Fat Dad Club, part 5

Judd. That was the name of the young gentleman at the discotheque. Henry, in a moment of weakness, had allowed himself to enter into a flirtation with him. How ridiculous.

Today, Henry was to host the Fat Dad Club in his garden, and as he fussed hither and thither to arrange chairs and tables, his mind kept returning to that night at The Dugout.

Judd was a handsome fellow indeed; broad with a wonderfully round tummy, and dark, well-kept stubble framing his delightful smile and plump cheeks. But the disparity in their ages was less a gap and more a ravine. Henry felt a fool for even entertaining notions of a liaison.

(What would Charles have thought of me?)

Well, as it turned out, after Henry had lost his nerve and fled the nightclub, returning home alone, Hudson had been there for him to provide the answer. He’d confirmed what Henry had feared - that gallivanting around that club with a man young enough to be his grandson did a disservice to Charles’ memory. Henry knew he was right, and felt the guilt deep in his heart. Then, sensing this, Hudson had held him, as he always did. It wasn’t sexual with Hudson. He was just a friend. One who provided comfort and companionship in Henry’s darkest hours - always the midnight hours.

The lad was currently pouting in the kitchen, having asked for a raise to his allowance that morning and receiving only a ‘Maybe’ in response, Henry’s focus being rather diverted on preparing the outdoor space for his fat friends.

Henry initially laid out deck chairs, then thought better of it - they’d never hold the dads’ weight, nor his own (now the heaviest he had ever been by quite a margin); he opted for the cast iron garden seating instead. He’d started the barbecue up; it hadn’t seen use since he’d become a widower, but flared back into life with ease. Of course, Henry made a point to keep the entertaining zone squarely away from his prized chrysanthemums. He might not have been the active gardener he once was, but was still exceptionally proud of what he’d accomplished out here.

The dads showed up one by one, a surprise coming in the form of a returning Gus (‘He just wants to see what the famous Henry Haggerty’s house is like,’ Boony whispered to him). Joe made a quieter entrance than usual, it had to be noted, and there seemed a tension of sorts between he and Carl. Henry wondered if the two of them had argued after he’d departed their company last. He hoped nothing untoward had happened.

But once the beer was flowing and the meat grilling (Henry had located a frivolous apron for the occasion that just about tied around his bulbous waist, and was stationing himself by the barbecue with his tongs; he thought he probably looked more like Colonel Sanders than ever), chatty conversation arose among the fat dads. Gus even smiled at one point!

It was a glorious day, the sun beaming through Henry’s sycamores, a spring breeze carrying the scent of honeysuckle and jasmin through the aromas of seared hotdogs, burger patties, chicken wings and corn on the cob.

‘Alright, Henry, my man, you’ve left us in suspense for waaay too long.’ Joe sidled up to the grill, received a couple of hotdogs in his open buns and summarily slathering both in mustard. ‘We’re dying to know what happened with you and that dude at the club.’

‘Yeah, Colonel, give us the dirt!’ Boony called out from his relaxed, belly-up position in his garden chair. Gus gave him a look and he replied with, ‘What?’

Carl said nothing, only sipped beer.

‘Oh, I’m afraid to tell you, gentlemen,’ Henry lamented, turning chicken legs, ‘there is no dirt to speak of. I… declined his advances.’

‘Aww, how come?’ Boony asked, resting his beer on the crest of his monumental gut. ‘Was he coming on too strong?’

‘I’m sure he had his reasons,’ Carl spoke up. ‘Are the burgers done? Should I come up there?’

‘I’ll bring ‘em to you, man,’ Joe said to him. But there was something in his tone… something off.

‘Oh,’ Carl replied stiffly. ‘Yes, uh, sure. Thank you, Joe.’

Gus and Boony shared a look that appeared to say "Something weird is going on with those two".

‘Are you letting ‘em char some, Henry, big dude?’ Joe asked, peering over into the sizzling meats while he chomped on hotdog.

‘Always keep turning, that’s the best way to ensure an even grilling,’ Henry held his tongs aloft wisely.

‘You gotta turn and wait, turn and wait,’ Carl pointed out, perhaps not aware he was rubbing his substantive middle. ‘That’s the best way.’

