pleasant “Just a minute!” from inside the house. My mind is pouring over all i know about the particular brands and models of failed components awaiting inside, in order to execute a speedy repair, and keep the labor bill low.
The door swings open, and i am greeted with a full view of absolutely the most beautiful person i have ever seen. Our eyes meet, and we both lose our breath and breathe shallowly, staring at each other.
Her face and hair are the most beautiful i’ve ever seen - hair a brownish/orangish henna tint, face revealing mixed ancestry, definitely including some indigenous North American nation long ago marginalized and integrated, but definitely a healthy streak of euro-caucasian as well (amongst others). Very clearly close to my age. The thickness of her round glasses reveals eyesight as bad as my own. Everything about her is round, and big! She has to be one of the top ten fattest humans i have ever seen: hips that would never clear her wide front door without generously scraping on both sides simultaneously, multiple belly folds that make her look like the Michelin Tire Man’s sexpot daughter. And those breasts! Never have i dreamed of breasts this large, round, and shapely! Though they just barely are her most prominent physical feature, the rest of her is well in proportion to them.
Her stretch pants seem to be running at their limit, aided only slightly by one of the folds of lard hanging over the waistband. Her worn T-shirt is similarly stressed, to the point of increasing the neckline down enough to see some amazing cleavage.
We both stand breathless and nearly panting for what seems like minutes, before i haltingly spit out,
“H-h-hi, i’m Nick, here to fix your stereo.”
“P-please come in” she stammers. “I’m Michelle.”
“Thanks.” I slowly regain my composure. “Pleased to meet you!” Little did she know how much!!
“Pleased to meet you!” she replies, almost in a sigh.
The conversation is interrupted by a loud ripping sound.
“Damn!” Michelle curses under her breath. She immediately waddles away around the corner, calling out, “Sorry! I’ll be right back… Oh, the stereo’s over there, across the room, in the cabinet,” her voice trailing away.
Trying to regain composure, mind spinning with a powerful blend of lust and supreme inhibition, i head toward the aforementioned cabinet. Though the room is dark, what with all the shades drawn and the trees, i clearly make out numerous band posters, CDs, and other music paraphenalia. As my eyes adjust, i also see a desk near the back wall with a PowerMac setup and lots & lots of books & papers.
Finally breathing normally, i set my stuff down, note the time, log in on the paperwork, kneel down and start digging in to the repair.
It only takes about a minute to confirm dirty speaker relay contacts causing one channel out on the late ’70’s Pioneer SX-780 receiver (a genuine quality classic). Which, repair stud that i am (thank you, thank you [modest too 
]), i’d guessed before leaving the shop, so fortunately i’ve brought a replacement along.
The Nakamichi OMS-7 CD player is not being so coöperative, though i have a pretty good idea i’ll eventually trace the mistracking to the infamous weak laser diode on the laser pickup. If so, that will be one for the shop.
I don’t get very far with the Nakamichi before the sounds of stretch fabric rubbing together betray the otherwise quiet reentry of Michelle into the room.
“Mind if i watch?”
“Fine with me. I’m confirming the intermittent one channel out on the receiver, but i can’t confirm the CD skipping problem. Can you tell me more about what it was doing?”
“Wull, i haven’t really noticed a pattern. Sometimes it skips on ‘Cape St. Vincent’ on the Pram CD and sometimes it doesn’t.”
“What flavor of skip? A rapid ‘Da-dle-Da-dle-Da-dle’ stuttering, or a long approximately 30 second leap?”
Michelle has to stop and think, never realizing there was a choice of flavors in this arena, “It does both at different times. It does that Max Headroom stutter thing on Viva Hate, but Pram has those long jumps, like i pushed the Track Back button and it didn’t quite make it. On Sour Times it does one or the other, but not both - that one really pisses me off, i just bought that CD! But then In Pine Effect plays great, always.”
I wish every customer had that clear and thorough an answer! “I feel like i’m at home with this musical selection!” I exclaim. “Where did you hear about Pram and Portishead?”
“On the radio - KALX i think. I’m also on several mailing lists, virtual and physical” she replies.
“If you don’t mind my asking, what line of work are you in?”
“I’m a freelance Technical Writer, primarily software manuals for Borland, Symantec, Adobe, and the like. But never Microsoft!” she proudly proclaims.
“Why not Microsoft?” i bait.
“Yuck! Barf! Poo! Microsoft software runs about as fast, i.e. NOT, and takes up as much space as i do! It’s as elegant as an elephant built by committee and as stable as the Unabomber!”
Michelle was my kind of woman, no doubt about it!
“Why would i want to help line Billy Goat Gates’ pockets any further? Sorry - you’re probably a satisfied, loyal MS user. Nothing personal.”
I look Michelle in the eye and smiled, “I do not knowingly allow Microsoft code to execute on my CPU. Period.”
Her eyes seem to be saying, “A gal could get to like a guy like you. A lot!” while her voice continues, “Are you Mac or PC, or what?”
“Mac Plus, 4 Meg., System 7.”
“You still use a Plus!? In 1996?!”
“You still use a Nak OMS-7!? In 1996?!” i return volley. “I expect my computer setup to last at least half as long as your receiver, which, by the way, is not too bad off. It works for me - not everyone has a high-flying, well-paying, professional computer job.”
