Chapter One. The Invitation
I was finishing my third meal. I sat alone at a table in the back of the restaurant, using my fork to pick up the last pieces of stuffed pasta. The filling was rich, the dough firm, and the sauce still warm. I ate slowly. There was no reason to hurry. Tasting food was my job, and I did it thoroughly. I had eaten the first meal before opening. The second shortly after noon. I had saved the third for the end of my shift. I had already been full after the first few bites, but that was exactly when I began enjoying the food the most. My belly was pressed beneath the edge of the table. My shirt was stretched tight from my chest all the way down to my belt. The lower buttons held the fabric close to my body, with narrow gaps forming between them. With every breath, I felt the pressure in my belly and against my shirt. It did not bother me.
I could feel the weight of the food inside me. My belly was full, taut, and heavy. When I leaned back slightly, it pushed even farther forward. I placed my palm on it and spent a moment feeling its firm curve beneath the fabric. Three pieces of pasta remained on the plate. I ate them one by one. I held the last one in my mouth for a moment. I tasted the filling, salt, butter, and soft dough. Then I swallowed and set down my fork. I was fuller than I needed to be. That was exactly how I liked it.
An envelope lay on the table beside the plate. A courier had delivered it that afternoon. My name was handwritten on the front. I recognized the handwriting immediately, even though I had not seen it in ten years. I waited until after the meal to open the envelope. Inside was a simple card. No photograph, no decorations, and no long message. Dad was inviting me to his house that evening. He was turning fifty-five and celebrating his birthday.
We had not seen each other in person for ten years.
I held the card between my fingers and read the address again. I knew it. The house was still the same. I stood up slowly. As I moved, my belly pressed against my shirt and pulled the fabric forward. I had to straighten up to get out from behind the table. When I put on my coat, I left it unbuttoned. It would not have closed over my belly anyway. I slipped the invitation into the inside pocket. I turned off the lights in the back of the restaurant, walked through the empty kitchen, and stepped outside. It was already evening. The air was cooler than it had been that afternoon, and after such a heavy meal, it felt good.
My car was parked nearby. Getting behind the wheel with a full belly took more time. I slid the seat back and loosened my shirt at the waist. My belly spread over my belt and pressed against the lower part of the steering wheel.
I started the engine. The invitation remained in my coat pocket. Dad’s house was less than an hour away.
A waiter walked me to the door. We said goodbye and shook hands.
I noticed his eyes drop to my belly for a moment. My shirt was still stretched tight over it, and my gut pushed prominently beneath the fabric. I liked it when people noticed. It did not bother me. Quite the opposite.
I stepped out of the restaurant and walked to my car.
I still had a roomy SUV, but getting inside with a belly measuring almost sixty inches around was no longer entirely easy. I had to turn sideways, hold on to the door, and get one leg in first. My belly pushed me forward as I moved and touched the steering wheel before I was properly seated.
Once I finally sat down, I slid the seat back. Even then, there was little space between my belly and the steering wheel. Only one thought went through my mind. How would Dad react when he saw me? He would probably pass out.
We had seen each other on FaceTime. But he had never seen my whole body. Even on Instagram, I only posted portraits. My face, shoulders, and at most my chest. There was no real way to tell from those pictures that I had a barrel-sized gut and weighed nearly three hundred pounds.
Almost all my fat settled in my belly. My face was still firm, my shoulders broad, and my arms strong. That made the difference between what Dad knew from a screen and what he was about to see that evening even greater. Over ten years in the food industry, especially while reviewing restaurants, my belly had grown month after month. I remembered one year when I gained almost forty pounds. It was not an accident or a phase I wanted to reverse. I loved food, overeating, and the moments when my work was already done but the waiter brought out one more good dish.
Those were the moments I liked best. I was already full, my shirt stretched tight and my belly heavy, yet another plate would land in front of me. I looked down at the gut filling the space between my body and the steering wheel. I placed my palm on it and slowly stroked it.
When I reached town, I started feeling nervous. It was a birthday celebration. I did not know who else would be there. I had not seen those people in ten years, and apart from Dad, I had no contact with any of them. I needed to calm down. I needed something sweet.
