And to all a good night

Merry Christmas guys!

So, I know this blog is usually about the joy of excess, and I mean, obviously, Christmas feasting is a gainer or encourager's societally indulged wet dream. I personally have a whole tin of Christmas cookies a dear friend sent to me to stuff the BF but, in this time of happiness and excess, I just wanted to mention to remember to, if you can (and don't feel bad if you can't, it happens to the best of us), try and donate to someone less fortunate than you. I did a lot of donating this season with Heifer.org, an organization that donates animals to families in developing nations to help them eat and be financially self sufficient and successful.

You can see their whole catalogue of ways to donate here.

I am so blessed to be able to give to others, and I hope you all are too. I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas, and it leads into a prosperous, exciting, healthful and healing 2011. Thanks for reading.

Have the merriest of Christmases.

Pie Shakes

Founds this great recipe on a blog I read, and though I have yet to try it, thought it was a worthy addition to any gainer or encourager's recipe aresenal.

Post Thanksgiving Pie Shakes

Do you guys have any favorite super caloric Holiday recipes? Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving!

Lots To Be Thankful For

Happy Thanksgiving guys! In the spirit of thankfully reflecting, I'd just love to say that I am super thankful for everyone who reads my blog, and the really thoughtful comments I've been getting lately. You're all awesome. And remember, Thanksgiving is the one day a year where it's practically a law that you should go and get stuffed (at least in the US) so don't skimp on the stuffing! To show just how thankful I am, here's a sweet, little Thanksgiving fantasy that hopefully will inspire you all to eat huge today (and tomorrow, and the next day, and the -you get the idea).

 Lots To Be Thankful For

     James was excited. For the first time in the three years they'd been together, he and Rory were having Thanksgiving on their own. Although he was a little bummed that Rory's work obligations had made it wildly impractical for them to fly back to their families' in the North-East, he was totally thrilled at the idea that they got to spend a quiet, romantic Thanksgiving together. 


     James had lots to be thankful for; the past year had been one of the most successful of his and Rory's life. Both were doing spectacularly well professionally, they had moved into a beautiful new house in LA, and life was generally awesome. Their relationship was stronger than ever, and Sean had never been happier. Or bigger for that matter.


     Over the span of their three years together, Rory had lovingly packed more than a hundred pounds onto James, and they had both enjoyed ever second of it. 


     Rory had been working for days to make the the perfect Thanksgiving feast for Sean. 


"It's my fault we can't go back East honey," Rory said with a smile, "The least I can do is cook dinner for you!"


   All week the refrigerator and the pantry had been filling up with ingredients for the big day. Rory had kept the exact menu a secret, but James was sure that it was going to be as calorie packed a Thanksgiving feast as possible. James loved when Rory cooked for him, cause Rory was the king of sneaking extra calories into recipes, and it always got James going when after he finished eating something, Rory would casually inform him that there had been a few thousand more calories in the dish that anyone would think.


   When James woke up on Thanksgiving morning, the house was already full of the smell of wonderful smelling food. Just as James was about to heave his 290 some odd pound frame out of bed, Rory appeared in the door of the bedroom carrying a tray laden with all of Jame's favorite breakfast foods.


"Breakfast in bed for the most adorable boyfriend in the world."


"Aw, you didn't have to honey..."


"Of course I did" Rory smirked, "I need something to keep you busy while I cook. You hang out here, watch TV or read or whatever you want to do to relax, and dinner will be ready in a few hours."


The day crawled on, and James ate and relaxed. When Rory told him dinner would be ready in an hour, he hopped into the shower. The warm water felt good rushing over his broad shoulders and down his thick back. He soaped up his belly and took a second to revel in just how big he had become. As is felt the size of his gut, he thought about how anyone looking at him would have a hard time believing that a few short years ago, he had been a densely muscled, lean college middleweight wrestler. He caught himself in the mirror as he stepped out of the shower and chuckled to himself that he looked much more like he had been a linebacker, not someone who would starve himself to make weight.


James squeezed himself into a french cuffed button down and a snug pair of size 42 dress pants and spritzed himself with cologne. The shirt was was too tight, with football shaped gaps forming between the strained buttons and revealing little slits of belly, but James knew Rory would love it, and since it was just the two of them for dinner, he figured he'd play up just how snug his dress clothes had become. 


As he entered the dining room, James immediadly realized that Rory had outdone himself. There in the candlelight was a table positively creaking with the weight of all the food Rory had lovingly prepared. The turkey was rubbed with herbs and butter and had been roasted with strips of bacon on top of it. There was a small mountain of mashed potatoes. Every kind of side dish you could possibly imagine. and then, almost comic in comparison, were the two placesettings for Rory and himself.


"Wow honey, I can't believe you cooked all this! How I am ever going to eat it all?"


Rory came up behind James wrapped his arms around his boyfriend, and drummed his fingers on James' almost 300 pound belly.


"I imagine you're going to eat it all one plate at a time."


The two sat down, and James started in on his feast. Plateful after plateful slowly began to stretch his belly. Everything was heavenly, and with every course, Rory seemed to produce a new perfectly paired wine or excellently crafted cocktail that kept James' wondering if he felt tipsy because of the booze or of the massive amount of food he already consumed. Somewhere around the third plate Jame's undid his belt, and somewhere around the fifth plate, the button on his too tight slacks mercifully gave way. Rory was visibly excited by both events. Finally, after he had lost track of the number of plates of Thanksgiving bounty he had consumed, James declared himself full. Rory kissed him and informed him he had one final dessert, and then James could stop. James groaned with the thought of more food, but agreed to humor his boyfriend.


Rory vanished into the kitchen, and after a few minutes returned with a ramekin of creme brulee which he placed down in front of James.


"I know it's not very Thanksgiving, but I know it's your favorite."


James smiled at the thoughtful gesture and kissed Rory.


"I am very thankful for you honey. More than anything else in my life I am thankful for you."


James picked up his spook and started to chip through the burt sugar on the top of the dessert and then when when he did, a strange sound clinked out as his spoon hit something in the ramekin.


"Oh honey" James chuckled, "I think you dropped something into the brulee while you were making it."


James looked over at Rory and saw him down on one knee. He looked at his spoon and there it was, a band of gold gleaming out from the pudding. 


Rory looked up at James with his big, brown, puppy dog eyes and said "Will you do me the honor of being my husband?"

   James smiled and kissed Rory deeply on the lips. "Of course I will."

-fin-

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

400 Is The New 300

When I first stumbled upon GainerWeb in the late 90s, 300 pounds was the pinnacle of hugeness for gaining. 200 or 250 were considered pretty damn big to most people. Yeah, a few guys would talk about wanting to be immobile as a fantasy, but in reality, few people made it to 300, much less anything higher. Even getting to 200 seemed hard for a lot of guys trying to find a way to integrate their desire to be big with what pressures they felt from their every day life.

It seems that now that 300 is much more “doable” than it was 10 years ago, and a lot more gainers are eying 400 as an ambitious, but not entirely impossible goal for their gaining. There are more guys gaining younger, and it seems, many more guys actually hitting 300 than there ever have been before.

I think a lot of factors have contributed to this shift, and I’m gonna try to examine a few of them here.

First, I think that the simple fact that people are fatter than they were 10 years ago making every aspect of getting up to and over 300 easier.  The average American is fatter than ever, and I guess that kind of provides a universal camouflage for someone that is intentionally gaining. If everyone around you isn’t bone thin, being a bit bigger than the other more average chubbies doesn’t seem so dramatic.

Kind of going hand in hand with my first point, portion sizes are bigger than ever and as a result, it’s easier for a gainer to pack away more calories on a daily basis without drawing any particular attention to themselves. Public transit is becoming more accommodating of bigger people, the world, at least in countries like U.S. are accommodating the expanding size of its citizens. As I mentioned before, the New York Times even did an article saying that beer guts were in!

I think the burgeoning of the community around gaining has been instrumental in letting gainers go bigger. Basically, the idea is that it’s tough to get to 300 on your own, but with a supportive group of like-minded people that share your interest in being bigger, it doesn’t feel as solitary a path. You often hear about guys that don’t want to gain on their own, or are waiting for Mr. Right, but few people ever talk about how the encouragement that people get from their pals on the internet, in addition to whatever gainer/encourager buddies they may have platonically around IRL really makes it easier to overeat and gain in a day to day capacity.

Apart from the obvious websites to look for fellow gainer/encourager types (www.BeefyFrat.com being the gold standard of gainer/encourager social networking), gaining based communities have popped up all over the Internet. There are thousands of videos on YouTube that focus on gaining. There are tons of new blogs, gainers on Flickr, gainers on XTube, all sorts of fat happy tumblr accounts. It’s nothing short of amazing to see.

I also think that the general advances of the gay community, and the gay rights movement, are just as important to the normalizing of gaining and encouraging as anything.  Gays as a whole are more visible, coming out at a younger age, being afforded more rights, and all of these factors make it easier for someone to be himself. I think this sort of has a transitive effect when it comes to gaining and encouraging –if someone is going to feel comfortable enough to come out of the closet, it’s much more likely someone who has taken that step is going to feel like they should have exactly the kind of sex they want to have, with exactly the right type of guy, in a body that makes them feel good.