“You’re charging me $60/hr., and you’re saying you can’t afford a more modern computer?”
“First off, $60/hr. is the standard shop rate where i work, of which i see 40% in my paycheck before all those fun taxes waste it, and not every hour of the day is productive. As i said when we set this up, i’m doing it as an independent contractor, so yes, from you i get all $60. Until i deal with self-employment taxes, the business licence i’ll need if i keep doing this, my overhead which is more, not less, than the shop’s because i can’t write it off… all that stuff takes a big bite out! The other folks doing house calls in this area charge a good $10-30 more an hour - probably closer to what you make - you’re getting a deal.”
“What’s your yearly take, if you don’t mind my asking….”
“$16,000 gross last year, but it varies wildly, depending how many repair dogs i get during the year.”
This does not compute, and Michelle is confused, “That’s all? How do you get $16k out of $24/hr. full-time?”
“We don’t bill by the hour, we bill a flat rate per unit repaired. Say your Nakamichi CD goes to the shop - which it looks like it might need - and gets full service at $140 labor. That $140 is based upon our experience that the average machine takes a bit over two hours for a technician to fix, write up the paperwork, move on & off shelves, etc. Contrary to popular myth, we don’t really know exactly what’s wrong with any one specific unit until we get it on the bench… sometimes we don’t even know exactly what will fix it until we finish the repair! A particular Nakamichi OMS-7 may take me 1 hr. 45 min., or it might take me all day! I only get paid $48 no matter what, so the more difficult that particular set is, the more money i lose, and i have basically no control over the situation other than being a really fast and really good troubleshooter! So think about me next time you’re sitting at that plush, expense-paid seminar….”
“That’s for programmers and graphics design and multimedia types. Tech. writers don’t have those!” Michelle sharply reprimands, before staring at the floor and mumbling, “Besides, it’s not like that….”
“You lost me. What’s not like what?”
“I don’t get out and about very much” she says, lips pursed.
“Why?” i ask innocently, too naïve to figure it out.
She snaps her head up and stares high upon the wall, voice rising up loud before tapering off, “LET’S JUST SAY It’s seldom easy and never, ever fun.” Her uppermost chin begins to quiver slightly, “I’d rather not talk about this any more.”
Oh how i wish i hadn’t asked that last question! “I’m sorry, i was out of line. Please forgive me!” My eyes are almost tearing and my body has a slight quiver as i, still kneeling on the floor and balancing the Nakamichi, look plaintively up to Michelle. The last thing i want to do is alienate the most attractive woman i’ve ever seen, who is also turning out to be one of the nicest and most compatible!
Her look softens as our eyes meet, and the anger and frustration seem to melt away. “You’re forgiven” she nearly whispers, with a subtle smile sweet enough to melt a rock. “So what’s with the stereo?”
I go into the song and dance about what the receiver needs, flipping on the tuner section to demonstrate the problem with the speaker relay.
“Wait!” Michelle interrupts, “Don’t turn that off!”
The tuner is set to KALX, and the very long Ride…Finder spot - the one i made in September ’94 - is running. Most folks around the station had become sick of it before i left, so it surprises me they still have it and someone is still playing the darn thing. What stuns me is Michelle is listening to it more closely than i did when i mixed it! I watch her intently as she stands transfixed, absorbed in the pastiche of sound, barely breathing. Some new nondescript guitar rock song i’ll never know and never miss starts up, at which point Michelle breaks out of her trance.
“OK, done. Thanks!”
“Why did you want to hear that? Most people don’t like those….” My ego needs a stroke, and my microscopic self-esteem can always use a boost. Besides, i want to see if she’ll catch on to the voice of the spot being the very same voice now speaking to her.
“I love that guy’s stuff! The music’s so good, the subtle cleverness of using Ride’s music for the RideFinder… and that voice! Gawd, how i love his voice! He used to have a regular show Saturday evening, 6:30 to 9 every other week - i think his name was Sonic something… yeah, Sonic Purity! D’you listen much to KALX?”
“Did for a long time, not so much lately.”
“Ever heard him?”
“Yeah, i’ve actually caught most of his shows over the years, for some reason.” She still hasn’t caught on to the uncanny vocal resemblance. I milk it for all i can, “The music’s usually pretty good, but he sure talks a lot sometimes!”
“I think the music he picks is stellar, and i melt into a puddle when i hear that voice, so he never talks too much for me! I was really upset when his show expired and he didn’t get a new one!”
I’m 100% floored! In 15 years of being on that station, i had received a cumulative total of 5 fan letters, and had no more than two regular listeners to the best of my knowledge. Most folks did better their first year out! I had met but one other person out and about in the world over these 15 years who so much as recognized my voice and had heard a few of my shows. Never had i had a fan! And here i am, in her house, repairing the very same sound system she listened to me on, dreaming i can be her boyfriend, and she as yet has no clue the man kneeling in front of her and the DJ are one!
“Why?” i continue to milk, “There’s a lot of good DJs on that station.”
“Not any more! He’s gone, Jeffrey Merrill Cobb’s gone, Zenmaster Gary, The Brazen Hussey, Brian the DJ in a Daze - a whole bunch. It’s really gone downhill lately.”
“You’re good with names!”