I parked outside a bakery and went in. Behind the counter stood a man I recognized immediately. Anton. A classmate from elementary school. He was tall and wiry, with a prominent nose and an unattractive, hard-looking face. We greeted each other. He did not recognize me. I did not make an issue of it. That suited me.
I looked into the display case. I needed something sweet and did not want to think about it for long. I chose four cream-filled wafer bars, a cream puff, a slice of banana cake, and a slice of carrot cake.
I sat down at a small table against the wall. Anton placed a full plate in front of me. The wafer bars, cream puff, banana cake, and carrot cake covered almost the entire surface. I started with the cream puff. I took it apart with a spoon and first broke off a piece of choux pastry coated in icing. I bit into it slowly. The pastry was firm, the icing sweet, and beneath it was a soft layer of whipped cream. Then came the custard. I ate with pleasure. I loved the taste of something sweet, especially when I was already full. My belly was still packed from the third meal, but dessert was different. Sweetness always opened up more room inside me.
The banana cake melted in my mouth. I cut off a large piece with the spoon and put the whole thing into my mouth. I tasted banana, cream, and soft sponge cake. I immediately cut another piece.
I picked up the carrot cake with my hand. I ate it in large bites. Icing stuck to my fingers, and the dense cake disappeared quickly. To finish, I ate the four cream-filled wafer bars. One after another, they vanished into my gut.
I leaned back against the chair. My belly relaxed, bulged forward, and pressed against the edge of the small table. My shirt stretched even tighter over it. Anton asked whether I wanted anything else. I thanked him. I placed my palm on my gut and slowly stroked it. It was heavy, full, and taut. The nervousness faded. I stood up and felt better. Before leaving, I stopped at the counter and ordered another slice of carrot cake to go.
I arrived outside the house. Lights were on in both the living room and the kitchen. I sat there for a moment, looking at the windows. Then I lowered my eyes to my belly.
I checked my face in the rearview mirror. I had a fresh haircut. I loved a high skin fade. It made my ears stick out even more. My beard was trimmed exactly the way I wanted it. I looked good. A handsome man. I would have to work out tomorrow. A gut like mine needed muscles to go with it. That combination was the foundation of a real man.
Getting out was difficult, but I managed. I stood beside the car and properly adjusted my pants. Then I pulled down my shirt and tucked it in again. I had to fix it mainly in front, where my gut kept pulling it back out. My waist was basically still narrow. I bought pants with a thirty-six-inch waist. But my belly was enormous. I grabbed it with both hands and patted it. Then I walked up to the door. I knocked.
I stood outside the door and waited. I heard footsteps inside. They approached slowly and firmly, exactly as I remembered them. The door opened, and Dad stood there. At that moment, both our eyes lit up. Wide smiles spread across our faces. Dad had barely changed at all. His head was still completely bald, and his mustache was still thick, with only a few gray hairs here and there. His blue, kind eyes looked at me. Beside them were our large, protruding ears, the ones I had inherited from him.
When he stepped toward me, he ran into the full size of my gut. He had to move back slightly just to reach me. Then he wrapped his arms around me anyway and pulled me close. I felt the strong pressure of his body through my shirt and across my belly. The hug was firm and warm. Dad held me for a while without speaking. I held him too. “Welcome, Ernest.”
I stood in the doorway, my gut still pressed against his body, and looked at his face. He was my father. The same steady gaze, the same mustache, the same ears. Only the lines around his eyes were a little deeper. He released me and stepped back into the hall so I could enter. He had to step farther back than he expected. My belly occupied almost all the space in front of me. I crossed the threshold slowly and turned sideways to avoid the doorframe. I was home.
Suddenly, I realized how narrow the hallway was. It had never been a grand entrance hall, but now I felt that if I leaned my back against one wall, my belly would hit the opposite one. I stopped for a moment and looked ahead. My gut filled most of the space. Dad kept smiling at me. It was obvious how glad he was to have me there. We went into the kitchen. The smell of food hung in the air. I looked around. I was surprised that no one else was there. Only Dad. It was supposed to be his birthday celebration.
