Fat Dad Club, part 9 (Patreon)

Well, the flight was cramped, hot, loooong, and he’d needed a seatbelt extender to fit around his gut, but Carl had made it in one piece to Edinburgh; the first stop on his European tour. He’d never traveled this far before, and to be honest it was more than a little scary. Overwhelming also. Trying to understand folks’ accents when booking taxis and asking for directions, now that was interesting.

But it soon turned out Edinburgh was full of Americans too! Tourists, at least. Maybe that made things just a little easier; that tiny slice of home right here with him.

Carl was quick to try a whole bunch of regional beers, and of course the famed scotch whiskey. And he took an immediate liking to what a couple of locals called ‘Proper Fucking Curry’ (he made sure to fill up nice and tight on that, and made repeats visits to the ‘Curry House’, as they called it). He tried something called ‘tablet’ which he did not understand at all, but wasn’t quite bold enough to tackle haggis yet.

One afternoon he took a leisurely waddle all the way up Edinburgh Castle, having learned to talc against chafing by this point. It was a stunning place with windswept views across the entire city and beyond once at the top. He saw rain clouds rolling in on the horizon (Carl had already gotten to know the Scottish weather the hard way), and his thoughts turned to Joe, as they often did. 

Joe would have liked this place, he felt. Not that their situations would have ever permitted them to come here together. 

We were never going to be a couple. That’s just ridiculous.

All the same, Carl would let his mind wander down these fanciful avenues all too regularly. He knew he needed to snap out of it and enjoy the moment; this was a once-in-a-lifetime trip, after all. To spend it wallowing in melancholy was to pass up the beauty right in front of him.

When it came time to leave, the sweet old Scottish couple he’d been renting his AirBnB apartment from (they called it a ‘flat’) found Carl to be so courteous that they offered him a discount if he ever came back. He promised them he would.

Carl didn’t know what he’d been expecting of London, his next stop. Obviously he’d seen it in the movies and on TV, heard all about the landmarks like Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and what have you, but it was just so… busy! People rushing on the sidewalks (which they called the ‘pavement’), people crammed into the subway (‘the tube’), people overflowing in all the stores and restaurants! It took some getting used to for a townie like Carl.

Fish and chips - now there was something he could really sink his teeth into! He found a place called the Fishcoteque which served it all day long; Carl was hooked. Chips were more like fat chunky fries he knew back home, and the fish was this divine, soft, white, flaky goodness all wrapped in a warm, crunchy coating. He could’ve eaten it for every meal. And some days he did! 

Carl checked out the British Museum, the V & A, saw a classical concert at the Royal Albert Hall, and got lost somewhere between London Bridge and the Tate Modern, having to ask a chubby, bearded Londoner for directions. His ballbelly reminded Carl of Joe, who was still never far from his thoughts. But perhaps traces of sadness were ebbing. Those were happy memories, when all was said and done, and Carl felt thankful to have them.

Amsterdam next. Carl had never seen anywhere like it. The narrow, riverside streets, the tall, slender houses. He found himself continually blocking the path of cyclists - perpetual mainstays of every sidewalk - with his ballooned, rotund body. The weather was cooler here but still perfect for finding bars and cafés by the river to enjoy a beer or two or three or four. He also discovered these sweet waffles that had some kind of caramel in them and tasted incredible. They became a staple of his visit.

At the Rembrandt Museum, Carl couldn’t be sure a cute, tall Dutch guy wasn’t checking him out; he seemed to keep appearing in Carl’s periphery, flashing glances at his mammoth, swaying belly. But he didn’t quite have it in him to go say Hi, and then the man was gone. Lost in the crowd.

Paris was exactly how Carl had imagined it would be; all cobbled streets, wending avenues filled with culture and life. The timeless charm of it made Maupinton seem positively postmodern by comparison. Here was a truly beautiful place. He tried his best awful French whenever ordering croissants, baguettes or pain-au-chocolats, and found most servers appreciated the effort over having to converse in English. He took pictures of himself in front of the Eiffel Tower and sent them to Boony and Henry, figuring they’d get a kick out of it. He missed those guys. Quite some time had elapsed since he’d been in touch with the fat dads and Carl thought this might be a fun way to show them what he’d been doing lately. 

’I showed Penny and now she won’t stop bugging me to take her to France haha’ Boony texted back with a laughing emoji.

‘Oh, how wonderful! Do be sure to partake in all the fine French cuisine!’ was the most ‘Henry’ response possible, making Carl laugh out loud.

In the Louvre, Carl thought The Mona Lisa wasn’t quite as small as everyone had been warning him about. There was a big crowd gathered around it, and it took some time to waddle naturally to the front to get a closer look. The famed smile DaVinci had painted on her seemed almost to come and go as Carl’s eye roamed about the painting, and he supposed this was part of its mystery, its allure.

‘What do you think?’ came a voice beside him in that thick French accent; an auditory aphrodisiac.

Carl turned and saw a chisel-jawed Frenchman of padded-muscled build standing next to him. He was… distractingly handsome.