Building on that, I think that we've kind of hit on a post-Twink sort of gay world, that allows for a lot more varied body ideals. With the increased visibility of gays, suddenly there are a lot more ways a gay guy can choose to look, and that's awesome. And if the way you are supposed to look isn't as clear cut as many felt it was before, why not choose to look how you want to?

What do you guys think? How have your goals and your relationship with the gaining and encouraging world changed in the past decade? Is 400 a goal you eventually aspire to? Or is it too big? Do you think it's easier to be a gainer or encourager today vs. 10 years ago? I’m fascinated to hear what your thoughts are!

And we're back!

After a brief summer hiatus, The Encourager is back! I was totally overwhelmed by how many of you guys took the time to email, fratnote, IM, BeefyMessenger, etc... to ask about the blog and ask when it was coming back. Not a day went by while The Encourager was on hiatus that I didn't hear from 5 or 10 faithful readers, which amazed me. You guys are, in the words of Tina Turner, "simply the best."

For those of you who were worried about why I vanished, it was just that there was a bit of national level media attention that was falling on the various gainer/encourager blogs, and I didn't wanna have that kind of attention on my writing. I figured I'd pull things in and decide what next to do. I've decided to have a bit of a closer reign on things here -you won't find me on google, and you won't find archives or cached pages anywhere if the html I added works right. But hopefully I'll be around without any reporters lurking around lol

So yeah, I'm back, and look forward to some fun posts in the coming weeks. You guys are the best readers ever.

-Get A. Snack

350,000 Hits! Jesus that's a lot of horny people

I just got an email from my hit tracker service that I got my 350,000th hit for the blog! That means there have been 50,000 hits to this blog since the tail end of March -i.e. 50,000 hits in about 3 and a half months. This blows my mind. Thanks everyone!

-Get A. Snack

P.S. The above image of a hot bellied guy off the interwebs is totally unrelated to this post, I just thought you guys would like it!

The Blogosphere Expands: Beefyblimps

Just wanted to let you guys know about a cool new gainer-ish art blog called Beefyblimps. It's got some neat stuff, a fun style, and should def. get a few of you guys going. Enjoy!

Recipes for Summer Gaining: EagleDancer's Bread Pudding

Another recipe in the summer gaining series, this time brought to you by Eagledancer, a long time encourager and passionate cook. I haven't tried this one yet, but, judging from the amount of weight Eagle has packed onto his partner, I imagine it's as tasty as it is fattening. In his own words:

"Since we now live in Arizona, I don’t really do “Summer” recipes. Here in the “Valley of the Sun” (which is what the better business bureau calls the “Greater Phoenix Metropolitan Area) we only have two seasons…Spring and Hell. The SigO tells me it’s worth having 2 months of Hell in exchange for 10 months of Spring. It’s common for us to get triple digit (Fahrenheit) temperatures by May, and it hit 115 or above a number of times last year.

All the locals are in awe about what a mild Summer we’re currently having, given the fact it hadn’t hit 100 until the first week of June.

Here’s a recipe that has the three essential ingredients for the best “jiggle” factor when it come to a happy belly—fat, sugar, and carbs. It helped add inches to the SigO, who has a weakness for bread (not to mention, for fat and sugar…). Since he’s gone from size 30 jeans to size 38s, and those are getting tight, he’s insisted I cook “low fat/low calorie dinners” and then he makes peanut-butter and honey sandwiches 90 minutes later for his 4^th or 5^th meal of the day, which he tends to scarf down in the kitchen before rushing back to the TV.

This is my modification of an old fashioned treat, bread pudding. I should also mention as an American Indian, we have a variation of this on our reservation. We call it “Tsoopa” in our language. It’s made with Pueblo Indian bread which is baked in our outdoor “beehive” shaped ovens. This bread is a regular part of our traditional diet, but since it has no preservatives, if you don’t eat it quickly, it tends to go stale in the dry humidity, and quite “hard.” As a result, a recipe for “stale” bread for us is very practical. The main difference to me is that the Tsoopa is made with cheese, so it’s not considered a dessert. As a result, I had to learn about non-Indian Bread Pudding from a non-Native sister-in-law from the American South. I like to add Kalua, because I think it makes sweet things taste better, the way bacon makes almost anything taste better.

In my version, I use 2 cups of heavy cream, which provides a base of over 1,600 calories and over 170 grams of fat to throw in with over 400 calories from the ¼ cup of butter, not counting the additional calorie help from the bread, sugar and eggs. To be honest, while I’m including for completion’s sake an additional recipe for a topping, I almost never make it because most of the bread pudding is eaten by the SigO immediately after I’ve taken it from the oven and it’s too warm to pour the sauce over.

At one point, the SigO and I were in a Seattle bakery outlet store buying loaves of bread at an incredible savings, and he mentioned to the cashier, “This bread has put 20 pounds on me!” Of course, that was about 60 pounds ago…"

Eagledancer Bread Pudding

Ingredients:

2 cups Heavy Whipping Cream
1/4 cup butter
2/3 cup brown sugar (light or dark, depending on taste preference)
3 eggs
2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract1 tablespoon Kalua coffee liquor
3 cups bread, torn into small pieces. (French bread works well…however, I’ll often buy a nice loaf of cinnamon-raisin bread to use, in which case I’d eliminate the extra cinnamon. Don’t stress on the type of bread—after all, one of purposes of Bread Pudding is to use up stale bread. On the other hand, I buy the cinnamon-raisin bread to use for the pudding, and I’m not going to wait for it to go stale…)
1/2 cup raisins (if I’m using the cinnamon-raisin bread, I’ll cut the amount of additional raisins in half…)

Directions:

1. In medium saucepan, over medium heat, heat the cream just until film forms over top. Combine butter and cream, stirring until butter is melted. Cool to lukewarm.

2. Combine sugar, eggs, cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla, and Kalua. Beat with whisk (or an electric mixer) until smooth. Slowly add cream mixture.

3. Place bread in a lightly greased 1 1/2 quart casserole.

4. Sprinkle with raisins if desired. Pour batter on top of bread.

5. Bake at 350 degrees F for 45 to 50 minutes or until set. I do the old-fashioned thing of poking it after 45 minutes with a wooden toothpick to see if it comes out “clean.” If the pudding is sticking to the toothpick it needs to bake a little more. Serve warm.

If you make the sauce to put on top of your bread pudding, adjust the sugar in the bread pudding recipe, change it to 1/3 cups sugar (the sauce has the other 1/3 cup in it).

Bread Pudding Sauce

Ingredients:

1 cup whole milk
2 Tbsp. butter
1/3 cup granulated white sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
1 Tbsp. flour
dash of salt

Directions:

Mix everything together and bring to a boil for 3 - 4 minutes, stirring constantly. Set aside for 5 minutes, then pour on warm bread pudding. The reason I don’t use heavy cream in this one is because you need to boil it, and milk is less likely to scorch.

Recipes for Summer Gaining: Grimmwolf's Southwest Pasta Salad

The next recipe in our series comes from Grimmwolf, the encourager formerly known as the gainer JockBalloon. Grimm knows a thing or two about gaining- he packed on around 100lbs of fat to his frame after quitting wrestling after high school. See pic:


Recently he's chosen to embrace his inner encourager, to drop a bit of the belly and concentrate on getting really muscled. But don't forget, from personal experience, he knows just how to get a guy fat.

So, try this spicy pasta salad -it's tangy, easy to make, and ripe with calories. And while you're eating, be sure to check out GrimmWolf's Tales, a new gainer fiction blog written by the chef himself. Here's the recipe, in his own words:

Grimmwolf’s Southwest Pasta Salad:

2 boxes of your favorite pasta (I like to mix it up between two different types. Organic tastes better. NO ELBOWS.)
3 Bell Peppers: One Yellow, One Orange, One Red (you can swap in a green or any other bell peppers)
1 One Yellow Onion
2 ears of Sweet Corn.
3 Chicken Breast
1 Avocado (Yes we've seen these before)
Mayo, Hot Sauce, Lime, Little bit of Chipotle.

Before you start, note that a lot of this needs a grill. Either inside or outside, no using a George Foreman. All else fails u can use a pan but I wouldn’t recommend it.

First slice and de-seed all the pepper. It’s easiest if you do it in quarters or halves first. You wanna fire roast the peppers slightly, enough to char the skin and meat but not enough to dry out the veggies. This is going to apply for all the others veggies after the pepper. After the peppers are ready, dice them to thin bit. Go across the side to give you short bits and then put them into the bowl.

Make sure you have cooked the sweet corn before hand; this should be done before you start the pasta salad. But the corn on the heat and as it begins to get marks from the grill get turn it. Once the corn is nicely charred, slice the corn from its cob and put it in the bowl with the peppers.
Repeat the process with the onion that you have with the other veggies. Remove the skin, slice and lightly char. Then dice and drop it in the bowl.

Cook up the chicken, again nice char marks are a must! Then slices it up and again into the bowl.
Avocado. Can be done either slightly charred or just regular. Cut into small wedges and then when it is read (they will take the shortest time).