For a moment, we simply looked at each other. Dad was smiling, with tears in his eyes. He came over, hugged me again, and gave me a firm, fatherly kiss. Then he snapped his fingers hard against my ears, exactly as he had when I was twelve. It hurt, but in a good way. It moved me. Tears began running down my face. For a while, neither of us spoke.
The house had not changed. The kitchen was neatly arranged, and the table in the living room was set. I wondered where everyone else was. Dad had invited them the day before. He wanted to spend this evening alone with me. I felt quite relieved. I stroked my belly and then felt a little embarrassed. Dad noticed. I only smiled.
I laughed awkwardly. I had to do something. I could see that Dad wanted to ask a question too. In the end, all he said was, “You’re a big man. You look like my father’s brother. When we were kids, we were always grabbing him by that belly.” He came over and gave my stomach a solid slap. It startled me. Then Dad simply pointed toward the set table. He hoped he had prepared enough food for his son.
Dad started a brief conversation about everything I still had to tell him. He ended by saying that I had to be properly hungry after the drive. He decided he had probably made enough food. Meanwhile, I was already wondering how I was going to manage it all when my gut was still full. But I could not disappoint Dad.
I went into the living room and sat at the table. My belly touched the edge. I was curious about what Dad had cooked. He had always been a good cook. He brought in a tureen filled with tripe soup. I loved it. My eyes lit up, and my large ears turned red with excitement. Dad filled my bowl to the brim. The soup nearly spilled over the edge. I remembered the pastries I had finished less than an hour earlier.
I stood in the hallway by the bathroom with my shirt completely unbuttoned. After dinner, my belly was enormous, hard, and taut. It projected far out in front of me and rose even higher with every breath. I could barely keep my balance. My belt was still fastened. It cut into me beneath my belly, and the buckle pressed directly into its lower part. I could hardly breathe properly anymore. After seven courses and two bottles of white wine, I was completely stuffed, overfed, and slightly drunk. I needed a moment of peace.
I leaned my back against the wall by the bathroom, tilted myself slightly backward, and tried to relax my belly. With one hand, I lifted it, while with the other I felt around for the buckle. I could barely see it past my gut. My fingers slipped, and I could not get a proper hold on it. After several failed attempts, I asked Dad to help me. He came over with a smile. He bent down, reached beneath my belly, and opened the buckle without any trouble. The belt immediately loosened. My stomach dropped a little lower, and I could finally exhale. Then Dad gave the taut side of my belly a solid pat. He remarked that this was what the gut of a man who had already put away six courses looked like.
I only laughed. I did not have the strength to explain anything. I knew he was right. I also asked him to lift my belly for a moment. I needed to relieve the pressure beneath it and properly adjust my pants.
Dad stepped directly in front of me. He bent down, slid both hands beneath the lower part of my stomach, and slowly lifted it. He had to put some effort into it. My gut filled his entire forearms and bulged even farther forward when he raised it.
I felt immediate relief. I straightened up, pressed my back against the wall, and finally took a deep breath. Dad held its entire weight in his hands for a moment. Then he looked at it and asked how big I thought my belly might be now. I did not know the exact measurement. I had not measured myself for a long time before the trip, and after this dinner, the result would not have been normal anyway. I looked down at the enormous mass projecting in front of my body and estimated that after all the food and wine, it had to be considerably larger than usual.
Dad lifted it slightly again, as if testing its weight. I only smiled contentedly. I was packed with food all the way up to my throat, but I liked the feeling.
As I stood there in the hallway with Dad’s hands beneath my belly, my mind returned to the beginning of dinner. The tripe soup had tasted excellent. It was thick, intensely flavored, and exactly the way I liked it. I ate the first full bowl faster than I had planned. When I emptied it, I served myself another. Dad commented that this was not everything and that I should save room for the dishes still to come.
He had no idea that even then I had no room left. After the second bowl of soup, I could already feel my stomach was full and my belly taut. But I found my digestive enzyme capsules in my pocket. They always helped me in situations like this. I took out two capsules, put them in my mouth, and washed them down with several spoonfuls of tripe soup. They usually began working quickly. I finished the second bowl, and Dad carried it away. A moment later, he brought out stuffed ravioli. The deep bowl was filled to the rim. Dinner was only just properly beginning. Dad considered the soup an opening course and the ravioli an appetizer.