“I have it on all day. Them or KUSF or KFJC.”
I am actually getting some repair work done during all this, though not much. Looking over at her, i feel faint, as though i am going to pass out, overcome with lust & the beauty of her faintly smiling countenance. She notices my difficulty, and asks, “Would you like some water?”
“Yes, please“ i half-speak, half-sigh. Trying not to look, i sneak glances of her jiggling her way to the kitchen, more or less adjoining this large room, with a long countertop in common. Breathe, regain composure, back to work.
In addition to the rubbing fabric, i hear the clinking of ice cubes repeatedly running into each other in the glass. Turning as Michelle approaches, i notice she looks a little flushed, chest heaving slightly with small, short breaths, and her hand is a bit jittery. Just when i wonder how she’s going to hand the glass to me without smothering me in her luscious flesh, she trips slightly. Ice water showers me from the glass, and, just as i rise fully to my feet, she bounces into me (luckily the power was off on the equipment and she held onto the glass!).
Michelle bursts into tears, crying “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”, and runs for the couch across the room [small dimension], from where she had previously been viewing the proceedings. Were i not so choked up with emotion & empathy, i might be in awe with how quickly such a large individual can move if necessary. As it is, i am beginning to tear myself; those painful, salty, bittersweet tears which come from not being able to cry enough for far too long. Sex and lust are now about the furthest things from my mind.
As she lands on the couch, there is another loud R-R-r-r-rip! from her vicinity, and she’s full-out bawling now, with occasional whimpers of “I’m sorry!” I am now completely undone emotionally. Crying not quite as loud nor hard as Michelle, i run to her side, throw my arms around her (as possible) in an attempt to comfort both of us, almost instinctively. All the while, i fear my transgression of established social boundaries, and hope she’s not going to punch me. Luckily, i’m safe.
Clasping her hand in mine, we both settle down to the point where speaking is once again possible, though we’re both still agitated and sobbing.
“Is this O.K.?” I ask, referring to our intimacy.
“Um-hum” she gurgles. “Are you O.K.?”
“Yes. Frankly, the ice water helped cool me off” I intone, at which point Michelle bursts into tears again. I frantically cry, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Whadid i say? Please don’t be mad!” I start to pull away. Michelle grabs me and pulls me back.
“Nick… i…… i’m not mad [sob]. I… please listen… i’m a very… [sob]… I CAN’T STAND IT ANYMORE! [suddenly coherent, rapid-fire speech] Please don’t hate me, PLEASE!, but i’ve got to tell you: you’re the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen. <here, i always assume the speaker is nuts, since i see otherwise in the mirror. But hey, it’s a fantasy.> I was amazed you didn’t run for your life when i was checking you up & down at the front door <i hadn’t noticed at all, as i was similarly transfixed>. Not only that, but you seem so nice, we seem to have so much in common, and you sound so much like the guy i used to dream about.”
Stunned by all this, i answer automatically, “Who’s that?”
“He used to be a D.J. on KALX. He called himself new Rat. I never found out who he really was, and then he disappeared, though i still sigh when i hear his voice on old tapes. Did you ever hear him?” she said.
“He’s the same guy as that Sonic Purity dude you like.”
“REALLY? No wonder!…. Wait - how do you know that?”
Oops. “Uh, wull, he’s a close friend of mine.” VERY close. “But as you were saying?”
Michelle runs on, ramming words together, getting more agitated, “So you’re the first man who’s even so much as touched me in the last 8 years and i know that it must be terrible torture for you and i’ll let you go now and you’ll run away but i had to tellyouPLEASEDON’THATEME!”
Now i’m crying again. I’m anything but analytical and detached. Choking back the tears, speaking in an almost testy voice, “Did you not notice me scanning every square centimeter of you in the doorway? Did you not notice my flushed face and trouble breathing? How could you not notice my feeble attempts to conceal my dozens of glances at you as you walked around? Now i have something to tell you: do you think it was easy for me to maintain my composure, much less try to get any work done, in the presence of the most beautiful human i have ever laid eyes upon? I know you probably won’t believe me or will hate me, but i am not used to dealing with overwhelming feelings of lust, love, and affection being mixed in with the everyday feelings of… l… l [i become tongue-tied]”.
“Loneliness?” Michelle replies softly, gazing gently into my eyes throughout.
“I HATE that word!” i whine. “Alright, FINE! I’m lonely, i suck, i’m ugly, i hate myself, and nobody’s even so much as held my HAND since 1990!” More tears. “No matter what i do, it’s never GOOD ENOUGH! I shouldn’t even be consuming earth’s resources!”
“What’s that supposed to mean!?” Michelle interrupts.
More calmly, i reply, “Often, i don’t think i should be alive. I seem to contribute so little, that it doesn’t justify the resources i use up.” Getting worked up again, “So here you have another ugly slobbering Typical Male, fixated on breasts, butt, hips, and lips. Can’t even concentrate on his work without almost cuming in his pants.” Sarcastically, to the Squeeze song, “Take me, I’m yours/Because dreams are made of this/Forever there’ll be a heav…”[cut off by sudden movements from Michelle].
Michelle, looking angry, reaches under the couch, and pulls out a handgun. I freeze in stark terror, and turn white as she points the gun toward her temple and, staring me in the eye, says, “I’ve thought a little about suicide, too. More than a little!”