I’m not telling you guys how to cook your pasta. Cuz it all depends on taste. Anyway once all the items are ready you can toss them in with the pasta. Now on to the Southwest Mayo, to make it a pasta salad.

I can’t give you appropriate measurements because it again depends on your preference with how much sauce/mayo you like with your salads.

Either use homemade mayo, or take your regular store bought mayo (not lite) and mix it in with the hot sauce, chipotle, lime zest and juice. When it is all mix, the southwest mayo should appear a light pink. Obviously the redder it is, the more heat is going to be in it.
Its good cold and hot, as a meal or a side.

Recipes for Summer Gaining: BearTrainer's Homemade Strawberry Shortcakes

Continuing with my Summer Gaining recipe series, here is a recipe straight from one of my encourager idols, the ever eloquent BearTrainer. Check out his yummy, light, homemade calorie filled dessert sure to satisfy even the hungriest of gainers.

BearTrainer’s Homemade Strawberry Shortcakes

There are three parts to strawberry shortcake—the sweetened biscuits, the strawberries and the whipped cream. Impress your friends and make it all from scratch--it's the kind of recipe that even people who don't cook can make. Really simple!

Sweet Biscuits

Preheat over to 475 degrees. In a bowl, whisk together:

2 cups flour
2 tsps baking powder
½ tsp baking soda
5 tbsp sugar
1 tsp salt

Then, into one cup of buttermilk, stir one stick of melted butter, which will look like it’s “curdling” in the cold milk. Then stir this milk/butter mixture into flour until dough just comes together

Grease 1/2 cup measure and form biscuits with it, dropping them on to a parchment-lined baking sheet. Bake 12-15 minutes, till puffed and just browning. Let them cool completely (2 hours), then gently slice them cross-wise into 3 layers. (Note: reduce the sugar in these to 2 tbsp and reduce the size to ¼ cup to use this recipe for dinner biscuits or sandwich rolls. They are addictive!)

Strawberries:

Stem, hull and cut 3lbs. of strawberries into slices or chunks—your choice. Then sprinkle on top ¼ cup light honey (orange blossom or tupelo), ¼ cup of balsamic vinegar, ¼ cup of fresh mint rough-chopped, toss and let the strawberries macerate for 4 hours minimum in the refrigerator. (If you are feeling patriotic and want a red-white-blue effect, throw in two cups of fresh blueberries.)

Whipped Cream:

Chill your metal mixing bowl in the fridge for an hour or so. Then pour in one pint of heavy whipping cream, begin to beat slowly, pouring in ¼ cup of sugar, one tbsp almond flavoring, one tbsp vanilla. Increase speed and whip until cream makes firm solid peaks. (Don’t overwhip or you’ll get butter!)

Just before serving, assemble the shortcakes by drenching the bottom layer with juice from strawberries, generous spoonfuls of strawberries, generous spoonfuls of whipped cream, same with middle layer, then drenching inside of top of biscuit with strawberry juice, lay on top with a sprig of mint. Enjoy the richness, freshness and sweetness of a classic American dessert!

The Blogosphere Expands: Gym & Buffet

Hello faithful readers,

Just wanted to do a quick post to inform you all about Gym & Buffet, a new blog about lifting, eating, gaining, and general hotness. It's written by an adorable gainer/encourager couple, consisting of the currently growing G (whose transformation is pictured below),


and the formerly gaining, currently encouraging G, whose sadly now downsized belly is pictured here:




It's very smartly written, full of workout tips, insights into gaining, and is def. worth adding to your list of gainer/encourager blogs. And I mean, the pictures don't lie; these boys know a thing or three about growing a grade a ex-jock belly. Check it out and enjoy.

Recipes for Summer Gaining: Victor's Florentine Chicken Ring

So, I asked my friend Victor for a gainer friendly recipe. Being that Victor is 6' tall and 300lbs of beautifully fattened gainerman (up from 140lbs) he knows a thing or two about making yummy food that gets you growing.

Photographic Evidence of Victor's knowledge of good food:



He's literally twice as big as he was in high school. Drool. Onto the food!

Here is his recipe, and his words:

"This is a dish that I got from my mother over 15 years ago, and it is a perennial favorite with all my friends and family... Pretty much everyone I serve this to falls in love with it, and with good reason, too: the ingredients are simple, familiar, unfussy, unpretentious, easily storebought, and easily prepared.

It is hearty enough for the most diehard gainer or bodybuilder -- chock full of high-protein chicken breast and nutritious spinach -- yet is cheesy and carby enough to serve as a great comfort food too. The presentation is elegant enough for serving at a classy brunch, lunch or dinner party. Good playmates include a simple leafy green salad, a bowl of crisp chilled watermelon and cantaloupe, and some fudgy dark chocolate brownies for dessert. My beverage of choice is Coke, but if you're into wine, just go with a chilled Chardonnay or some other white wine to accompany this chicken ring."



INGREDIENTS:

- 4 chicken breasts, cooked thoroughly and cubed

- two 10-oz packages frozen chopped spinach, thawed and well-drained

- 1 cup mild cheddar or American cheese, shredded

- 1/2 cup mayonnaise

- zest of 1 lemon

- 1/2 tsp salt

- 1/2 tsp ground nutmeg

- 2 tubes refrigerated crescent rolls (8 count each)

- 1 refrigerated pie crust

DIRECTIONS:

1. In a large bowl, mix the chicken, spinach, cheese, mayonnaise, lemon zest, salt and nutmeg until a homogenous blend is created.

2. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Move oven rack to middle position.

3. Unroll pie crust onto a lightly greased pizza pan or pizza stone. Using a sharp knife, cut an 8-pointed star about 4" in diameter in the center of the crust.

4. Scoop the chicken mixture evenly onto the pie crust in between the star and the outer edge, staying about 1/4" away from both. Pat and mould the mixture until an even ring of filling is formed.

5. Unroll the crescents and separate them into individual triangles. Begin to cover the filling with crescents, by laying the wide end of a crescent at the outer edge of the pie crust; the narrow point of the triangle should be touching the 8-pointed star. Continue with remaining crescent rolls until the entire filling is covered in triangles. Note that small gaps may remain in between triangles; this is OK, as it allows for steam to escape. Also note that you may not use all 16 of the crescent rolls.

6. Using your fingertips, tuck and seal all the edges of the triangles into the pie crust on the outside edge of the ring. Do the same thing on the inside by rolling up the segments of the star and tucking the points of the crescent rolls into them. The end result should look like a giant donut.

7. Bake in the preheated 375-degree oven for 20-25 minutes or until the crescents are golden-brown. Serve piping hot by itself for brunch or lunch, or with a side salad as a dinner entree. Yield 10-12 servings.

I suggest you try and eat as many servings at once as possible, rub your belly and enjoy.

Plus Sized Male Models

Bet that post title got your attention haha.

Taking a quick break from my summer gaining recipes posts (don't worry, there's more), I thought my readers might be interested in taking a look at a recent editorial in the men's style journal Fantastic Man. In case you weren't aware, Fantastic Man is published by designer Jop van Bennekom, the same man responsible for similarly exceptional Butt Magazine.

The editorial, shot by Andreas Larsson and styled by Julian Ganio, features some handsomely bellied men in some dapper summer outfits.

I haven't had a chance to check out the physical copy of the magazine yet, but you can see a slideshow of the editorial here. The quote from the magazine describing the editorial says that it's "a series of stylistic suggestions for bold summer fashions, to be worn by gentlemen of quite marvelous shape."

Although not all the fashions pictured are exactly to my taste, and the guys aren't all that big (but I always think that don't I lol) I am very pro any magazine, photographer or stylist that is happy to put more big men into print. I am also very pro anyone who realizes that there are plenty of handsome, happy, bigger guys out there that want to dress fashionably.

So, enjoy the eye candy, and eat up so you can fill out your own summer fashions just as marvelously ;)

Recipes for Summer Gaining: Tagliatelle with Truffle Butter

The next recipe in my summer gainer recipe series comes from my dear friend (and beautifully accomplished gainer), DangerCocktail.

DangerCocktail suggested Ina Garten’s Tagliarelle with Truffle Butter as an easy dish to whip together on a weeknight or for a more formal dinner -a pretty classic, fattening recipe brightened up for spring by some fresh chives.

He suggests, “Pair it with a light, white wine -I don’t like white but you need something really light on the tongue, because the truffle butter with cream is rich. Serve that pasta with a great grilled steak or tri tip, and then a fresh spring vegetable with light butter/salt/pepper, or maybe a salad with oil and vinegar. Keep the other notes in the meal very bright and light.”

Fattening, luxurious, and easy. What more could you ask for? A recipe with both Ina Garten and DangerCocktail's stamp of approval. Yum.

Recipes for Summer Gaining: Cubanjew's Super Awesome Frittata

So, in my hunt for summery gainer friendly meals, I asked my pal Cubanjew if he had anything that was good for a breakfast or brunch type meal. He suggested his Super Awesome Fritatta recipe.