‘Yeah but then you don’t get that hella sweet, like, almost-burned taste,’ Joe countered with his mouthful. ‘That shit’s like heaven. Boony, what say you, my dude?’

‘As long as there’s Korean barbecue sauce, I’m happy, haha!’ Boony responded.

‘Ohhh yeah, this guy know what’s up!’ grinned Joe.

It was obvious Gus wanted to riposte, no doubt with some sourpuss remark or other about his husband’s expanding waistline, but instead opted for, ‘I need the bathroom. Henry, is it through that way?’

Henry pointed with his tongs, ‘Yes, just through the hall and it’s the door next to the kitchen.’

Gus heaved himself up and left the remaining fat dads to continue their King-Of-The-Barbecue pissing contest. His exasperation at the group, and Boony’s easy integration into it, was wearing. And that was to say nothing on how his husband was becoming more and more of a blimp every day. It was sheer insanity.

Anyway, Gus’d only come here to snoop around the home of a famous person (even if their renown was firmly in the past). He wasn’t interested in Fat Fucking Dad Club, or selfish hedonism by another name, as it really was.

‘Can I help you with something?’

There was a younger man leaning against the kitchen counter, tapping lazily into his iPhone. He was exceptionally attractive, preppy, wore loafers and a tennis shirt, hair swept back.

‘I was… looking for the bathroom,’ Gus told him, annoyed that this handsome lad had stymied his snoop before it had even really started.

‘I can hear them out there,’ Hudson said, bored, ‘arguing about grilling. Fat Dad Club indeed.’

‘Well, I’m not really with them,’ Gus lied. ‘I just came to support…’

But he stopped himself from saying ‘My husband.’

‘I have to fly back to New York soon, anyway,’ he changed tack. ‘For a production, actually.’

Hudson looked up from his phone, arched a subtle brow.

‘Oh, really?’

‘We’re doing Ibsen. I’m the director,’ Gus added casually.

Hudson turned fully now, his defined physique clearly visible beneath the designer clothes.

‘The most important man of the show, I’m sure.’

Gus nodded, enjoying this acknowledgement. ‘That’s right. It’s… what I do.’

The young, lithe man gave him a once-over with molasses-brown eyes.

‘I’m Hudson,’ he said.

‘Gus.’

‘A New York theatre director, eh? It must be rather stressful. I hope it’s well-compensated, haha.’

Gus was holding in his gut semi-consciously. He gave a lopsided smile.

‘It is.’

‘Guys, do you want some more beer?’ Boony asked the group.

‘Oh, I’ll get it,’ Henry said. ‘There are more spirits in the kitchen, too, if anyone would like a change of libation?’

‘I’ll get it, I don’t mind,’ Boony replied, already rising to his feet in a heavy, rocking motion.

‘You’ll find a selection of beers in the door of the refrigerator,’ Henry instructed, still flipping patties. ‘Spirits are on the shelf by the window.’

‘No problem.’

Boony made his way inside, stepping on old fashioned floor tiles in the hallway and passing crooked, framed magazine covers from years past depicting a younger Henry in his famed prime. One showed him, brown hair, far slimmer, smiling with a pair of secateurs.

But upon entering the kitchen Boony suddenly stopped.

There against the countertop, Gus was locked into a deep, lustful kiss with a younger skinny guy, the pair of them pawing at each other.

Boony simply stared.

He could find no words. "What are you doing?" seemed a dumb, needless thing to ask.

Gus’ hand had risen up inside the young man’s shirt and was fondling the clear, outlined abdominals beneath, and this, for whatever reason, was what stung Boony the most.

Gus gasped upon noticing his silent husband, spasming into an awkward ‘neutral’ position.

‘Jesus, Boony, you scared the shit out of me!’

Still no words came to Boony. What sentence would be good enough? What difference could words make in this moment?

The young man stiltedly smoothed himself down, but clearly knew better than to speak up.

‘What are you… What are you… doing here…?’ Gus asked pointlessly.

Then Boony turned on the spot, and began padding back from the kitchen.

‘Boon, wait, wait!’ Gus implored behind him. ‘Boony! Boony, come on…! Sweetheart!’

Boony turned his head back, whispered huskily, ‘’Sweetheart?’’

There proceeded a tumult.