Just as i instinctively clutch her, and squeak out an almost inaudible “no!”, she quickly flips the chamber open, drops the bullets into her right hand, and heaves them across the room into the trash (10 points!). As i sit, stunned and limp, she jumps up, waddles to the kitchen, sets the gun on the floor, stomps a good crimp into the barrel, picks it up, comes back through the room, opens a window to the backyard, and chucks the gun outside (i hear it land in what sounds like heavy brush). I notice a large hole in the rear of her overloaded stretch pants, with both buns vying for freedom, though this barely registers in my current state.
She rolls, pitches, and yaws back over to the couch with a still-peeved but mischievous look in her eyes, plops back down, grabs my shoulders and pulls my face to hers, engaging me in the deepest kiss of my life. “And you’re not ugly” she states firmly. “I may be a home bound tub-a-lard, but i don’t kiss ugly men, so there!”
Calm, and finally coherent, i say, “I’m sorry, Michelle. Seems like no one has it easy in this society when it comes to Intimate Interpersonal Relationships. I’m so frustrated from the pull and shove of society telling people how they should interact with each other, mixing messages all the way, that i kinda went off, given the stress and all.”
“What stress?” she asks, her original friendly, calm, lovely voice having returned.
“The stress of trying to contain thousands of years of mammalian urge to reproduce in the unexpected, sudden presence of likely the most beautiful mammal of all, at least to me” i reply.
“You really do like me.”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“You know i’m really moody, and i have these terrible hemorrhoid problems, and this big rash on my ass….”
“I’m moody too. And don’t look too closely at my crack… you may have company!” i smile back. We put our arms around each other and kiss, sweetly and gently.
“Michelle?”
“Yes.”
“Do you live here alone?”
“Yes.”
“What would a person have to do to apply for a position as your boyfriend, assuming such position exists and is open? Or should i go back to fixing the CD player?”
“Yeah, riiight…” she snidely replies. “The sound system can wait!” She falls silent. I notice her face becoming somewhat flushed again, and the return of shallow breaths.
“Spit it out. We’re friends - you’ve already baptized me!”
Michelle breaks into laughter, the first time i’ve heard her unique, but lovely, laugh. The couch and i get quite a massage…. Again, increased blood flow and unsteady breaths. “Nick, if you really love me…[long pause, then a staccato burst]… Lick me, fuck me, feel me, squeeze me, and feed me!!”
A familiar loud buzzing overcomes my ears. Snow fills my eyes. “I’m… passsing out” i pant.
“Me too” she mumbles back.
Michelle recovers first. After getting her breathing in order, she lays me out flat, propping my legs on her bountiful belly to get the blood flowing back to my head. She purrs, “Breathe slowly and deeply love, slowly and deeply.” Little do i know she is staring at my crotch the whole time, restraining herself from wandering too far up as she massages my legs through the denim. As i come to, the VCR clock shows we’ve only been out about 15 minutes, though it is now fully dark outside.
“Yikes! 9 o’clock!” I cry.
“What!?” she demands, “Don’t tell me you’re going back to the shop at 9 p.m. on Friday night!… Or are you really married?… or maybe you don’t really like me….” The simultaneous tone of resignation and bitterness is telling.
“No, i just haven’t been alone with an attractive, available woman in her house in five years. And that was someone i’d known for awhile.”
“Oh, like we don’t know each other! Thanks!”
“Chill, ’chelle! That’s not what i meant! I mean… for people who just met hours ago we seem to know so much about each other, but there’s so much more to know, and i don’t know how you feel about having a man you just met - who came over to fix your stereo - in your house late at night, telling you how beautiful you are, fainting over you, and wanting to be your sweetheart. The dictates of society…”
“FUCK ‘the dictates of society’! Do you want me or not!?! It’s not nice to tease a 525 lb. horny broa… [softly, touched]… wait… you called me ’chelle! My grandpa used to call me that… that’s sweet!”
“Thanks, love…’chelle, ’chelle, ’chelle, ’chelle, ’chelle…”
“Oh stop, silly goose!”
“That’s Buta Liba to you…”
“Huh?”
“I’ll explain later…. On the serious tip, don’t we have to talk about safe sex, communicable diseases, and the ground rules of our Intimate Interpersonal Relationship and all that stuff before we ‘g’?”
“No wonder no one’s held your hand for five years…” she wryly replies. I was hurt, but smiling. She continues, “Just kidding. You’re right, i suppose. I hate it when the real world intervenes like this - spoils my fun!”
“I know how you feel, but the good news is: we only have to go all the way through this once, with periodic updates as necessary.”
“What are we? Software?”
“You sure are!” i purr. “Anyway, i’ve never been tested for HIV. I’ve had two partners, both monogamous females, though my first love explored a number of partners in the late ’70’s before hooking up with me.”
“Only two partners? A good-looking guy like you? - no way, you lie!” she grinned.
“You flatter me so. Still, that’s the straight-up 411, ‘serious as cancer’. Though it’s supposedly unusual, i prefer wearing condoms, since it decreases my sensitivity and allows me better control, with my partner’s help.”