He had not been stingy with the portions. I noticed that he had served me more than himself. I looked at both plates, and it was obvious. That was a proper father. He knew how much I could eat, or at least he thought he did. I started slowly. The ravioli were soft, full of filling, and coated in sauce. One piece after another disappeared from the deep bowl. The digestive enzymes were already beginning to work. The pressure in my stomach eased slightly, but food was still piling up inside me.
My shirt was starting to become a problem. The lower buttons were stretched tight, and the fabric across my belly had flattened into a smooth surface. With every bite, I felt my stomach push farther forward. The shirt was still holding, but only barely. I loved that feeling. I could feel the growing volume, the pressure beneath the fabric, and the slow tightening of my entire belly. It was intoxicating. I knew I was already full, yet I also felt satisfied that I was continuing. The last two pieces remained on the plate. I ate the first, then the second. I dragged my spoon through the last of the sauce, leaving the bowl empty. Dad watched me with satisfaction. As he walked past, he gave me a firm, affectionate pat on the shoulders. Nothing needed to be said. It was obvious that he was glad I liked the food.
He took the empty plates and went into the kitchen. I heard him setting down dishes and preparing the next course. I remained at the table, leaned against the back of the chair, and placed my palm on my taut belly. The shirt had almost no room left across it. Dad appeared in the kitchen doorway after a moment. He asked whether he could keep bringing out the food.
I smiled and looked at my belly. I was waiting for the digestive enzymes to take full effect and ease the pressure a little. Dad placed a full plate of goulash in front of me, along with a thick slice of bread. Goulash as the main course. Typical. Then he sat down and calmly remarked that this was still only the second appetizer.
I was beginning to worry about what would come next. Even so, I dug in eagerly. I loved food, and Dad’s goulash was exactly what it should have been. Thick, robust, and properly filling. Spoonful after spoonful disappeared as I tore off large pieces of bread to go with it. When I finished, I thoroughly wiped the plate clean with the final piece. It was almost as clean as if it had been washed. By then, I could clearly feel that the buttons were at risk.
I had experienced it before. I knew the pressure and the short sound of a button giving way and flying off. The gaps between them were now stretched open. The shirt was holding together only by the strength of the threads.
Dad smiled so broadly that his large ears moved. He asked whether I could possibly be full already. I only shook my head. I could not disappoint him. He had put too much work into all of this. But I did wonder why he had made so much when he knew I would be the only guest. He had cooked for an entire regiment. I let it go. Dad disappeared into the kitchen again.
I already knew I had to unbutton my shirt. The house was warm enough, and the food had made me sweat. The pressure beneath the fabric was too great. I undid the first strained button, then another. When the lower ones gave way too, my belly immediately bulged forward. Its lower part pressed against the edge of the table and filled the entire space between me and the tabletop. I had to move back. I slid the chair away, spread my legs, and let my belly hang between my thighs. Its upper part still touched the edge of the table. To reach my plate, I had to remain slightly bent forward. It was not comfortable, but I could still eat that way. Dad returned from the kitchen with another serving. He placed chicken and rice in front of me. Diet food.
I felt a little embarrassed sitting at the table with my belly completely exposed. My shirt hung open at my sides, and my entire stomach was bare. I could feel my large ears turning red.
Dad only smiled. He remarked that I had finally made myself comfortable and that I would still need the extra room. I began to eat. First the thigh, then the back, the wing, the stuffing, and the rice. Cucumber salad on the side. I ate slowly, but I did not stop. I managed half the chicken without much hesitation. The plate in front of me gradually emptied. Dad was satisfied. He watched me calmly, and it was clear this was exactly what he had expected. I did not leave food behind. Once it was in front of me, I finished it. I picked up the final grains of rice with my fork, then finished the rest of the salad too. Nothing remained on the plate. I set down my silverware, put both hands behind my head, and leaned far back. I needed to relieve the pressure and stretch my entire belly.
I gave my stomach a deep stretch. At that moment, my gut rose and pushed back onto the table. Its upper part struck the plate and moved it several inches forward. Dad came over. He placed his palm on my stomach and slowly ran it across the surface. He could feel how taut and full it was. He asked whether I was still managing.