Cubanjew's Super Awesome Frittata Recipe

8-10 eggs (I prefer organic, cage free eggs -knowing the chickens are happy makes me happy)

2 or 3 not too small potatos, washed and sliced*

Shredded/grated cheese to taste*

Salt & Pepper to taste

Whole Milk (or for the adventurous, heavy cream or half and half)

Olive oil*

Butter*

*Organic if you can manage it

In his own, awesome words:

“First I cut one of my potatoes into thin slices and sauté them a little. Once the potatoes are decently soft, I mix in the salt, pepper and shredded cheese. Melt it down and mash it all up Don't use all of the cheese though! I generally do grated parmesan and then either a shredded cheddar or mexican mix and have it all combined. Trader Joe's has some really nice, organic pre-shredded cheese mixes, if you're too lazy to grate your own. Let it be a little lumpy! We like it like that!

Next, put your mixture aside and preheat the oven to 400. Wash your remaining potatoes and slice them fairly thin, but not transparent cause you want some substance to them, and microwave them submerged in water for a minute and 30 seconds to start their cooking process. Let them sit. Then, in a medium-large pan, combine your olive oil and butter and let it get hot, but don't burn the butter! I suggest medium heat on your range for this. Mix your potato cheese mixture up and cover the bottom of the pan in the mixture, and let it sit for a few minutes.

In a fairly large bowl, crack and combine your eggs as if you were making an omelette, and salt and pepper it to taste. Put that aside and look at your potatoes in the pan. Start flipping it over when it's brown on the bottom and add more of the mixture in. It's good when it's golden and crispy. When you have a little potato mixture left, remove it all and place it back in the bowl and mix it all together. Now you want to put more oil and butter in the pan, and arrange your potato slices in an even layer and let cook with a cover on the pan for 4-5 minutes. Put a thin layer of your grated cheese on top of that, and then your mixture of browned mashed potatoes and unbrowned mashed potatoes on a lumpy textural layer over that. You can toss in anything here; bacon, veggies, anything you have laying around, it'll taste good. I suggest if you add veggies to sauté them beforehand, and make sure that any meat you add is cooked through. Let it cook for another 3-4 minutes with a cover on it. Now you'll want to pour your eggs on top and then place a final layer of grated cheese and cook for 3 minutes with a cover on the pan.

You'll want to see it start to bubble. That's when you uncover and place in your preheated oven for 10-15 minutes, with you checking in 5 minute intervals by sticking a knife in. When the knife comes out clean, you're done and you can take it out of the oven. Let your frittata cool for a few minutes, then flip onto a plate and serve! When going to a party or somewhere I'm expected to bring a dish, my frittata never fails to impress! Or you could always, ya know, eat the whole thing yourself... lol”

And there you have it -a simple, fattening, versatile calorically gifted brunch recipe perfect for any growing gainer. Up next, DangerCocktail's summer dinner suggestion :)

Recipes for Summer Gaining: Quinoa and Avocado Salad

Like most annoying, health conscious yuppies, I’ve recently become interested in making an effort to eat locally and eat what is locally in season (in addition to trying to eat organic and as high fructose corn syrup and transfat free as possible). I'm also, obviously, working very hard to get my boyfriend bigger (haha gotta get in shape for swimsuit season). To that end, I asked a few of my gainer pals what their favorite spring/early summer recipes were so I could share them with my readers. I got all kinds of responses, so, I'm gonna post them up one at a time.

Firstly, the BF’s biggest Summer gaining tip is just add avocados to everything. He puts them on sandwiches, he puts them on burgers, he makes guacamole, he never makes a salad without them. And the effect is quite evident in his ever tightening jeans. In honor of my boyfriend’s devotion to avocados, may I present to you a Quinoa and Avocado salad with Dried Fruit, Toasted Almonds, and Lemon Cumin Vinaigrette.

Quinoa is super good for you, and avocados are loaded with healthy fat so, make a double portion and eat up! It's calorically dense, not filled with artificial shit that'll make you feel gross, and tastes amazing.

Try this and look forward to favorite gaining recipes from DangerCocktail, CubanJew, and others :)

Gainer/Encourager friendly Bearlesque in San Fran

A friend of mine tipped me off to an upcoming theatrical event that might be of interest to my readers. Any of you in San Francisco should check out Bearlesque, a four night bear strip-a-thon at the New Conservatory Theater Center, this April 14-18.

You can get tickets here. Get tickets if you can go. It's for charity! Don't be a bum.

It's not specifically gainer/encourager oriented, but an insider tipped me off that there might be a passing gainer related reference here or there. And you never know which one of the cast members might be growing ;)

I won't be able to go cause I'm on the East Coast, but it should be a great night.

Belly Bar

These images were originally intended as an April Fools prank, but, I decided that it would be too mean to get peoples' hopes up, so I held off for a few days. But here is the fruit of an hour's worth of daydreaming and some helpful suggestions from DangerCocktail:



I mean seriously, if this was real, wouldn't you wanna go?


And finally, the mock up of the drink menu. I think it turned out to be surprisingly drinkable for gainer oriented cocktails (and I think I should seriously consider opening a bar...).


Wouldn't that have been a cruel prank? lol Hope you guys enjoy the ridiculousness.

Percy Full from Rush Hour of the Gods

So, I read this story that NYCWriter posted to the BellyBuilders message board and I was totally blown away. It managed to evoke in me an excitement about gaining that no story had managed to evoke since I was 15 years old and just discovering gainer fiction. In other words, it's fantastic. You should read it.

In NYCWriter's own words:

"I'm working on a book of interrelated short stories entitled RUSH HOUR OF THE GODS. It's about a group of people navigating fetish, fringe sexuality, gender confusion, or weirdo relationships, etc. And I wrote a sorta gainer story for the book. The book is for "civilians" (so it's sort of devoid of code or identity monikers or any of that stuff), and I wasn't really writing it to be super hot or sexy to gainers and/or gainer enthusiast. I was rather trying to work the characters' conflict into the larger story of the book and use the metaphor of blah blah blah... God, writers are such douchebags.

Anyway, I figured I'd post it on here and see what you guys think.

Oh, PS - I hold the copyright to the story, etc, under my real name. So please don't post this anywhere else.

PPS - My writing's a little florid. I used to cream over Faulkner in English class. Sorry."

I got his permission to re-post it here (benevolent soul that he is) but, be respectful that he's a writer and this is his intellectual property, and don't re-post it without his permission. Now on to the awesome:

PERCY FULL
by
NYCWriter

Mike was early. The restaurant wasn’t full; he could see empty tables and booths here and there amongst the din of Sunday brunch patrons. But the hostess told him he couldn’t be seated until Sal arrived. She suggested that he wait at the bar. Mike told her that would be alright. Then she tightened her lips into a tiny closed mouth smile and shrugged, as if apologizing for the policy; as if she was saying that she would change it if only she could, just for him, but her hands were tied. Mike really didn’t mind; usually he would have liked to be seated when meeting someone for a date, or what he assumed might be a date, even though he had no idea what was going to happen when Sal walked through the door. Under normal circumstances, he liked to be seated, let the person walk in and slip into the booth with few expectations. Under normal circumstances, if he was standing, the other person would feel bad for being late (even if Mike was early) and then they’d have that awkward moment when they met – do they shake hands? Do they hug? Under normal circumstances, if it became awkward right away, it rarely stopped being awkward for the remainder of the date. But this was anything but normal circumstances. In this case, Mike thought it would be better if Sal saw him standing up, in full view, next to the bar when he walked in to the restaurant.

Mike unzipped his jacket. As he slipped it off of his shoulder, his fingers slid across his stomach, and he paused. Every time his hands discovered it, he felt a quick electric spark of surprise that made his heart beat a little faster and his joints dance like horny teenagers all over his body. He slid his finger along the surface of it, remembering the former definition, the way his muscles had felt like a clean symmetrical mountain range he’d tried to accentuate with tight shirts or the occasional, accidental flash when he ran his hand along the hem of his shirt and up and under to scratch some itch that didn’t exist; his very own continental divide he hoped attractive men at bars and clubs or on the streets or on the train would venture to cross with their eyes. Now that was mostly gone, replaced with this smooth, soft flesh, a fertile plain that stretched for miles but was still slowly expanding to new frontiers. As his fingers ran over his new belly, he applied pressure, and the skin bent and depressed, giving to his touch, the new fat vibrating for miles. Mike closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. Sometimes he would forget it was there until moments like these, when it met his hands like old flames meeting after years apart, and the attraction is still there, the passion seems to erase the time absent from each other, and possessed, they wrap themselves up in a swirl of heat and pleasure as if nothing else in the world existed but the thin line of contact between fingers and skin.