Carl watched as Boony returned to the garden, looking like he’d just been struck by lightning, shuffling past the dads without a sound and heading out of the garden, out to the street, deaf to Joe’s and Henry’s and Carl’s own queries.

‘Boony? Boonster, dude, you okay?’ Joe kept on.

Then Gus ran outside after his husband, crying out his name, catching up to him and laying consolatory hands over Boony’s shoulders which were instantly shrugged off.

‘Oh my,’ Henry worried. ‘What’s happened?’ And he headed indoors. Carl heard his voice questioning another in the kitchen, leaving the grill to slowly burn its contents.

Joe, for all his booze-soaked countenance, had the sense to close the hood of the barbecue and turn its dials off.

‘Dude, should we… go to Boony? I don’t know what’s happening.’

Carl shook his head, now standing. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. The married couple had disappeared from view, presumably now halfway down the street of Henry’s well-to-do neighborhood.

Henry suddenly reappeared. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, it appears there’s been… an altercation.’

‘What should we do?’ Joe asked him.

‘I need to, ah, talk with my assistant here.’ Henry looked thoroughly ruffled. ‘Uh, my apologies.’ He went back inside.

‘Maybe we should go,’ Carl suggested to Joe. ‘I think - I think the party’s over…’

Joe looked to Carl.

‘I feel bad though, dude. Is the Boonster gonna be okay?’

‘I don’t know what’s happened, but… I think it’s between him and Gus. Maybe they had a fight? I don’t know if there’s a whole lot we can do.’

‘Well, can I… in that case… Could I maybe come over to your place, I mean if you’re gonna head? I just don’t wanna… go straight home, I guess. Not yet.’

Carl was both surprised by this, and somehow not surprised at all. He didn’t know how he wanted to answer the question, but found himself agreeing anyway, because that’s what he always did.

(Reliable old Carl Harper.)

‘Uh, sure. Okay.’

A short taxi trip took the two fat dads across town to Carl’s spacious top floor apartment, part of a grand, aged building in one of Maupinton’s more historic districts.

Stepping into the hall and taking in all the space, Joe said, ‘Woah, would you look at this place! You’re doin’ alright, Carl, buddy.’

‘It was my mom’s place,’ Carl told him flatly. It wasn’t that he was deliberately withholding pleasantries exactly, it’d just been a weird end to the day.

(And then there were the… happenings at The Dugout.)

‘I lived with her after my wife left me,’ he carried on. ‘Then Mom moved down to Florida. My daughter’s off at college so it’s just me and Spot here now.’

Perhaps upon hearing his name, Spot slinked into the living room where Joe was absorbing the scenery.

‘Oh hey, kitty cat,’ he said, and Carl noticed how difficult it was for Joe to bend down and pet Spot, that gargantuan ballbelly of his seriously impeding progress. As a view, it was… not unenjoyable. Carl kept that to himself.

‘He’s named after Data’s cat from Star Trek, if you know it?’ Carl asked him.

‘Oh sure,’ Joe nodded. ‘Live long and peace, right?’ And he did a godawful job at making the Vulcan salute with his fingers.

This brought about an involuntary dread chuckle from Carl.

It was stupid and entirely expected that the two of them hadn’t spoken a word on what happened that night at the club.

(Joe’s lips on mine. My hands on his sides.)

‘Hey, you got anything to eat?’ Joe asked. Carl suspected he was aiming for ‘natural’.

And of course, ever since meeting Joe, ever since starting up Fat Dad Club, Carl had kept the pantry very well-stocked indeed. He hadn’t just broken from his routine, he’d downright smashed it to pieces. There was food practically falling off the shelves these days.

(And into my growing dad-gut.)

‘Sure, let me show you,’ he replied, heading into the kitchen and sliding open the pantry door.

‘Hooooly cow, dude!’ Joe soaked up the absurd plethora of foodstuffs in there. Mountains of treats and snacks and supplies. ‘You’ll never go hungry again, haha! No wonder you’re…’

But he let the sentence just hang there, perhaps feeling what Carl was feeling.

Talk of weight gain was going to lead back down a strange path that was no longer simply dadly and conversational. Down that path was something Carl had spent a lifetime keeping hidden from himself.

‘How many muffins have you got in here, dude?’ Joe asked, producing a pack - they were peach and raisin with an oat crust.