“Howdy, pard!”, Michelle joked. “Real deal: i’ve had but one partner who ‘went all the way’ with me, one time, 12 years ago. Not being the type to shoot up nor exchange blood, i haven’t been HIV tested either - why bother? And no, i didn’t get any biological memoirs from my one-shot ride, so i’m clean.”
“You’re on the Net, right?”
“Yup.”
“Alt.sex.fat? alt.personals.fat? alt.sex.super-size?”
“All of the above. And you forgot alt.sex.weight-gain” she noted.
“You’re on alt.personals.fat, you’re a sexy, beautiful technical writer, intelligent, skilled, living in a large metro area, and you’re telling me you’ve had sex once 12 years ago? What gives??”
“First, you may have noticed that no one can tell who’s for real on the Net, until and unless they meet face to face. Since i don’t leave the house, as you know, this cuts down traffic immeasurably. When the few, the proud, the eligible have actually ventured to my door, most took one look, found something they didn’t like, and left, or i found something i didn’t like, and that was that. There were a couple of guys, the last one eight years ago like i said, but they couldn’t handle my c-c-c…”
“Car! Countertop!… Clitoris! Concubine! Cappucino maker!” i worthlessly suggest.
“Nick, i hang on people. I don’t have many live, in-person friends, hardly any in fact. You hate the word loneliness, i hate clingy and needy, but that’s what i am, and that’s what’s driven everyone away.” Michelle commences sobbing again. “I know they say ‘be self-reliant, maintain your self-image, no one can love you if you can’t love yourself’, but i CAN’T do that!” Louder crying.
“Michelle, look at me.” I lift her chins up. “I am the same way, to the point where i feel stuck in a Catch-22: no one can love me if i don’t love myself, but i can’t learn to love myself without the support of someone close caring deeply for me. All the personals want self-assured guys with lots of money. I earn enough to live, but money’s not the most important element in my life, i hate myself and am clingy as all get-go. Not exactly marketable traits! …And have you noticed that neither one of us has had our hands off each other more than 5 minutes in the last 3 1/2 hours? Neither of us has even gone to the bathroom - it’s like we’re welded together! And i haven’t been hearing any complaints….” I gently kiss her lips.
The tears again cease, and Michelle brightens up, “Are we done yet? I can’t think of anything el…” As though our brains are one, we simultaneously cut the thought short and ask in unison, “You don’t smoke, do you?” The simultenaity surprises and amuses. We giggle.
“I leave that to the soldering iron…” i quip. “So what are some of your sexual dreams and/or fantasies? What turns you on?”
“Mmmm, don’t get me started, or else you’ll have to stay all night!”
“Manfred Mann, 1966.”
“Minor UK hit yes, but written by Bob Dylan, tunebreath” ’Chelle rebounded.
“Not tunabreath?”
“Stop!, unless you wanna do me right here and now! Well… a live-in lover with a hard dick, tight buns, who lets me feel him out anywhere, almost any time, …wild, passionate sex that seems to go on forever… endless hugs, kisses - yes, kisses and caresses over my whole body - i love being touched, lovingly. Oh, and of course chocolate. That’s all!” she concludes (i know it isn’t). “And you?”
“Fat, breasts, touching, squeezing, fondling, feeling, kissing, caressing every millimeter of your lovely large body. Endless hugs and kisses. Oh, by the way, i want to be the very next person to kiss & caress you from head to toe, or vice-versa, at your earliest convenience.”
“You de man, babe.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask this, but i tend to get fixated on breasts. How pissed will you get if i spend an inordinate amount of time ogling and feeling your breasts, and what should i do about it?”
Michelle lifted her shirt slightly, and to my amazement, what i had thought was the high part of her belly fat turned out to be the lower parts of her huge boobs. She moved my hands to each of her mams. “You can’t possibly squeeze, fondle, and caress my breasts too often unless i’m working to a deadline or sick. Same with most of the rest of me.” Seeing i was about to pass out again, she gently moved my hands back and pulled down her shirt. “Sorry love, didn’t mean ta stress ya. Come back anytime! Seriously, it’s not a problem, and i’ll let you know if it becomes one. Most likely, you’ll just boost my self-esteem. I’m curious though… i know most men like big tits and some even like wide hips, but what is it about fat? What about fat is sexy?”
“I don’t know, i can only guess. Ever since i started to have sexual dreams as an adolescent, fat has been involved, almost always. I’m guessing since i often get nonverbal during cuddly intimacy that it has something to do with my upbringing when a very young, preverbal child - what specifically, i have no idea, but something must not have worked for me. I expect this relates to my large breast fixation as well, since most moms’ breasts would be pretty large from the perspective of a suckling infant. When you’re a tiny baby, mom’s huge! To me, fat means abundance - plenty to go around, enough for me. In some dreams, it also means decadence or slovenliness. I don’t know what it is, but something about my loved one becoming fatter drives me wild.” Michelle grew slightly pale. I quickly continued, “But i absolutely and totally support anyone being whatever weight they want to be - even skinny. As much as it’s a fantasy, i will no more push someone to change their weight for me than i will accept someone pushing me to alter mine, which i don’t and won’t.”
Michelle went from pale to flushed - really flushed. “Nick, i have something to tell you, something i left out before. This is serious, so no jokes, please.”
“O.K. Go ahead.”