Mike removed his jacket, sliding it down his arm, pausing again as he noticed his massive shoulder and bicep bulging from beneath his shirt. Again, his body seemed to spark to life, but this time it was different, a cooler, more forceful electricity that shot up his spine and made him stand fully erect, grow two inches taller, to tower over himself, not as if he was outside of his body but inside it in ways he’d never experienced before. Mike placed his jacket on the back of the chair at the bar and looked down at his arms and his chest. The buttons on his shirt were barely containing his pecs, which had stretched wide and out and were now as hard as rocks. He clenched his fists and the muscles inflated in his arms like animals waking from hibernation. They yawned, full like moons, and growled with desire, desire to grab, to lift, to tear, to crush, and to punch the docile veneer of civilization hanging over everything and everyone around him like plates of fragile colored glass. He noticed himself flexing in the mirror behind the bar, and also noticed his neck was thicker, and his face was fuller, ringed by the tiniest halo of flesh that he only noticed because he’d spent weeks staring at himself in the mirror. The man staring back at him now oozed power from every pore, seeming to stretch the flat plane of the mirror with his size, threatening to shatter the glass with the next sudden move. The reflection, made real by the subtle creeping exploration of his fingers on his muscles, made his cock in his pants stir and swell, swell like his body; both, in his eyes, were becoming beautiful.

Thirty pounds. That was how much weight he had put on in the last few months. The thought of it made his cock slide down the leg of his pants, and he turned away from the mirror, placing his crotch against the back of the chair at the bar so none of the other patrons would notice his erection. At the beginning of the year, he was as he’d always been; svelte, athletic, the kind of man who went to the gym five times a week, ran miles and miles in desperate attempts to keep up with the standards of attractiveness set by those around him. He’d feared his body, the potential it carried to devolve from that rock hard athleticism, and he tried to beat it at every turn with the sweaty intensity of a marathoner hoping the finish line would appear in the distance when he got over the next hill, but then he’d realized there was no finish line, not for him, and he’d peeled off from the race. He’d given up, on the old path at least, and trotted down a different path. He changed his whole life around, and now, as a result, he had gotten fat. He had gotten big. And he was getting bigger. And he loved it.

It had always been in the back of his mind. Even as a child, he’d stared at men, big men, and felt his adolescent sexuality flare like nostrils smelling something sweet. He watched them at work, at construction sites, wielding implements and lifting steel structures that seemed impossibly large, ready to crush them, but then their muscles inflated in their arms and chest and legs and brought them closer to gods. He watched them when they ate, stealing glances while out at restaurants with his family, marveling at the way they consumed with abandon, almost crazed in the way they lifted forks to their mouths and guzzled down beer, letting their stomachs stretch in pursuit of the feeling of being full. When they’d finished, and they lay their massive shoulders against the back of their chairs, absent-mindedly rubbing their guts in celebration of that feeling, Mike couldn’t help but rub the bulge in his pants.

When he was younger, he’d figured he was just attracted to them; he wanted to be closer to those beautiful mountains of flesh. But the more he thought about it, late at night in his bed drawing pictures of plus-sized Greek gods in his sketchbook, the more he realized it was more complicated than that. It wasn’t just that he was attracted to them; he was jealous of them. They had embraced the freedom in their adulthood and grown huge; they’d consciously eaten more than they needed, lifted more than they thought they could, grabbed power like despots over their bodies, dictators who demanded the impossible to build their empires and who had made war on the peaceful societies around them to become so big that the sun would never set upon them. Mike drew the men he saw into the future, anticipating how they would grow, the places that would continue to thicken and stretch, the parts that would soften and sag, the parts they would rub until they were ripe, and they thought they were done, they couldn’t possibly get any bigger, all the while knowing they couldn’t stop. But then, Mike would run his hands over the drawings, feeling their flatness, their lack of dimension, a progression of fantasies that he knew could never be made real for him. These were men who might as well be superheroes; two-dimensional science fiction characters he dreamed about while he was buried under three-dimensional fact.

Mike’s mother and father were marathon runners. They trained constantly, pushing their bodies to leathery leanness with morning runs and constant, careful nutrition. They kept food in the house more as a challenge than anything else, to undermine the damage it could do to their physiques, and when they cooked, the tore apart and broke down lean meat and vegetables in ways that nature never intended. Taste was incidental; food was more of an unsavory chore than anything to be enjoyed, and when Mike complained as a child, his desires seemed to fester in his parents’ eyes like a cancer upon their house, something that needed to be cut out as soon as possible before it could spread.

“You can’t eat that!” his mother would say, nearly hysterical in the grocery store when Mike would ask for something sweet. “It’ll make you fat! Do you want to be fat? Fat and ugly?”

Mike didn’t dare provide an honest answer. To him, it was his mother’s gaunt face that appeared ugly, the way her eyes seemed to narrow into slits and her cheekbones assaulted her face like knives stabbing from inside her skull. Her skin seemed so tight and brown from hours and hours in the sun starved of nutrients that she seemed unable even to smile when he relented. He went home with his mother to have a piece of lean chicken, bleached of any taste and amputated of any fat, while dreaming of the cake or ice cream he hadn’t fought for, but feeling his mother’s horror and harsh words bubbling below like a nightmare. After dinner, he’d go back into his room to draw, flaring out the curves of his fantasy men, but making their faces uglier and uglier, more damaged by their decisions, more monstrous as they grew in size.

Those images of trollish men followed him into adulthood, echoing the warnings of his mother about fatness and ugliness. They followed him into the gym, where he went to run five times a week, and no matter how far he went on the treadmill they always seemed to be right in his ear. They guided his hand as he chose his meals, burning him with irrational thoughts of the ways each item he ate could poison his body, turn him ugly. The shrill fear whittled away at his body, reshaped it in a different fashion from those men he’d seen at construction sites or stuffing themselves in restaurants. His waist contracted and hardened, balling his stomach into a powerful fist. His jawline became sharp, plowing through the air as he ran like the bow of a ship cutting across the ocean. His body tightened into a compact machine, all lean muscles and bones. And men noticed it. Out at bars with his friends or online on the cruising websites, he felt their eyes reach out, hungering for his tight body and handsome face, athletic and light and quick like the sex they wanted.

And for a time, he reveled in it. There was power in it; even if he couldn’t feel it in his bones, it coursed through his mind like hydraulic steam. He saw how the slightest smile could melt the proudest faggot at the bar, how a wink could make him flutter and shake, how a small turn of the head could make him deflate, make all the parts he’d refined like Mike had reveal themselves for artifice and fall apart like condemned buildings. When he had sex with them, they hugged at him like he wasn’t real, couldn’t possibly be, couldn’t possibly have deigned to welcome such a mortal into his bed. They thanked him with their lips, and wouldn’t hesitate to swallow everything he had to teach them.

But for all of the power Mike had over them, for all the ways he slid them over his fingers and his face and his voice like a preacher, it was empty. He didn’t believe any of it. They’d slide their hands up him like an altar but they might have been snakes. To him, he wasn’t nearly as beautiful as they whispered in his ear. He could control them, and liked the control, but there wasn’t something mean to it, dismissive, defensive, and he worried it would crumble at the slightest touch. And though they fawned over him, when he saw a big man somewhere, some powerful being, a God walking enormous with muscles that crowded him and a belly which stretched out in front of him like eternity and an ass that pulsed and shook like energy deferred, the tiny fawning faggots dissolved, they meant nothing, and all his work to tighten his lean body into a mask felt like a lie.

And then it had been there. On his waist, the slightest piece of extra skin. No one else would have noticed it, only Mike saw it, expert as he was in attention to his own details. The piece of extra skin was soft and new, and spoke to him through his body like a hypnotist, assuring him it was just a harbinger of things to come, age to come, slowing metabolism, creeping desire. Mike laid his hands on it, and it pulsed like possibility. Whenever this had happened before, some lack of exercise or increase in stress growing new skin on his midsection or some extra on his hips, Mike’s flesh had vibrated with panic. He’d felt sweat develop just under the skin, ready to be unleashed in a flurry of clawing, desperate exercise. His mind had cried out to fix this, fix it, fix his body, and the voice sounded shrill like his mother’s, glaring at him with those two slits for eyes and her cheekbones ripping through her face like claws to grab him. But this time, when his skin and sweat and mind cried out at him, he’d ignored them. He stroked the new flesh like it was precious, and stayed home from the gym.

And the next day, Mike didn’t go to the gym. And the day after that, he didn’t go to the gym either. On that third day, he walked down the street to the grocery store. He wandered off of his usual path and ventured into parts unknown, sweet parts, with bright colors and flashy names that promised pleasure and love and companionship he’d denied himself. He slid the items into his cart, each one falling in heavy and thick making his bewildered cock grow in his pants. They were joined by real food items he’d thought impossible to buy before: real butter; real mayonnaise; whole milk; heavy cream; ice cream, real ice cream, in myriad experimental flavors, his old childhood standbys of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry obsolesced and obliterated by the ingenuity of man; meat, red meat, and bacon, the frozen strips of pig fat crackled in his hands as he lifted them into his cart. He imagined grease running down his arms, across his chest, down his stomach, flooding his pubic hair and staining his cock. The thought made him hard, harder than he could remember being in some time. He raced the cart through the grocery store to check out.