‘I think, uh… maybe 40?’ Carl answered. Wanting to contemplate both of their bellies, and not wanting to. ‘The store was running an offer on them, so…’

‘Damn…’

Unexpectedly, Joe just unwrapped the pack and tore off a chunk of muffin, flicking it into his mouth, sucking his fingers.

‘It’s good! You want some?’

Carl did.

But it wasn’t… that simple anymore…

He must have nodded, because Joe extracted another piece and proffered it up.

Something had changed. The feeling in the air shifted. It was the bossa nova lesson all over again.

Had Joe moved in closer? Carl felt the brim of the man’s tight ballgut nudge softly against his spongy lovehandle. He was aware of his own heartbeat, of the feeling in his round, flabby stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

Joe held the muffin piece up further and it was instinctual. Nothing needed to be said.

Carl leaned forward and took the bite in his mouth, feeling his lips close around Joe’s fingers, which remained in place. Carl sucked their tips. Neither man spoke. He could hear Joe breathing, working that balloon up and down.

Then the rest of the muffin was brought before Carl’s face and he repeated the motion. He took a large portion into his mouth, filling his cheeks with the fruity, doughy flavor. When Joe kept it in place, Carl knew he was meant to keep eating. The muffin was gone in a few bites, but Joe had already sought the next from the pack.

‘You want it, don’t you, Carl?’ he asked quietly.

Carl ate, unable to meet his eye, but nodded. ‘Mmm hmm.’

‘You want more.’

Carl bit down on the muffin, letting it fill him, enjoying Joe’s lingering digits. That rock solid ballbelly was pressing harder into his side now.

‘I… do…,’ Carl admitted. Pure pleasure was emanating from his insides outwards. He felt it in his overly-large belly, his chest, his groin…

‘A lot more,’ Joe pressed, continuing to feed.

As Carl ate, he issued a stuttering sigh, cheeks full and fat. He could feel himself growing hard down there.

He nodded again. ‘A lot… more…,’ he echoed.

Joe started picking up the pace. They were now onto the third muffin.

‘You’re gonna eat all of these, aren’t you, Carl?’ It wasn’t a question.

Carl felt Joe’s free hand run across the expanse of his belly, gently at first, but soon harder, firmer.

(ALL of these muffins?! All 40 of them?)

But Carl moaned, ‘Yeff…’ with a mouthful of sweet dough.

‘Tell me why, man,’ whispered Joe, working his hand all around Carl’s blossoming gut, peeling the polo shirt up, revealing the soft flesh. ‘Say it.’

His touch felt electric to Carl. Just the thought of having this veritable stockpile of muffins stuffed into him while his belly was caressed and manhandled was causing Carl to leak in his underwear. He couldn’t help himself.

‘Becauff…’ Carl’s cheeks were utterly crammed full. ‘Iwanna geh fatterh…’

‘You want what? Tell me again.’ Joe’s face was right up against Carl’s as he pushed more and more muffin in.

This was pleasure overload.

‘I w-wanna geh fatther n fatther…,’ Carl managed through ballooning cheeks. He ate and ate, feeling the sweet treats filling up his insides, expanding him, fattening him.

He wanted more. Oh good Lord, did he want more!

‘And fatter,’ Joe continued for him. ‘And fatter, and fatter, and fatter…’

Carl felt Joe’s hand work its way down to the lower curve of his belly, lower still, into the realms of Carl’s fatpad nestled in his pants, down to the iron-solid hard-on pushing straight out. Joe gripped it through the fabric of Carl’s sensible slacks.

‘I wannah… geh… huujj…’

‘I want you to,’ Joe murmured, continuing the unending assault of muffins.

If Joe was hard too, it may have been impossible to tell, given the sheer, all-encompassing size of his ballgut, but Carl reached around there anyway, feeling the hot, stretched skin of Joe’s belly, curving outward and downward. Joe was hard underneath it.

Carl met his eyes, went right on eating and eating, feeling so wonderfully stuffed, and said, ‘Mayh mee fatther n fatther, Joh…’

As he continued to stuff and ply and feed, Joe cupped Carl’s ridiculously full cheek in his hand, and kissed it.

‘Carl,’ he uttered. ‘I wanna make you fucking enormous.’