Michelle began shaking. I repositioned my arms to (hopefully) comfort her more. “Nick, i’ve been fat all my life, but not like this. Most of my life, i was a bit over 200, but then around the time Mark, the last guy to touch me and run away left, about eight years ago, something changed. It was not unusual for me to gain a little more to kill the pain of no love, but this time i was… getting turned on by my own body, because i was getting fatter! Something about the softness, the extra folds, the curves made me hot. Don’t get the wrong idea - i still dreamt and continue to dream about love and sex with others - men - but i had never liked myself like this. These were difficult times for me, and i needed all the help i could get.
“A few months went by, and as i was closing in on 270, i thought i was losing my mind. Then i discovered NAAFA, and that was all she wrote - seeing photos of successful, huge women made me want to grow and grow.” (I was getting pretty flushed myself at this point). “But people where i worked were beginning to wig out about my weight, and the old shame rushed back. Two things happened then: i began working more and more from home, and Grandpa Weaver - the one who called me ’chelle - died.
“Grandpa’s Navajo name translates to something like Fast Cloud, no doubt referring to his moodiness, his speed (when he was young), and his gentle, distant protective nature. He was the only one who didn’t give me shit about being fat when i was growing up. He used to say, ‘We live in a different world now, ’chelle. You’ve got Italian, English, African, and Navajo in your blood. It’s your body’s way, and it won’t do to fight it - it’ll throw you off balance. Don’t listen to the shrieks of the macaws - listen to the wind and the dust inside. It knows… listen to it and you’ll know too’. Anyway, he died a wealthy man - don’t ask me how, i don’t know - and left me a bundle, enough to live on for at least a couple of decades if i play my cards right.”
“So why do you work?”
“So i feel i have a reason to exist, and so i’m not bored stiff! Besides, there’s a catch: the money becomes available only after i marry. Grandpa always thought i should marry.”
“Oooh, that’s a drag if you don’t want to get married!”
“True, but i kinda always did want to if i met the……met the……Nick…?”
“Yes, Michelle?”
“Would you consider marrying… me?”
Big sigh from me. “Yes, sure, that’s easy to imagine right now - we’re still deep in the infatuation of the beginnings of Stage 1. What happens when we hit Stage 2?”
“What the heck are you talking about with this stage X stuff?”
“The Dance-Away Lover. Read it years ago - i barely remember anything, but Stage 2 is where the initial newness and thrill have worn off, and the couple is left to come to terms with ongoing routine, or something like that. It’s where most I.I. Relationships fall apart, where couples fight & all that.”
“Yeah, i read that… i remember now… so does that mean you’re not going to marry me for five to seven years, or whenever we enter Stage 2?” Michelle replies.
“Well, forgive me, but as much as i’m head-over-heels for you, i do think it is a bit premature to be talking about marriage having only seen each other for the first time 5 hours ago.”
Michelle grimaces as she reads the clock.
I continued, “And i still don’t understand what your Grandfather’s inheritance money has to do with your joy of fat-gain.”
Michelle’s tremble is back. “Besides the potential money, i got a sealed envelope from Grandpa when the estate cleared. Inside was one of Grandpa’s cryptic half-poems:
A trail of rocks.
Sun and Wind make the dust engulf the Wandering One.
Wandering One wants to go with the dust, back to the Mother, but it is not time.
Prairie Dog as Guide, helps the Wandering One find her way over rocks with blinding dust, though she is almost there already.
The trail is smoother, dust gone.
Prairie Dog and the Wandering One find secluded shelter.
It is dark, but there is abundance from Mother, gathered by Prairie Dog.
Wandering One becomes fecund abundance, both inside and out, finding peace in substance.”
“Seems like there’s a lot of interpretation needed to get something out of that. I still don’t get it” i note.
“Don’t you see? I’m the Wandering One - Grandpa always called me that in his poems. The trail is my life path. Going back to the dust too soon would be suicide. And you’re the Prairie Dog!”
“How do you get that?”
“Prairie dogs are rodents. Rats are rodents. You said you were very good friends with new Rat, and you sound just like him.”
“Doesn’t that make him the P. dog?”
“Well, given that you seem to be unable to tell me new Rat’s real name, and no one has seen the two of you in the same place at the same time….”
I quickly deflect, “O.K., say i’m P. Dog. What’s the rest?”
“This sure looks to me like dark, secluded shelter.” (I nod in agreement). “The abundance is love, self-esteem, creativity, and a sense of purpose on the inside, and this…” (grabs several belly folds and shakes them) “is the outer abundance!”
“Not that i would want to be one to in any way dissuade you from that theory, but what makes you so sure your interpretation is correct?” i argue.
“Look, at this point, i’m an atheist and secular humanist, so i’m not really into the cosmic Earth Mother thing like Grandpa, much less God or that fol-de-rol. He knew this well before he died, and since he didn’t leave a secret decoder ring, i’m going with my intuition, and my ‘voice inside’. Maybe i’m insane, but my inner voice is screaming for me to get fatter; incredibly, impractically fat.”
Shivers run through me.
“Nick, even before you came into my life, i was feeling a little better than i’ve ever felt before. And now with you, my love…” she grabs my right hand and places it on the center of her many folds of belly fat, under her shirt. We both start trembling, “…i have someone who will share my abundance, and help it grow.”