Once home, Mike pulled out a skillet to make a hamburger. He greased up the pan and threw on the meat. He watched as it sizzled and browned, flipping it and letting the round, pleasing odor waft around his head, making him dizzy. He slid a thick piece of cheese onto the burger, and fried up three strips of bacon next to it. When it was ready, the cheese had melted, and the bacon was dancing on the edges of the skillet, Mike placed them onto a bun and beheld his creation, touching it carefully with his finger like God breathing life into Adam. It still sizzled with the quiet sounds of his body growling in protest, his mind angrily denouncing him for his coming transgression. They screamed in terror as he bit into the burger, and then he couldn’t stop himself. He consumed it roughly, like a starving man, his teeth growing and his face changing to accommodate his voracious transformation into a carnivore. And then it was gone, and the taste of it ran over his lips and down his throat and up behind his eyes and into his head with a soothing, sensual voice. But Mike was still hungry. Without thinking, he opened his freezer and took out a carton of ice cream, digging into it with a spoon and letting the cold minty confection dance together with the hot grease that still lay on his tongue. The ecstatic heat of his hands melted the ice cream in the carton, and he swallowed the soupy cream in large gulps until he was drunk on it, until it filled his stomach and stretched the edges, and he felt full. The feeling of being full was the most intoxicating part; it was new and dangerous, and his body panicked happily as his midsection bulged, putting pressure on his organs. But none felt the pressure like his cock, which swelled with each bite, engorged with blood and fat in celebration of Mike’s newfound gluttony. On his couch, stuffed full, he explored his excited cock with his hands until he came, the pressure of the food and pleasure and purpose inside him shooting the semen so high it hit the ceiling.

The next day, Mike went back to the gym, but he walked past the treadmills and the exercise bikes. He’d spent hours on them, hours of his life he realized he had to get back now. He walked instead to the weights. He began to lift as much as he could, feeling the soreness crawl over his lean muscles, challenging them to go further, feeling them expand in painful death-throes to be replaced by bigger ones the next day. One of the trainers approached him, asking if he wanted advice. Mike nodded, and the trainer began to explain some of the newer equipment and exercises Mike could do.

“What kind of look are you going for?” the trainer asked, pausing between machines. “Are you looking to tone up or are you looking to add mass?” Mike saw the trainer’s eyes swiftly rake over his body, taking him in, and the thought of him getting sized up in this way stirred a deep tremor in his libido.

“I want to get bigger,” Mike said, and the truth of it echoed like reveille.

From then on, Mike was a machine. He went to the gym regularly, glancing meaningfully at the bikes and treadmills before joining his trainer by the weights. His body seemed possessed, even his trainer was surprised at how quickly his strength developed. Mike increased the weight faster and faster, ascending to more and more advanced levels, even as his muscles screamed in pain. After coming home from the gym, he ate, as much as he could, beyond his capacity, until his stomach stretched and he felt that full feeling again, that beautiful feeling of being stuffed that seemed to break him free of the bounds of his body and send him floating into some sensual caloric euphoria, only to be transcended by the towering nirvana of his hand upon his bellowing cock.

And as this routine continued, Mike’s body changed. His arms widened, his biceps ballooned, his shoulders inflated, and his back flew away from the rest of his body, forming spines like a dinosaur. His chest breathed out like a ship’s sail in the breeze, his nipples seemingly always erect and growing more sensitive by the day. His stomach slid away from his body like a glacier, dropping to lower elevations and spreading out across the floodplain of his waistband. When he walked, it began to move independently, shaking and quaking with new life. His waist thickened until he couldn’t button his pants anymore, and had to buy the next size up. His ass sloped away from his body, and his hands seemed always to find it, perpetually fascinated by its new dimensions, they snuck back there when he wasn’t looking to weigh their options for growth. Each new pound transformed him, no part was extra, every piece was used to its absolute fullest. Every piece of clothing that became tighter, every new section of weight, every new movement of his growing body made him want to eat more, lift more, and become huge. He had never, in his life, felt sexier.

Of course, not everyone agreed with him. His friends, the men he accompanied to the bars, seemed to regard him at first with puzzlement. A few said they thought the muscle suited him, but openly critiqued his decision to lift weights. You’re doing too much, they’d say. You just want to tone up a little, don’t you? You’re going to end up looking weird. Mike brushed off their criticisms, but when the fat began to pile on along with the muscle, they confronted him the way they might a drug addict. They accused him of being unhappy, and demanded to know what was wrong. When he assured them that nothing was wrong, and that he had just changed his diet, this confused them even more. Why would he do that, they demanded. Didn’t he realize how bad he looked now? He used to be so good looking, and now he was just getting fat and ugly.

Their words seemed to grab at his body like judgmental hands, clutching with claws and handfuls of fat and shaking it to show him what it was. They left marks as they dug down, trying to find his bones. He told himself he didn’t believe them; he told himself he was happy, that every new, growing part of him turned him on in ways that no other man could. But their derision cut through his security and unwrapped him to feel shame. Their points were underscored by a marked change in attention Mike received from other men. The fatter he became, the more invisible he seemed; the more space he took up the more he seemed possessed of a vacuum that would bend space and light and male attraction around him like a black hole. Now his looks were met with confusion; his come hither glances elicited nothing but laughter. Every day his libido was rising, soon he thought of nothing but food and sex, but he wondered if he’d made a fool’s bargain and could only now have one or the other. Maybe his friends were right, maybe his mother was right. No matter how he felt on the inside, he had turned himself ugly.

Mike was filled with a swirl of emotions. They wrapped themselves up with all the food he was consuming and made him nauseous. Soon he found he was eating less, and less. He didn’t want to stop, but he didn’t know where he was going, or what the point of this experiment was (if it was an experiment). He had discovered something about himself, something pure and true, the most inner truth he had, that had transformed his body and unlocked his sex, but was he now supposed to go back to the way he was?

It was around this time that he heard from Sal. He met Sal several years prior, at a party. He was a friend of Mike’s friend Peter, someone else from the old neighborhood, another son of Italian immigrants like Peter. Mike and Sal had run into each other a couple times since they’d met, always within a group, always exchanging a few casual, friendly words. They were acquaintances, only, so Mike was surprised to receive a call from him asking if they could meet for brunch the next day. Sal said he’d had a reservation and a friend had cancelled at the last minute. And besides, Sal said, they needed to catch up. Mike wanted to ask why they needed to catch up, but the words in his head sounded rude. He agreed, more curious than anything, and later that day when he saw Peter, he asked him why Sal would invite him to Brunch.

Peter had looked Mike up and down slowly, and then nodded. “I’m not surprised,” Peter said, with a smirk. “Sal likes fat guys.”

Peter meant it as a cutting remark, another in a long line of comments from Mike’s friends that seemed designed to convince him to lose weight, but instead it hit Mike like a jolt of electricity that made his knees shake.

“But he hasn’t seen me,” Mike said, clamping down on his voice to keep it from excitedly stammering. “Not since...” Mike didn’t know how to describe it, so he let himself trail off. Peter snickered.

“Maybe someone told him how huge you are now,” Peter said, with a judgmental flick of his head. “Go if you want. But the guys Sal dates are monsters.”

Mike realized he might have seen one of these “monsters,” at a party, hanging out with Sal, though he wasn’t sure the two had been together. Mike noticed him immediately, his feelers out as they were constantly for big men; the man was dark-skinned and enormous, nearly 280 pounds at quick estimation. He leaned against a wall near the kitchen in the apartment, his back arched, and his large stomach stuck out into the room like a fjord. Mike stared at him, sipping his glass of wine, not noticing anyone else, only barely noticing Sal beside the man, but now in his memory he noticed Sal’s eyes climbing up and down the man’s giant geology. But that man really was huge, so much bigger than Mike. No matter what Sal had been told, he had to know that, but still there was this mystery invitation, some rendezvous arranged on news that Mike had gained significant weight, moving closer to this ideal, the man at the party leaning back like a baron stealing glances from the smaller men at the party, from Mike with plaintive fascination, and from Sal, who in Mike’s memory now reached out with his hand to stroke his giant boyfriend’s massive gut. The new thoughts, the possibilities, that he would be like that giant man under Sal’s hand, clenched his sex like a fist until it bled hot, stronger now than ever before from his exercise of it.

So Mike had come, and now he was waiting, his heart beating faster to match the rapid syncopation of ice clinking in glasses and silverware scratching against plates. Looking at the food, he felt hunger rage through him like an angry child, banging its fists against his bones, demanding to be sated. Ever since he started eating more, he’d been surprised to find himself almost always hungry. He would eat an enormous meal until he was full to bursting, and then two hours later, it was as if he’d eaten nothing. His stomach would wake and dig its claws into his throat until he ate more. He’d eaten a big breakfast not three hours before, but now the wafting smells of eggs benedict and Belgian waffles and sizzling meat and melting butter made his insides rabid. The panic of hunger pushed his heart further; he thought for a second that he was going to vomit from anticipation, and that he should sit and put his head between his knees. But he wasn’t even completely sure what he was anticipating.

And then Sal was at the door, talking to the hostess, who pointed him back towards the bar. He rounded the corner, and Mike took a look at him again for the first time. He was tall, taller than Mike, and his black hair was tossed back on his head, though when he rounded the corner some of it fell into his face, and his face registered the slightest annoyance, as if at constant war with his style, every product possible put into it to placate its rebelliousness but nothing seemed to work, like a child who now only acted up because he could. He was wearing a fitted shirt that showed off the oeuvre of his body; slim waist that slid into his jeans, but as you ventured up, his torso flared in all directions, making his body appear like a V. The muscles of his chest and arms were visible beneath the shirt, but Mike smiled as he realized they were so much smaller than his own. Mike had never before entertained sexual thoughts of Sal, but looking at him now, he realized just how handsome he was; his dark Italian features punctuated by the slightest five o’clock shadow, his eyes verdant and sparking with life, his lips curving into a smile as he approached Mike. Mike wondered why he hadn’t noticed him in this way before.