I felt that I had to stand up. At least for a while. I needed to change position and reduce the pressure a little. But I was so overstuffed that I was not sure I could even get up. It had happened once before while I was testing a hotel menu. When I finished, I could barely make it to the bathroom. My belly almost pulled me forward when I turned. If not for the bathroom counter, I probably would have fallen. So this time, I braced both hands against the table and slowly stood. I felt immediate relief.
My belly dropped away from the edge of the table and pulled forward under its full weight. I could feel how heavy it was. I had to lean slightly backward to balance myself. I loved that feeling. When I straightened and pushed my gut out in front of me, it looked even larger than it had while I was sitting. My shirt hung fully open at my sides, and my belly moved heavily with every step. I slowly walked into the kitchen. Dad was serving homemade potato pancakes. Thick, properly browned, and made exactly the way they were at home. I had not eaten them in ten years.
I looked at the baking tray and then at my plate. Dad had given me almost the entire small tray. Six large pieces. In my mind, I started counting how many courses there had already been. Tripe soup. Ravioli. Goulash. Chicken and rice. This was the fifth. And Dad had said dinner would have seven courses.
With effort, I sat back down at the table and started on the potato pancakes. They were rich, crisp around the edges, and soft inside. Grease ran down my fingers and around my mouth. It was exactly the flavor I remembered. I had not eaten them in ten years, and now I savored every piece. Dad watched me and began laughing. He pointed at me as though admiring the appetite and pleasure with which I ate. I was already completely full. I felt as though I might burst. But two pieces still remained in front of me, each about four inches square and more than an inch thick. Little bite-sized snacks. I already knew I probably could not manage them. Then he stood up, picked up one potato pancake, and walked over to me. Laughing, he said I had to eat everything. Then he put the entire piece into my mouth.
I looked at him tenderly. Tears came to my eyes, but I smiled. I chewed slowly, even though I barely had the strength. I had to work through every bite thoroughly just to be able to swallow it. Dad waited until I finished, then handed me the last piece too. I accepted that one as well. As I slowly chewed it, Dad leaned over me from behind. He placed both hands on my belly and massaged it firmly. My stomach was hard, taut, and heavy. It barely moved beneath his palms. He remarked that my belly had to measure at least sixty inches that day. Then he lightly flicked my reddened ear again. I continued chewing the last piece of potato pancake and tried to get it down. Bent over the table, with my shirt completely open and my gut pressed against the edge, I could only hope the sixth course would not be larger than this one.
I prepared myself for more food. I felt around in my pocket for the digestive enzyme capsules and took out two more. I was already intoxicated by the feeling of being completely overfed. The pressure, heaviness, and growing belly were putting me into a state in which I gradually lost my inhibitions. I wanted to know what would come next. A pleasant sweet smell began drifting from the kitchen. I recognized it immediately. Crêpes.
Dad set down a large plate in front of me. It held ten thick, rolled crêpes. Some were filled with sweet farmer’s cheese, others with fruit preserves, and the rest with Nutella. The entire plate was generously dusted with powdered sugar. I finished what remained of the first bottle of wine and opened another. I needed plenty of liquid to wash down the food. I started on the crêpes. I took two at once, one in each hand, and alternated bites between them. One from the first, then one from the second. I had always been able to eat a lot of crêpes, and now they disappeared faster than anything before them. Another one. Then another. Sweet cheese, preserves, Nutella. Sweet filling, soft pastry, and sugar on my fingers. I washed them down with wine and continued without stopping. Before long, the plate was empty.
Only then did I notice that Dad had barely eaten half the courses. He had not touched the potato pancakes. He had not eaten any crêpes. He had taken only a little goulash, and even before that, he had served himself substantially less than me. It was strange, but I had not thought about it while eating. In the end, I asked why he had not eaten any potato pancakes or crêpes and why he had only taken a small portion of goulash. Dad smiled. He had simply saved them for me. It made him happy that I liked the food. I looked at the empty plate and then at my belly. After the crêpes, it was even larger and more taut. My shirt had long since become irrelevant, and the chair pressed against my back because my entire body had to adjust to the weight of the belly in front of me.
Meanwhile, Dad picked up the plate and returned to the kitchen. I remained seated, washing down the final bites with wine and wondering whether the crêpes had been the sixth course.