‘Uh, oh, you know…,’ Carl stumbled. ‘It’s… great! Haha.’

”It’s great?” Really? That’s the best you’ve got, Harper? This is the friggin’ Mona Lisa, not a bowl of Frosties.

‘Are you visiting from America?’ the beefy guy asked.

‘Uh, yup, guilty as charged!’ Carl just about managed to stifle the dread chuckle at the last minute. He was acutely aware of movement behind him, feeling a surge of self-consciousness. ‘I, uh, I’m gonna just… I think I’m blocking the view… where I’m so big…’

And he politely scooted his bulk to the side, letting the crowd flow into the rather large gap he’d left behind. He noted that the Frenchman followed him.

‘Ugh,’ the fellow lamented, ‘that’s the only problem with this place.’ He accompanied this with a ‘it’s-a-shame’ face. ‘The crowds.’

Carl didn’t know what to say, but wanted to say something. ‘Uhh, I guess so!’ And he smiled, feeling entirely out of his depth. 

‘Have you seen much of Paris yet?’ the man asked. 

‘Some,’ Carl nodded. ‘Oh sure, yeah. It’s, uh… it’s a beautiful city you got here, haha.’

The Frenchman shrugged and presented his palms. ‘It’s like everywhere. There’s highs and lows.’ And Carl couldn’t be sure, but just like with the guy back in Amsterdam, he thought he caught this man flashing the quickest of glances down across Carl’s plentiful torso. 

Maybe they don’t grow ‘em this big in France, he thought. Probably a shock to his system.

‘How are you finding the food here?’ the guy asked next. ‘We’re very proud of our culinary culture in France, you know, haha.’

‘Ohhh,’ Carl beamed. ‘It’s been amazing. Uh… C’est manifique!’ It came out more like ‘Say Manny Feek!’

The Frenchman burst into laughter at this, and Carl couldn’t help but join him. The sound of it was infectious, joyous. 

‘That’s, uh… hmm,’ the man laughed. ‘I appreciate that you tried.’

Carl couldn’t wipe the grin from his big round face. ‘I’m Carl,’ he said and stuck out a chubby paw.

The guy shook it, gripping tightly like a weightlifter. ‘I’m Laurent. Nice to meet you, Carl.’

The two of them just stood smiling for a moment, tourists buzzing about the room, shuffling to get a glimpse at DaVinci’s masterpiece. Carl couldn’t believe what he was going to do next, but… He felt empowered in this instance.

‘Uh, Laurent, I was maybe going to, uh… It’s getting to lunchtime for me, see, and… Well, I don’t know if… maybe…’

Laurent broke into a devastating grin. ‘About 10 minutes from here, a couple of streets away is Café Montmartre. If you like sweet desserts, they make-‘

‘I love sweet desserts,’ Carl blurted out like a dope.

‘I could show you? Help you with the menu,’ Laurent smiled. 

‘Please,’ Carl smiled back. He was sweating like crazy, his heart was on fire and every cell in his body was crying out ’What are you doing?’ but he didn’t listen.

That’s what this trip was all about:

Going with his gut.

At the café, Laurent offered to order for Carl who happily deferred, and so the chiseled beefcake gabbed away in French to the waitress at a hundred miles an hour, and all Carl understood was ‘Merci beaucoup.’ He couldn’t believe he was doing this, just coming here with a stranger on a whim, but to heck with it. 

No. To hell with it!

No! … Fuck it? On second thoughts, that was too strong.

Laurent explained that he’d ordered the pair of them chocolate and hazelnut crepes, and asked for extra cream on Carl’s. Carl told him that that sounded delicious, and when it arrived, it looked it too! His plate was stacked three times fuller than the Frenchman’s, and his stomach was now so filled with butterflies it felt like they were trying to escape. 

Coffee came, and the pair dug in, chit-chatting while Carl soaked up the sumptuous flavors and occasionally dabbed little beads of perspiration from his forehead. Laurent was a video game designer - he’d started his own independent company with his best friend a couple of years ago. Carl’s knowledge of video games began and ended at Angry Birds which he strongly suspected was outdated by now, so he played that down and segued onto the topic of his travels. As he did he noted more of those quick little belly-glances from his lunchtime companion.

Could he believe that Laurent wanted to feed him up, or was that crazy? What were the chances? He was just telling himself what he wanted to hear, no more. Maybe this guy, for whatever reason, had taken a shine to him, maybe he had a morbid fascination with huge American men, but that was surely as far as it went. 

After the crepes were dispensed with, however, Laurent said, ‘Oh my God, they have this cheesecake here, you have to try it. Would you like to?’

‘Sure!’ 

This was such a quaint place, off the beaten path, and Laurent made for great company, listening attentively, and looking dashing as all hell. Carl was enjoying this very much. 

The cheesecake came, and once again Carl was served up triple slices to Laurent’s one. When he bit down into it, he thought his palate might explode; it was the creamiest, softest, most delicious thing he’d ever eaten. Chomping down all three thick slices was the easiest of tasks. He could have eaten entire cakes of the stuff!