And then, Sal’s expression changed. As he approached Mike his eyes widened and ventured down, burning holes into Mike’s undeniable girth, caressing his thick belly as it bulged from beneath his shirt. His walk slowed, each step finding the floor of the restaurant like a surprise, expecting nothing physical in the world to be real, dimensions impossible now, impermanent, the whole world moving and changing like time lapse film of flowers seizing towards sunlight. The slowness of the moment caught in Mike’s throat like a cold hand, and he momentarily forgot his hunger; Sal’s look, hungering over his fat in a way that until that point he’d only seen in the mirror, made his body swell and his organs shift and his cock thicken; until that point, it seemed only by eating, and eating seemingly ridiculous amounts, could he create that central, sought-after sensation, but here it was; Sal was feeding him with his excited stare.

Sal greeted Mike, and hugged him, his arm sliding conspicuously around Mike’s waist, his hand laying flat on Mike’s soft love handle. The contact returned Mike’s hunger to him, and his stomach growled. Sal pretended not to notice.

“You look great,” Sal said.

“Thanks,” Mike said, smiling and blushing. “I feel great.”

The hostess showed them to a booth, and they sat down. Mike had never been to this restaurant before, and Sal gleefully pointed out menu items that he recommended. The waitress returned, and Sal ordered eggs benedict. Mike examined the menu thoughtfully, and felt the hot radiating anticipation of both the waitress and Sal for his choice. He settled on French toast, but as the waitress collected his menu, he paused, and asked if he could have an extra side of sausage. The waitress took note and walked away. Sal was holding back a grin.

“Sounds like you have quite the appetite,” he said, trying to be nonchalant, but the question caught in his throat on the way out, and he nearly swallowed the word “appetite.”

“I’ve been so hungry, lately,” Mike said. “I’m eating all the time.” Mike leaned back in the booth, letting his stomach slide over his jeans like an advancing army. Even though they had just sat down, their conversation nothing but small talk and incomprehensible winks and suggestions, Mike wanted to push Sal further. He felt compelled to figure out his motives. “I’ve put on so much weight,” Mike fished.

Sal stared at Mike, deep in thought, carefully mulling over the words that sat on the table like a shared appetizer. The waitress returned with coffee and their drinks – two mimosas, one for each of them, included in the price of brunch. Sal quickly grabbed his glass, his eyes digging into Mike’s eyes, trying to unearth him.

“It suits you,” he said, and lifted up his glass to toast. Mike took his, and they tapped their glasses together. Sal devolved into some quiet giggles before drinking down whatever silent, secret thing their toast had contracted between them.

“You really think so?” Mike asked.

Sal shot him a look, a shorthand look, amused at Mike’s continued prodding, as if his eyes had already dug to the core of Mike and there were no secrets anymore and Mike’s code seemed superfluous and comical now. “Of course,” he said. “I always thought you were too skinny. And the muscles suit you well, too.”

Mike blushed again, the heat of his blood making his head reel. He was hungry, and his mimosa, already drained, was sticking to the back of his throat and making him light headed. Men had looked at him before, taking inventory of his body, extrapolating his limits, predicting a future in which they would be closer to him, taking in his smells, feeling the rough friction of wet hair against skin as they scratched and clawed to get deep inside him, to one tiny island of pure pleasure encased in meat. But no one had ever looked at him the way Sal was looking at him, hungry for conquest in some ancient Roman way, like he was a new country who was letting down his defenses with this coy, seemingly innocuous discussion of his new weight. And where the others traveled to that isolated island, Sal’s eyes surveyed the expanse with more ambition, every surface kissed by sunlight lifted his eyebrows, and even the parts not visible, rumors pressing against Mike’s shirt as he leaned back in the booth, and each inch was pure pleasure; to Sal, staring at him over his mimosa, he was the ripest country on Earth. This was nothing compared to his power over men in the old world, as his old self. He flexed his arms, felt his muscles explode, and drew Sal across the curves in his body with the powerful thrust of a beast of burden.

Sal became conscious of his staring, and quickly changed the subject from the dimensional discussion, their small talk clicking together to match the rhythm of the other conversations in the busy restaurant. They talked about work. Sal worked for a large financial services company as some kind of analyst. “Basically,” Sal said, “I grow assets. The banker at the head of my team brings in people’s money, and we invest it in products to make more money. It’s not very interesting. I’m jealous of you.”

“Why?” Mike asked.

“Well I used to be an actor. Did you know?” Mike shook his head, no. “That’s what I went to school for. I was on Broadway. But in the end it became too difficult to wait tables, go to auditions, sit around waiting for the phone to ring. There didn’t seem to be a goal I was working towards, so I got out of it and went into finance. But I still miss it… Being an artist.”

Mike chuckled. “I’m hardly an artist,” he said. “I work with Photoshop all day. I never get to draw anymore.”

“You still stayed closer to the person you wanted to be,” Sal said. “You’ll have to teach me how to do that.” And then he laughed, flashing teeth without subtext, simply happy, and sweet, and full of energy that seemed to scrub the room of other sounds and caught Mike off-guard. Coming out to meet him that morning, Mike expected that Sal might make suggestive remarks, tickle his eyes over Mike’s new form, but he didn’t expect the warmth, the goofy humor; he nearly forgot why he came. Before now, Mike placed Sal with all of the rest of the guys he hung out with, who lived in a world of cut or be cut, that even Mike played into as well, like a native dialect of defensive dismissal. But as Sal told Mike more about his job, and his family, and growing up in the old neighborhood with Peter, and the other details of his life, he was less like those bitchy queens and more like an excited child; the quicker he spoke, the more his city Italian accent would crawl in and out of the cracks of his words, so different from the clipped language of the others, making Mike feel ashamed he ever spoke in the old tongue. It relaxed Mike, and he also opened up, telling Sal more about his family, more about his job as a graphic designer, and it felt like a date, assuredly like a date, there wasn’t any doubt anymore, but for those few moments, sex seemed to have disappeared, their bodies were incidental, only their voices, and their stories, and Mike realized how long it had been since he’d been in this place where he had everything but could forget it at the same time.

The waitress came with a new mimosa for both of them; they’d finished theirs absent-mindedly during their deepening conversation. Mike remarked that he probably shouldn’t drink too much in the middle of the day, but when Sal raised his new glass to Mike, such promises felt unnecessary and they drank, and would drink, until their heads were hot and their minds were free. Almost immediately after, however, the waitress returned, laden with plates of food – Sal’s eggs benedict and Mike’s French toast with a side of sausage.

Mike ran the side of his fork through the soft, egg-bloated slice of bread, and as he did, syrup and butter and cinnamon overflowed from the sides like organs of a body as he dissected it. The wound screamed with voices, his mother, always there, his friends who were rapidly departing from his world, and as the white and brown and yellow dripped from the sweet piece at the end of his fork like the head of an enemy on a spike, his mind anticipated the transgression, each transgression like the first, his body making room for it, shifting his organs and bones and skin around to receive it. He slid it onto his tongue and the shock of it, the sharp sweetness turned up the corners of his mouth in surprise and he counted the seconds of pleasure as the piece of French toast rolled down his throat, into his stomach, his body roaring into action, the thought of the calories in that one piece, soon to be joined by more, exploded through his veins like a flood, going straight to his cock, which inflated, and demanded more. Mike cut more pieces, repeating the action, quickening his pace, the sugar rushing through his body, turning every sensory node to its highest setting, until he was a machine again. He became aware, hyper-aware, of movements and changes, his stomach filling up and stretching, his belly distending and straining the buttons of his shirt, his pants digging uncomfortably into his body as his waist crept outwards to accommodate the burden, his cock growing as he increased. But even as he focused inwards, he felt eyes upon him. He looked up. Sal regarded him with fascination, his mouth hanging open slightly, his eyes wide like a revelation.

“You look like you’re enjoying that,” he said, and his voice trembled. His eyes were popping out of his head; there was more here than appreciation for Mike’s body.

“It’s really good,” Mike said, and speared a link of his sausage. He lifted it to his mouth, watching Sal the whole time, watching his eyes grow, his eyeballs straining against their cages, his irises dancing skirts lifted up in ecstasy. Sal’s reactions made Mike’s heart beat faster, though that could have been the sugar rushing in and out of his chest, but it was different than before. Mike didn’t feel powerful, he didn’t feel like he was playing with Sal as he bit into the fatty meat. This wasn’t some new translation of the impersonal power he held over the men who’d loved his old body, who’d put him up on a pedestal even though he didn’t trust them, it was something else, it was… Happiness. That’s what was flowing out of Sal’s eyes and his ears as he watched Mike eat. And Mike ate now not because he was hungry, he was getting full after all, but because by doing so he could coax happiness from Sal, until it was stretching Sal’s skin from beneath like the meal was stretching Mike’s and they shared it, the happiness, in contented silence.