If they had, only one remained.
After the crêpes, I could feel that I also had to loosen my belt. The buckle was cutting deep beneath my belly and pressed harder with every breath.
At the same time, I needed to use the bathroom. I braced both hands against the table and tried to stand. The first attempt failed. My gut held me against the edge of the table, and my feet were too far apart. I moved the chair back, braced myself again, and rose with effort.
As soon as I stood, I lost my balance. My belly pulled me forward, and the wine had done its part. I had to lean backward and grab the back of the chair with one hand. For a moment, I simply stood there and waited for the room to stop spinning. Then I slowly walked into the hallway. Every step was uncertain. My belly moved heavily in front of my body, and I instinctively supported it with one hand. With the other, I touched the wall and furniture to keep from losing my balance. My shirt was completely unbuttoned. It hung at my sides, and my sweaty belly was fully exposed. After six courses, digestive enzymes, and almost two bottles of wine, I was overfed to the very limit of what I could endure.
For a moment, I simply stood in front of the bathroom and tried to catch my breath. My belt was finally loose, and my pants no longer held me so tightly. Dad looked at me with mild concern. It was obvious how badly overstuffed I was. I looked at the door. A standard twenty-four-inch bathroom door. Dad smiled and asked whether I would fit through it. I felt embarrassed. My ears turned red again, but I had no other choice. I had to.
I turned sideways and slowly squeezed through the narrow opening. My belly caught on the frame, and I had to lift it with both hands and press it against my body. I barely made it into the small bathroom. Once I was finally inside, I leaned against the sink. I rested my entire belly on it so I could reach my pants. Only then could I unfasten them and finally relieve myself. I stayed there for a while and rested. My stomach pressed against the sink and rose heavily with every breath.
When I returned to the hallway, I again had to pass through the narrow door sideways. My belly swayed heavily as I walked, and I supported it with one hand. I went back into the living room.
A large birthday cake stood on the table. Candles shaped like the number fifty-five burned on top. For a moment, I forgot about all the food and the pressure in my belly. I walked over to Dad, hugged him, and kissed him. When I pressed against him, my gut rested against his whole body. Dad felt it between us like a large, firm cushion. I wished him a happy birthday. Dad leaned toward the cake and blew out the candles. I asked what he had wished for. He only smiled and said he wanted me to be happy and healthy. That was exactly like him. He wished for nothing for himself. I took the knife and began cutting the cake. I cut a generous piece for him and an even larger one for myself. The frosting squeezed out at the sides beneath the knife, and the thick layers of cake began separating. I placed both pieces on plates. Only then did I realize this was the final course.
Chapter Four. Saying Goodbye.
I stayed overnight in the living room. Dad made up the couch for me. It was large and spacious, but when I stood in front of it, I still had to think for a moment about how I was going to lie down. I was so overfed and drunk that I was glad I did not have to go anywhere else. My belly was hard, taut, and heavy. It pressed beneath my ribs, and every deep breath was difficult.
I slowly sat on the edge of the couch. The frame quietly creaked beneath me. For a while, I simply sat there, legs apart and belly resting between them. Then I braced myself with one hand and carefully lowered onto my side. I would not have been able to breathe on my back. When I rolled sideways, my enormous belly spread across the mattress. It sank into the cushions and took up almost half the available space. I supported it with one hand so its weight would not pull me forward. The couch was wide, but I still felt crowded on it. My backside was against the backrest, my knees slightly bent, and my gut pushed all the way to the edge. If I shifted even a little in my sleep, I might end up on the floor. I hoped I would not fall.
Dad stood in the doorway for a while longer, checking whether I needed anything. I only shook my head. I did not have the strength to speak. I only needed to close my eyes and let my stomach work. He turned off the main light and left a small lamp burning in the corner. Then he went away. I remained on my side and breathed slowly. With every breath, my belly pressed against the couch, and with every exhale, it barely moved. I could feel the entire dinner, the pastries, and the cake inside it. I was filled to the limit of what I could still endure. Even so, I was content. I pulled up the blanket, but it would not reach across my belly. It covered only my legs and part of my side. I did not care about anything more. I closed my eyes, rested my palm against the taut side of my gut, and tried not to move. After a while, I fell asleep.