My lips were getting tingly. “Of-of-of course, i’d love to… but what do you want me to do? And isn’t there a ‘too’ fat? - nothing grows forever in the real world.”
“I suppose so. Still, if you’re not afraid of the challenge, i want you to be my P. Dog. Right now, i have most of the groceries delivered - at great expense - since i can’t deal with leaving the house, not to mention i can’t get in my tiny car anymore and even if i could, i couldn’t turn the steering wheel.”
I almost moisten my pants at this juncture. The throbbing is intense.
“Besides, i’ve basically maxed out the capacity of the delivery service… but if you do the shopping and help in the kitchen a little bit, i’ll forevermore be the butterball of our dreams!”
“Lovely. Where do i find time for this? - i have a job, remember, one i can't reasonably do here. And what if we have a bad fight, or i want to visit friends?”
“I’m not gonna trap you! You’re not a prisoner… well, except maybe tonight!” Michelle grins a lustful, wicked grin, then catches herself. “Have you ever thought about taking extended time off from working?”
“Sure, in my dreams. But when i wake up, i realize i’d probably go nuts without a goal or meaning for my days.”
“Well, if helping me fatten myself up isn’t a good enough goal, then i guess i’m talking to the wrong guy!”
“No, i’m your man, but i’m afraid… i worry a lot.”
“So i’ve noticed. Reason i’m asking is, if we marry and live together, grandpa’s money becomes available. You can quit your job, and work the food angle, the music angle, and all the outside stuff, which will get you out of the house regularly, so you - hopefully - don’t wig out. I can stay inside, not have to worry about the hassles of interfacing with the physical world outside - run by the fatphobes - and earn enough for both of us to live comfortably and build up savings, with help from Grandpa.”
“What if the rent goes up? What if there’s an earthquake?” i worried.
“I own this house outright. We’ll deal with the earthquake when it happens.”
“Yow! How’d ya manage that?”
“The house? I’m good at what i do and get paid for it, plus more dead relatives with money helped. I’ll tell ya about ’em sometime.”
“’chelle, if i move in with ya, where does my mountain of stuff go? I’m a pack rat….”
“AHA! I knew you were a rodent!” she grins. “Walk this way…”. Michelle gets up, and rolls, pitches, and yaws around the corner.
“Sorry love, i can’t walk that way…” i jest. She spins around in the hall, hips rubbing both walls, and with a big smile on her face, grabs me and pulls me tightly to her. I sink deep into a soft, warm wall of flesh. She kisses me like there’s no tomorrow.
Just when i’m about to limply collapse to the floor yet again, ’chelle ends the kiss, loosens her grip, and reminds, “Breathe, sweetie. You’re not breathing.” I recover, and we continue down the short hall, to two rooms at the end. She throws open the door of the one straight at the end of the hallway, squeezes her gelatinous body through the doorway, and i see a good-sized room with lots of windows, facing into the backyard and other protected areas, or so i am told since it’s now around midnight. Not much is in the room, but what’s there makes no sense: mirrors in strange places, antique clothes bureaus in the middle of the room, various coathangers and odd stools & bench seats.
“What do you do in here?” i ask.
“Something i won’t be doing so much now that you’re around.” She grabs my hand once again, kisses the back of it, then pulls me close again, though not as tight as last time. Still enough to sink deeply into her breasts and belly flab…i like this! Judging from her subsequent crotch readjustment with sighs, she does, too. “Come on, one more…” She forces her way back into the hall, opens the adjacent door, and proceeds to squeeze yet again into this other room. I’m getting pretty hot & bothered watching this.
This room has carpet, and generally looks more finished. Further inspection reveals a comfy looking single bed, with end tables and other accoutrements. “This is the Guest Room, but given how few guests i have, you’re welcome to take it over. I suppose you could also use it if you needed to be alone, though that sliding door leads to my bedroom.” Sure enough, there is a large sliding wooden door on the adjoining wall.
“’chelle, i’m about to drop. I guess i should be going now….”
“Going! Here’s where you should be going!!” She pulls me toward her yet again, placing my hands up her shirt, rubbing both our hands over her luscious belly fat and breasts.
I can no longer take it. I gently, but firmly, moved her left hand with my right out from under her top, down to my bulging crotch. She begins to heave her chest and sigh as i rubbed her hand over my fully erect penis.
“I’m uncomfortable, ’chelle. What should we do?”
The heaving and breathing take a heavy toll on the stretch pants. The front seam begins to R-R-r-r-i-p, and some lower folds of belly fat begin their ooze to freedom. I can see her hard nipples torturing the worn T-shirt. She quivers and shakes, as do i, and attempts to exit back out the door. The poor overworked stretch pants give up the ghost, and i’m a mere nat’s eyelash from spraying my undies as i see my new girlfriend bottomless for the first time. I turn away, “’chelle, i’m sorry.”
“Did you cum?” she pants.
“No, but i’m going to the next time i look at you” i say between deep breaths.
“Don’t worry about it, hun. Do whatcha must, but i gotta get to a bed - this earth’s gonna q-q-q-uake!” she moans, staggering to the sliding door. She throws the door open, and heads for her extra-long king-size bed. I follow her in, looking everywhere but at her, breathing slowly and deeply, knowing i’m riding the verge of orgasm and too close to back away under the exciting circumstances.