A woman at a nearby table cackled at some unheard joke, and the sound broke Mike and Sal out of their symbiosis. Mike knew the woman hadn’t been laughing at them, but he immediately became self-conscious. He could only imagine what they looked like; two men, silent, the bigger one pigging out on French toast and sausage while the smaller one stared at him with a lascivious look on his face, barely touching his own meal. He wondered if anyone had been watching them. He wondered what his friends would say, especially their mutual friends. Mike put his fork down for a second and stared at the food, not yet finished, still looking delicious, visibly weighed down with fat and calories, but also with significance, and the significance was making it taste funny, like something from his past; it brought up memories but nothing specific he could describe, sounds, blurry images, and then his mouth was filled with the taste, and his appetite seemed dead. He thought, in that moment, that he could never eat another thing for the rest of his life if it was going to taste like that.

“Hey, are you okay?” Sal asked.

Mike said that he was fine. There was a long pause, and the sounds of the restaurant grew, and the conversations around them became clearer, and Mike couldn’t concentrate on any of them, but still his mind tried to shift through them, looking for descriptions of him or of Sal. Someone had to have seen them. Someone knew what was going on between them.

“I thought about going to a movie later,” Sal said. “You’re welcome to come with me if you want. I mean, if you don’t have anything going on.”

“What movie?” Mike asked.

“Well, I wanted to go see this movie a second time. Percy Jackson and the Olympians. Have you seen it?”

Mike thought he hadn’t heard of it, then remembered seeing advertisements on television. “Isn’t that a kid’s movie?” he asked.

“Sort of. It’s based on a series of kids books. Kind of like Harry Potter.”

Mike wasn’t sure how to react to this suggestion. The strange taste in his mouth was rising again. He said he didn’t usually go to movies like that.

“I know, it’s weird, right? Probably sound kinda creepy for suggesting it, but… I dunno, I’m sort of fascinated with movies and books like that, you know. They’re all built on the same structure, it’s all very psychological. About getting to kids on their level. It’s sort of a hobby, I guess. Seeing the ways they’re similar.”

Mike shrugged. He wasn’t sure what Sal meant.

“Well… Do you mind me telling you the premise?” Mike said he didn’t.

“Basically, it’s about this kid, Percy Jackson, who is a demigod. Like, half man, half God. Like Hercules. But at the beginning of the story, you think he’s just a typical middle school kid. And he thinks that, too, he’d adopted, he’s kind of thought of as a trouble-maker, and also he’s hyperactive and dyslexic, so he has trouble in school… All of these stories start out like that, the characters are losers, and nobody gets them. Harry Potter is the same way, his adoptive parents make him live under the stairs, but secretly, he’s actually this really powerful wizard. Same thing with Percy Jackson, and the story starts with him at this museum with his class, and he sees this statue with Ancient Greek lettering on it, but the letters rearrange themselves into letters he can read. And his teacher asks if anyone knows who the statue is, and since he can read it, Percy is like – oh, it’s Perseus, blah blah blah…” Sal was starting to get more engaged in his description now. His speaking became more rapid and excited. “Anyway, then people start following him, his teacher is watching him like a hawk, she turns out to be a harpy… Like a real harpy, you know, half-woman, half-bird? But this guy finds him and says, you’re a demigod, like Perseus, you’re the son of Poseidon. And you’re supposed to be a hero, like in the Greek sense. And Percy’s says, no way, I mean, I’m a troublemaker. I’m hyperactive and I’m dyslexic. And the guy says, of course you’re hyperactive, you’re not built to be sitting in boring class, you’re supposed to be out doing heroic labors, and of course you’re dyslexic, you’re not supposed to be reading English, you’re supposed to be reading Ancient Greek, so anyway, he ends up going to this special high school with all of these other demigod kids… It’s the same thing as Harry Potter, it’s almost funny how unoriginal it is. But the thing is, it’s that way because it’s effective. It’s every kid’s fantasy. Every person’s fantasy really. That you live within the wrong world, and eventually someone is going to come along and deliver you out of that world, and all of your faults, or all of the things that make you weird or different will actually be because you’re meant for something greater, and somewhere more important that you can go values those things more than where you are now. You see what I mean, right?”

Mike nodded. He did understand. His fork scraped the empty plate in front of him, and he lifted his napkin to his lips, searching for excess syrup. While Sal told him the plot of the movie, he’d finished everything. He’d barely noticed. He’d even started spearing potatoes off of Sal’s plate, and Sal had subtly pushed his plate closer to Mike, who’s fork moved faster as Sal’s words came faster, until even the potatoes were gone.

“You were hungry,” Sal said. Mike nodded. He felt full, but somehow more than full. He seemed overcapacity, ballooned, and the pleasure of it made his hands shake. Sal’s words, the plot of this movie Mike might never see, pressed against his skin like his fingers, and pushed underneath, massaging the meat, wrapping around his bones, and going further in still, until his words were deep inside, pushing out, growing him from within, doubling him, and Sal was part of him, his voice speaking behind Mike’s ears, and Mike realized this was the feeling he’d been chasing, full of food, yes, stuffed full, but these words filled him further until he had no borders; he was an expanse, without limits, like the universe itself.

Sal leaned across the table now, and lowered his voice. “I know what you want, Mike,” he said, his eyes massaging the contours of Mike’s face. “I suspected it as soon as I heard the guys talking, about the weight you’d put on. But to see you now… This wasn’t an accident.” Mike shifted uncomfortably in the booth; his first instinct was to deny it, but he held his tongue.

“It’s working for you,” Sal continued. “You’re fucking gorgeous, man.”

“Thank you,” Mike said, quietly.

“A real man,” Sal said, smiling now, baring his teeth ever so slightly and running his tongue over their sharp edges. “I don’t think you should stop.” Mike felt his breath get caught in his throat again, sticky with the orange juice and champagne. “I don’t think you want to stop, do you? Go back to how you were before?”

Mike closed his eyes. “No,” he said.

“I can help you.”

Mike opened his eyes, and everything in the restaurant seemed brighter. He had to squint. How long had they been sitting there? It was noon when they’d arrived, but the sun was already moving across the skin of the world, casting light diagonally across the city, bouncing off of the street and into the storefronts and restaurants. It was nearly late afternoon now.

“Help me how?” Mike asked.

“Any way you need so you don’t get lost,” Sal said. “Make sure you’re still eating big. Lifting big. Making sure you know just how beautiful you are… And how beautiful you can be.” Sal grinned, and some of that childlike energy came back. “There are a lot of guys like me, Mike. I’ve got friends you can meet. We all know each other. And they’d love to meet you.”

The waitress came back and removed their plates. Mike watched her go, not because she was particularly interesting, but because he needed to look at someone else, he didn’t want to look back at Sal, his smile scared him and excited him at the same time, moving him too fast even as he sat still. And the food in his stomach felt like it had doubled inside; he thought he was about to explode.

“How… If I’m not going to stop… I mean, eventually I have to stop. Right?”

“If you want.”

“How big do you think I’m going to get?”

“Well, that’s not really up to me, is it?” Sal slid his hand out and held Mike’s hand. Mike looked at Sal’s arm and was surprised to notice that his forearm was almost twice as thick as Sal’s. He squeezed Sal’s hand and watched the muscles in his forearm become continents colliding, raising mount ranges with the flick of his wrist. “It’s up to you,” Sal continued, “how big you get. It’s all about what you want.”

Holding Sal’s hand like that, Mike felt flooded with an image, a prediction of the future, the two of them sitting in a booth like this one, their hands entwined but they were different; Sal’s was the same, perhaps a little older, but Mike’s was different, enormous, his hand dwarfing Sal’s, and up the wrist the muscles flared out, thick like ancient oaks entwined, spread wide apart by shoulders to rival Atlas, and in the middle of them the skin rose to his head and face, a face Mike could barely recognize as his own, framed as it was by muscle, and with his neck swallowed nearly completely by fat, and down the front was his chest, wide and full dividing his shoulders like tectonic plates, sticking out from under his shirt and rising and falling as his lungs breathed love and contentment and sex; but nothing compared to Mike’s gut, which had grown out in all directions, spread out over his legs, filling up every available space, so huge that it was wedged against the table in front of him, and to Mike, finally, he looked like those men he’d watched as a child, he saw it in himself, he saw the possibility, he saw the path, and it lay somewhere here, in Sal’s hands, that were holding his, and when Mike looked back into his eyes he realized that Sal was imagining the same thing.

Mike let go of Sal’s hands. He smiled. “I think I’m still a little hungry,” Mike said, and realized he wasn’t lying. He was already starting to feel hungry, his desire to eat rising from within his stomach faster now than before, faster now that he knew he was about to make an ecstatic leap into the unknown.

“Do you want to order something else?” Sal looked like he was about to signal the waitress.

“We don’t have to stay here,” Mike said.

Sal grinned, wider than ever. “Well… I could make you something back at my place.”

Mike nodded, and they paid their bill. By the time they walked out of the restaurant into the late afternoon, Mike’s stomach was already growling.