In the morning, the smell of coffee and the familiar noise of the kitchen woke me. Dad was unloading the dishwasher. The clinking of plates and silverware mixed with the sound of the coffee machine. I opened my eyes and lay there for a while. My belly was still enormous, full, and heavy. It felt as though the entire dinner was still inside me. With every breath, my gut pressed against the couch. I tried to sit up. It was not easy. I braced myself first on my elbow, then on my palm, but the heavy weight in front of my body kept pulling me back. I had to rock several times and gradually force myself upright. Finally, I managed to sit on the edge of the couch. I stayed there for a while, catching my breath. My belly hung between my legs and pushed forward. My pajama pants were wedged deep beneath my navel. The waistband had disappeared completely beneath my stomach.
I had the drive home ahead of me that day. I tried to stand, but the couch was low. There was nothing solid to grab. I pressed my palms down on either side of me and pushed, but my backside barely lifted from the cushion. My belly got in the way between my thighs and pulled me forward. I sat back down. For a moment, I considered how to get out of the situation. Then I turned sideways, shifted my weight forward, and slowly rolled onto my stomach. I slid my knees from the couch to the floor. I knelt in front of it, my belly pressed against the edge of the seat. I braced both hands against the couch and began lifting myself. First I straightened one leg, then the other. With effort, I forced myself upright. Once I finally stood, I remained bent over for a while, gasping for breath.
Then I headed to the small bathroom. I stopped at the door. It looked even narrower than it had the night before. I turned slightly sideways and tried to squeeze through. My belly pressed against the frame. I felt as though it had been easier yesterday. I sucked in my stomach, which had almost no effect, and carefully forced myself through the doorway. The frame pressed me on both sides, but I eventually made it inside. In the bathroom, I rested my belly on the sink. Its weight spread across the porcelain, and standing became easier immediately. I looked in the mirror.
My face was a little puffy from sleep, and my beard was rumpled, but I still smiled at myself. A fine-looking man. I turned on the water and washed thoroughly. My face, neck, and beard. I paid the most attention to my ears. I liked them clean. I ran my fingers over the large outer ears, washed both the front and the back, and dried them carefully. Then I looked at my haircut. The high skin fade was already beginning to grow out. The sides were not as clean as they had been a few days earlier.
I needed to see my barber.
I went into the kitchen. Coffee was waiting for me on the table. And not only coffee.
In front of me were sausages, eggs, bacon, ham, cheese, farmer’s cheese, and sliced bread. Doughnuts sat beside the plates for the coffee. I smiled. “Is all this for me?” Dad pointed to a travel bag sitting by the counter. “Yes. And that too. You’re not going to starve. Now eat.”
Obediently, I sat down. I had to move the chair back slightly just to fit at the table. My belly was still full from dinner, heavy and taut, but once I smelled the food, it was as though that no longer mattered.
I began to eat. First the sausages and eggs. Then the bacon, ham, and cheese. I cut slices of bread and ate them with everything in front of me. I ate steadily, without stopping. My belly pressed against the edge of the table. With every additional bite, it became harder and pushed farther forward. My pajama pants were still caught deep beneath it. I finished the first coffee and reached for the doughnuts. I tore one apart, bit into it, and washed it down with another sip. Then the second. Finally, I finished the remaining farmer’s cheese as well. Before long, nothing was left on the table.
I leaned back. The chair creaked beneath me. I set my coffee cup on top of my belly. It stayed there without any trouble. I sat, breathed slowly, and let the food settle. My stomach was even larger than it had been when I woke up. It pressed beneath my chest and moved only slightly with every breath.
Dad came over. He leaned down and lightly flicked one of my ears, then the other.
I looked at the empty table and then at my belly.
That question had always been strange to me. Magical and provocative at the same time.
I had had enough. I had just eaten breakfast for perhaps five people. My belly was full, hard, and taut. Any normal person would say they could not eat another bite. But a different thought immediately came to me.
What would happen if I said I wanted more? I looked at Dad and let the thought hang between us for a moment. Then I leaned farther back, placed my palm on my stomach, and answered, “I’m waiting to see what comes next.”