The room is amazingly spacious, especially given the small size of the house, though messy: clothes everywhere! Michelle stammers, “M-m-make yourself comfortable, love.” I find a chair, still facing away from my overwhelmingly beautiful love, whip off shoes and socks, followed by pants & shirt. Mindlessly, i turned toward ’chelle, and pulled off my underpants. Though nothing more than dead-middle average in the greater scheme of sizes, i’ve never seen my Willie this bloated. ’chelle gasps.
“It’s n-n-n-not that ugly, is it?” i stammer.
“UGLY?? No! - it’s… it’s hu-hu-hu…”
“It’s n-not that big…”
Michelle can barely speak between pants, “Not that b-b!… never mind, get over here to your fat mama. I neeeeed you, now!”
I hear a ripping sound. Michelle has unceremoniously attempted to yank off her beleaguered t-shirt, getting most of it off only by ripping it to shreds. Only the neck ring remains, which she rapidly whips off and tosses toward the headboard wall. Knowing i have only hundreds of milliseconds between viewing her and shooting my wad, i close my eyes, and make a dash for the bed, homing in on ’chelle’s breathing and the bed’s creaking. I simultaneously leap onto what i hope is the bed, feel her arms pulling me, and open my eyes. Milliseconds later, i let out a quick moan as i simultaneously process what i am seeing, feel the envelopment of waves of rippling fat, feel her pudgy, beautiful hands surrounding my cock, and start blasting. Though truly overloaded with sensations, on the second and third strokes i mainly feel her hands fondling my Unit - lustful and passionate, yet loving, and in no way hurtful. Though seemingly distant (given my immediate concerns), i have heard what i thought was Michelle orgasming about when i did - she did. And now that i’m taken care of, one of her hands slides down in a familiar way to a familiar place on her body, and keeps her cumin’, while the remaining hand keeps fondling its newfound friend.
Returning to semi-consciousness, i become entranced by the jiggling of my love’s massive right breast as she works her lower lips to ecstasy. Before i know it, i’m licking, kissing, squeezing, fondling, and gently sucking ’chelle. Her gentle moans become slightly more poignant, and she moans, “God i love you!”
A sudden burst of logic stopped me in my tracks. “I thought you didn’t believe in god!”
“Shut up and suck… pleeze… my love… for me” she pants. After what seemed like about half an hour, Michelle finally has had enough. I’m nearly asleep - exhausted - but the gentle moisture of her quiet tears wakes me.
“Don’t ever leave me!” she gently sobs.
“I won’t… as long as you don’t leave me!” My own tears begin their slow path earthward across my sleepy cheek.
She hugs me tight, wetting my whole face with sloppy kisses. Barely breaking our embrace, we shimmy under the covers, almost as one giant person. Not wanting to know what time it is, i’m very happy the weekend is just starting, and i have no previous plans.
* * *
Epilogue: Michelle actually lost weight that weekend, since we spent all our time having sex and sleeping, barely eating. We kept “going out” for about six months, learning about each other, and working through the kinks. I quit the stereo job, and we married.
Though much of my stuff was already there, the first task was to move the rest over and get out of my rental, just a few blocks away. The twinges of my past life were soothed by our deep love. Michelle even ventured over with me in the middle of the night to help me clean, though more than once, her vigorous cleaning action led to jiggles which demanded immediate intervention…
We still get along great together under one roof. I’m not keeping up with all my friendships, but i’ll get back with it. She has a few friends who come over (that’s another long story in itself!), but almost never any family, most of whom are dead or not speaking to her. My brother and his wife visit when in the U.S., but not my parents: they are not invited - they do not understand. I go alone and visit them several times a year.
My new life isn’t as maddening as i had anticipated. Partly, this is due to the variety of cooking, which i’m learning to do well, shopping, and interacting with ’chelle. She’s up to 818 now, and really can’t move too well without my help. Though i worry, to my amazement, she’s happier than ever, still enjoys her work, and we both still go wild with sex on a very regular basis. Her doctor and close friend Jeannie, a portly 420 lb. herself, is quite amazed at how good ’chelle’s health is, and always comments how little we humans really know about health and longevity at this point.
’Chelle is considering dropping back her weight, and experimenting with “sculpturing” her body via diet and special exercises, which she’s been studying. She says she wants to drop back, then build up mostly hips & butt, then try the same thing w/belly, ending with breasts, each time trying to get near where she is now in poundage. I sure won’t complain, but i think it will take more than the two of us to move two 350 lb. breasts! We’ll see.
I still wonder about the future, health, and what growing old will be like. I may want to go back to regular work some day, but for now, my job is engaging, stimulating, and challenging enough!
—the end—
And so there you have it… one wildly extrapolated variant of my most often reoccurring fantasy (at least as of 1995 when the questionnaire came out and this was written). As noted on that several-year-old questionnaire:
There seem to be an infinite number of variations on this theme, with the common points being me meeting a lonely, fat, beautiful woman, usually in her home; mutual extreme craving for physical intimacy, love, and lust, and the eventual shared expression of same with each other.
Hope you enjoyed it! Peace and fatlove to all!
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