“... well, if you’re free tonight... my mom has invited you around to our house for dinner. I know you’re probably busy, so I won’t mind at all if you say no... but she thought that as you helped me out with the summer job and everything...”, mom blurts out, averting my gaze.
I cut her off mid sentence, “no, I’d love to, what time should I arrive?”. She beams back at me. Despite mom’s protestations, I suspect she would have been disappointed had I turned the offer down. We spend the rest of the day doing our usual poolside routine, and enjoy a scrumptious BBQ feast that mom prepared on my large outdoor grill-master. As Autumn fast approaches I notice that the days are getting steadily cooler, to the point that I can see mom’s fat nipples standing to attention beneath her latest, and already too small, bikini, threatening to pierce a hole right through the fabric.
That afternoon, once mom had left for the day, I spend an hour or so getting myself ready for our dinner date. I don’t have many clothes that still fit, but mercifully I am able to squeeze myself into a pair of black jeans and a crisp white shirt. Suitably groomed, I set out on a casual stroll in the fading evening light, and knock on her now familiar front door a few minutes later. After a nervy 10 seconds or so, I see a wide silhouette through the door’s tempered glass, and as it swings open I am greeted by a sight that takes my breath away.
I’m used to seeing mom in her sweats and t-shirts around the house, or in her bikini by the pool, but this evening she’s wearing a long silk maxi-dress, that hugs her every roll. Hair curled and flowing, it tickles the top of her plunging neckline, which gives me a dangerous flash of hefty side boob as it wafts gently in the evening breeze. I hand over the bottle of Brut Champagne I brought with me to say thank you, and we exchange pleasantries before she invites me inside.
As I walk through the entrance hall I sneak a glance at the photos lining the walls. I recognise a few from our old front room - there’s grandma’s parents looking sour and grumpy, mom on a day out at the beach, the whole family at the wedding of a distant Fairfax relative. These photos didn’t make the cut for our new house, and were currently gathering dust somewhere in the attic. Lost to time, and soon to be forgotten.
Waddling around the corner, I enter a small but pleasantly decorated dining room. Three places have been set, and a delicious looking roast dinner is resting on the table top, a whole shoulder of lamb sizzling gently - it must have just come out of the oven. Grandma and mom are already seated, and I take my place, salivating as I look around the sea of food. The dinner starts nicely enough, we make small talk about my past, what I think of the town, how Lisa is doing at her job (I lie of course), all the while tucking into the feast laid out in front of me. I notice that mom is being remarkably restrained - I’ve seen her eat four times as much as she’s managed for her main - and is casting nervous glances at Grandma with every mouthful.
As Grandma clears the plates and prepares pudding in the adjoining kitchen, I take the opportunity to whisper to mom, “is your mom on your back again about, well, you know?”. She nods glumly in response, her belly rumbling audibly. Before I can press any further grandma appears holding a large chocolate cake, which she sets down triumphantly in the middle of the table. She clears her throat. “Now, I baked this before we’d met Jack, so I’m sorry, I’m sure this isn’t what you want to be eating given your condition”.
“My condition?”, I respond in a mock confused tone, knowing full well what she was implying. Grandma looks momentarily taken aback, but regains her composure soon enough. “I just assumed that given your size you’d want to be cutting back on the sweet stuff. I know that it’s very difficult for Lisa to keep her hand steady when she’s around fattening food. Speaking of which... she’s been putting on weight over the summer and I know she hasn’t been sneaking any food at home. Which leaves...”. She grabs a handful of mom’s belly underneath her dress and shakes it, causing mom’s face to turn a bright red, and looks at me sternly.
I break into a wide smile, and unable to stop myself I laugh back, “you’ve got me! I’ve been letting Lisa eat whatever she wants when she’s at my house, but then again, my house my rules, right? She’s beautiful, even if a little overweight, and if she wants to eat unhealthily... well, I say let her eat cake”. With that I pick up the cake slice and lean across the table, my belly spilling out onto its surface, and cut myself a hearty piece. Taking a large bite, I groan, “mmmmm, it’s so good, well worth a couple of extra pounds”.
Taking my lead, mom too rises from her seat and cuts herself an even bigger slice, picking it up in her hands and stuffing it greedily into her expectant mouth. Icing smeared across her hands and face, she gobbles it down and goes back for another, and between us we devour the entire cake in a matter of minutes. A good show, but boy am I stuffed, and instinctively I undo the top button of my jeans to give me belly a bit of breathing room.
Grandma looks on in horror, a vein pulsing in her temple, at the gluttonous pigs sitting at her dinner table, our two flabby belly spilling onto its surface. Shaking with rage, she rises from her seat and screams, “out! Out the pair of you! If you want to gorge yourselves and grow morbidly obese then you’ll do it under someone else’s roof. Out!”.
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