Surprise appeared on Dad’s face. “Are you serious?”
I no longer wanted to back down. Surely I could still fit in something small.
I nodded. Without another word, Dad left the kitchen. For a moment, I heard him open the refrigerator and move things around. Then he returned. In his hands, he carried the final quarter of the cake. I had completely forgotten about it. In fact, we had not properly finished it the night before. Or rather, I had not finished it. Dad may have had one piece. He set the cake in front of me.
“You’re not leaving until you finish it.”
It was large, rich, filled with sweet cheese, fatty, and dense. Even that final quarter had to weigh nearly a pound. Dad handed me a fork. I smiled and asked him for another coffee. Then I leaned toward the cake and began eating.
The first bites went down easily. The sweet cheese filling was cold, thick, and sweet. The cake was soaked and soft. I ate slowly, but without stopping. After breakfast, this was a genuine challenge. My gut pressed into the edge of the table. I felt every additional bite as though there were nowhere left for it to go inside me. Even so, I continued. I began to sweat. First on my forehead, then beneath my shirt. I felt sweat running down my back. Dad placed another coffee in front of me and remained by the counter. He watched me. I kept eating.
After some time, half of that final quarter still remained in front of me. I stared at it and breathed slowly. I held the fork in my hand, but I was no longer lifting it. My stomach was completely full. My belly hardened beneath my hands and pressed upward beneath my ribs. I had to lean back just to draw breath. Then I turned toward Dad. “Feed me, please.”
I finished the last bite. It took me a while to swallow it. Then Dad gently placed his palm on my belly and stroked it for a moment. He asked whether I was all right. I nodded. Breathing was difficult, but I was all right. Just completely filled. Then he told me I had to get ready for the drive.
I slowly stood up from the table and walked into the living room. I felt every step in my belly. Pulling my pants over my legs was not a problem, but fastening them beneath my gut was quite an effort. I had to lift it, press the fabric against my waist, and find the button without being able to see it. Eventually, I managed. I decided not to wear a belt. It would have served no purpose.
I chose a new shirt. Size 4XL. I hoped it would be enough. My massive body, broad chest, and large arms could turn even a regular-cut shirt into a slim fit. I pulled it over my shoulders. The sleeves fit tightly, the fabric stretched across my chest, and the two sides of the shirt barely met over my belly.
I tried to button it, but I could not bend forward properly. I was so full that I could not even see the lower buttons. I called Dad. “Button me up, please. I can’t do it myself.”
He came over and stood in front of me. He started at the top. The first buttons closed without difficulty. Lower down, he had to pull both sides of the shirt together. The fabric stretched over the top of my belly. Dad gripped the shirt more firmly, pulled it together, and forced the button through the hole. Then the next one. At the widest point, it became a struggle. The shirt slipped beneath his hands, and my stomach pushed the fabric apart. In the end, however, he managed to fasten the final button as well. The shirt was new. It could still take some strain.
Dad then helped me tuck it into my pants. It worked at the sides, but in front, my belly immediately pulled it back out. He had to lift my gut slightly while using his other hand to push the fabric beneath the waistband. He helped me with my socks too. I could not reach my feet by myself. I sat down, and he knelt in front of me, pulled on my socks, and then put on my shoes. I looked at him, and suddenly tears began running down my face. He was taking care of me the way he had when I was little. Dad said nothing. He simply tied my shoelaces and stood up.
When I was ready, we went into the small hallway. I stood in front of him. I took hold of his large ears, gently pulled them, and then hugged him. My belly pressed between us against his body and pushed him all the way back to the wall. Dad wrapped his arms firmly around my shoulders. He began to cry. We held each other without speaking. Then I pulled away and went out to the car.
Getting in was not easy. I lowered myself onto the seat and tried to fit my belly beneath the steering wheel. Once I finally settled in, my shirt creaked. Several short pops sounded. The buttons over my stomach flew off. One struck the steering wheel, another fell between the seats, and another disappeared somewhere near the pedals. The shirt spread open and exposed my entire taut belly. I did not care. I started the engine, looked at Dad, and waved. He stood in front of the house and watched me leave. I pulled onto the road. Tears blurred my view.
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