‘It’s really good, yeah?’ Laurent clearly caught the expression of unbidden rapture written across Carl’s face.

‘Oh my gosh, you were right,’ Carl exclaimed. ‘What do they put in this? It’s incredible!’

‘I don’t know,’ Laurent pointed to the empty plates, ‘but - Best cheesecake in Paris.’

‘You’re not kidding!’

Laurent went on to suggest more and more cakes and sweet treats he felt Carl would enjoy from the menu. Carl lapped it all up; crème caramels, chocolate-drizzled madeleines, macarons of every color and flavor (the blackberry ones especially were like little zingy, chewy bites of heaven). At first, Carl didn’t even notice that Laurent had long stopped ordering for himself, and was more openly roving Carl’s titanic frame with his eyes. 

Carl, unthinkingly, rubbed at his distending belly, not realizing his hand had peeled up a little section of polo, revealing the skin beneath.

‘You like the French food, huh?’ Laurent asked warmly.

‘Oh, I just love food in general, haha,’ Carl replied. ‘But yes, you bet. The food here has been… unbelievable.’

‘It’s so nice to meet a man who - how would you say it? - does not shy away from his size?  Or… did I phrase that right?’

Carl nodded and let out a sigh of contentment. ‘I think I know what you mean,’ he said. ‘Would you believe only 14 months ago I was almost half my size? Maybe more like 260 pounds, something like that?’

‘Really?’ Laurent’s eyes swelled. ‘And now?’

‘Ohhh, I think… Uh, over 500 maybe?’

Laurent whistled a tone from high to low. ‘Impressive!’ he exclaimed. ‘To do this in such a time.’

‘Well, I had… help,’ Carl said, a small, sudden pang going off inside him for a moment. But he carried on, ‘Do you… like that…?’

‘I think it’s amazing,’ Laurent nodded. ‘I don’t know, maybe in America it’s different, but here people are like, you know ‘Oh, I can’t be overweight. It’s not good for me. I don’t look good.’ I don’t mean this as an offense, by the way. But I just think - I think the opposite, haha. I think it looks very good!’

‘Oh, you’re fine,’ Carl chuckled.

That’s for damned sure. 

‘I don’t mind at all. And I’m inclined to agree. It’s a bit of a long story, but, uh… Like I say, over the last year and a bit, I’ve learned to… embrace my size, I guess you could say.’

Laurent shook his head in wonder. ‘I love that.’

Carl smiled again. Even if nothing else happened today, this was a real nice memory in the making.

‘I don’t know if you have plans for today,’ Laurent said, ‘but if you like, you could tell me your long story, and I can show you more places like this in Paris. My friend’s uncle owns a bistro north of here, they make this steak that’s unbelievable.’

Somehow this made Carl hungry all over again, and pretty danged horny too, all told.

And so the two of them made a day of it. They rode around on the Metro, taking a gastronomic tour of the City of Lights, filling Carl’s belly ever the bigger and tighter at each stop. They drank good wine and got to know each other better; Carl opened up about his divorce, and the fact that he was a dad (which Laurent said was hot, unambiguously signifying he was into Carl), and Laurent told of his struggles meeting men here, especially of the kind of build he preferred - all massive and pillowy. He said he wanted a ‘big man-mattress’, and Carl spread out his arms and thrust his gut out, joking, ‘I’m right here!’ He felt propelled by the wine and by this man’s curious way of breaking through his defenses. 

After 3 bistros, 4 more cafés and several little food stalls along the way, the moon had risen and the stars emerged while the gentlemen walked along the bank of the Seine, Carl now wobbling along at a very slow, full pace, utterly stuffed beyond belief. 

‘I feel bad I’ve filled you up so much,’ said Laurent with a drunken arm across Carl’s huge back.

‘Oh, don’t go feeling bad, please,’ Carl told him. ‘I love this, haha. I love having this big ol’ gut all blown up.’ He patted down his now seriously swollen girth.

‘May I?’ Laurent asked, looking down at the huge tank himself.

‘Please.’

So then the gorgeous Frenchman laid a gentle yet strong arm all the way around Carl’s belly, hugging it and squeezing it carefully, letting his hand sink into the soft fat.

‘Amazing…,’ he uttered. 

Carl loved this sensation so much. Having all of his flab and rolls played with like this, and by such a hunk.

‘You’re amazing,’ he told Laurent, and before the man could respond Carl took his chin in his porked-up hand and kissed the Frenchman openly, just right there by the river. He didn’t care if anyone was watching. He didn’t care about hiding his affections for another man. That was in the past now. That Carl was gone, and wasn’t coming back. 

Laurent returned the kiss with force and depth, folding Carl’s tongue into his, and working his hands all into the warm squidge of Carl’s body.

It didn’t matter that Carl’s tour wasn’t over, that there were more countries to come, or that he would eventually have to return to the States. He was done worrying about schedules and routines and all of it:

All that mattered was now. This moment. This man. This life he was living, right now.