Untitled

“I’m so full, but it’s so good… Can you help me?”

“I’m going to have to unbutton my pants before I pop them”

“Ough, I overdid it…”

“I’m so full… It’s so tight… But it was soo good”

“I think I can handle a little more”

“It’s like I can feel my stomach stretching”

“I’m gonna get so fat from this”

“No no no, I can’t take another bite! …Fine, fine, I’ll try. For you”

“I can’t move”

“Look at me. I’m huge!”

“You made me so fat”

“I should not have worn this shirt, I can feel myself about to pop it”

“I, um… I think I might be stuck”

“I want you to stuff me”

“Well, these used to fit…I guess they don’t anymore”

“Yeah, I ate it all…every last bite”

“It was so good, I couldn’t help myself”

“I look like I swallowed a bowling ball” (said while turning to the side in front of a mirror)

“Your cooking is really taking a toll on my waistline”

like if you make eye contact with me and wink seductively while biting into some sinfully rich food i’ll proooobably die

or if you lean back and stretch after your huge meal and your shirt rides up to expose a crescent of your stuffed tum

or if you hold your gut and moan about how absolutely packed full you are but still ask what’s for dessert

or if you ask for my help getting unwedged from the booth and need assistance waddling to the car, belly proudly pushed far and wide in front of you

and after all that we get home and you tease me with “gee… i’m feeling hungry again already, do we have anything to eat?”

“You’re feeling a little soft, my love.”

I’ve come up behind you, bending a little to rest my chin on your shoulder. The cloth of my skirt swishes quietly as I approach. I kiss your cheek lightly, then pull back in surprise at what my hands have discovered: fat. A squishiness to your hips and belly that wasn’t there a few months ago; my slender fingers dig in - gently - to the pudge they’ve found.

“I guess I’ve been enjoying your cooking”, you say, leaning in to meet my lips with a kiss in return. You place your hand, maybe showing signs of its own newfound softness, on mine, guiding me to where your belly is at its thickest. Your fingers fold mine around the swell of fat that marks the beginning of a belly hang; “Feel that? That’s the peach pie you made last night”. Your other hand comes down to pinch your side, what might soon become a roll; “and that? That’s the ice cream I had with it”.