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Late Night Fun In The Beya, Part 1
|Late Night Fun In The Beya |
Gutcrazy aka Frank
[Copyright Notice: Copyright © Frank 2013. This publication shall not be sold, resold or hired out for profit. It may be copied, downloaded, printed and otherwise circulated free of charge without the author’s prior consent. Enquiries should be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org.]
1. Childhood of a Belly Man
So, you're probably wondering what a beya is. It's a place where rikishi live and train. And now you're wondering what a rikishi is. The word rikishi is a Japanese word meaning sumo wrestler.
My name is Frank Smith (or was Frank Smith) and this is the story of how I became the fattest and heaviest rikishi who has ever lived.
I was born in 1982 in the tiny city of Stoke-on-Trent in England. To all intents and purposes, I was a perfectly ordinary little boy except for the rather unusual ambitions, which developed in my young mind.
At the age of four, I began to have a fascination for scenes in films, cartoons and comic books, in which one of the characters got blown up. These scenes particularly delighted and excited me, if the inflated character was a male human being. I was delighted at how enormous, round and big-bellied these balloon-men became. I longed for such an accident to befall me, too, so that I could live my life as a huge human balloon. Scenes, in which men grew enormously fat, or developed instant ball-bellies through unbelievable feats of eating and drinking also pleased me but nowhere near as much as the sight of a man being inflated.
Several times I saw the cartoon, in which Popeye shrank Pluto in a Turkish bath and then tried to inflate him back to normal size with a cylinder of compressed air. Unfortunately (or, from my point of view fortunately), Popeye overdid it and Pluto floated skywards looking like a barrage balloon. The sight of Pluto drifting through clear sky and cloud enthralled me. After seeing this cartoon a couple of times, I decided that when I grew up, I wouldn't have a car or travel places on the bus or the train. I would float everywhere. I would have a cylinder of compressed air in the garden and would blow myself up huge and live my whole life like that. Then, when I wanted to go somewhere, I would go into the garden, put the tube from the cylinder in my mouth, turn the valve on and blow up until I floated high in the air. I would float through the sky to my every destination. I hadn't thought out how I would return to terra firma. These fantasies obsessed me.
I was given a volume of comic-strip stories for my fourth Christmas. It was, in fact, the Sooty Annual. In one of these stories, one of the characters got blown up. The fair had come to town and all of the characters were enjoying the various rides and games. There was a stall selling balloons for a penny each and every one bought a balloon and blew it up. The village policeman decided to buy one like everyone else. He put it to his mouth and started to blow. There was something wrong with the policeman’s balloon. Perhaps the rubber was too thick. He blew and blew and the balloon got bigger and bigger until it was about six feet across. Because he could no longer see where he was going, he tripped over a stone and, in doing so, he lost control of what he was doing. The air all rushed out of the balloon and down his throat. As the balloon deflated, he blew up until he was about six feet across with a huge, protuberant belly. He floated up into the air. I remember thinking how beautiful the policeman was and how wonderful it would be to be able to float like that. I wanted to be like that. Bystanders were thinking, “Oh, no, PC Nab will float up into the sky and be lost forever.” Nobody knew what to do until the main character in the book, a bear called Sooty arrived on the scene and had a bright idea. He borrowed a hatpin from an old lady and climbed up a telegraph pole with it. A couple of times, as PC Nab floated by, Sooty lunged at his big belly with the hatpin but missed. The third time around PC Nab realized what Sooty was trying to do to help and thrust his big belly towards the bear as he floated past. Sooty jabbed him in the belly. I remember the picture with the air gushing out of the hole in the policeman’s belly. PC Nab deflated and floated back to earth.
That was the moment when I became a belly man. I wanted to be big and round and big-bellied. I wanted to be able to float. I pawed over the pictures of the policeman’s inflation every day, until the book automatically fell open at that page.
Each Friday morning, my mother would take me with her to do the weekly shopping and bill paying. We would call in at the newsagent’s shop to pay the newspaper bill and my mother would tell me that I could choose a bag of sweets.
One Friday morning, I replied to the usual offer of a bag of sweets with the remark, “I’d rather have a bag of balloons.” My mother had no reason to object to this innocent request, probably thinking that it was better for my teeth.
For several weeks I would come home with a bag of balloons after our Friday shopping expedition. I would use them in secret to try to blow myself up like PC Nab. I would take a balloon and blow it up and then let the air escape from it, trying to direct the airflow down my throat. Obviously, it didn’t work. One day I was down to my last balloon and I had blown it up and tried to direct the air escaping from it down my throat but to no avail. I blew it up a second time and burst it. I was so frustrated. So, determined to have a big belly, I grabbed a cushion from one of the armchairs in the living room and stuffed it up my shirt. I did my shorts up under the cushion. I looked down. I was in heaven. I had a belly. I caressed my little paunch. I paraded up and down the room, striking poses which I thought would show my big belly off. I wasn’t tall enough to be able to see myself in the mirror above the fireplace but I noticed that I could see a dim reflection of myself in the television screen. I admired my reflection, until I heard someone coming and promptly rid myself of my belly. That was how I took up the practice of belly padding, which stayed with me well into adulthood.
About this time I started to take notice of the family gatherings, which were frequently held at our house in my early years. Our family seemed to be very well blessed with very fat men including my father. They were big and round and big-bellied and I soon started to think that they were every bit as good as blown up men. I had come to the conclusion that human inflation only happened in fiction. So, I resolved that fat was the thing to be in real life. I idolized all these beautiful, fat, paunchy men. At our family gatherings, I would always hang around the fattest man present and wait on him, bringing from the kitchen for him anything that he wanted to eat and drink. I always took careful note of what he ate and drank, thinking that if I ate and drank what he did, I would grow up to be like him. There was one man, whom I thought was the best of all, because when he sat down his belly stuck out beyond his knees. That was the sort of physique that I wanted to develop. Unfortunately, my plans came to naught. A four-year-old boy has to eat the food that his parents put in front of him.
I dreamed of what I would do, planning how I would become enormously fat, when I left home. I didn’t want to be any fat man. I wanted to be a record-breaker and my mind was, even at that tender age, clearly made up concerning the precise record, which I wanted to break. I didn’t want to be the heaviest man in the world, or the fattest man in the world, or the heaviest man ever or even the fattest man ever. Others were quite welcome to those honours. I wanted the place in the Guinness Book of Records for greatest girth ever recorded, because in my mind that equated to having the biggest belly ever recorded.
I soon found out about sumo wrestling and read whatever I could lay my hands on about it. The sport itself seemed quite attractive but I could not resist the allure of a job, for which you had to get fat. I resolved, therefore, that when I grew up I would go to Japan and become the fattest, biggest-bellied sumo wrestler who had ever lived. I read everything I could about Japan and started to study Japanese with the aid of a library book. I had a flair for languages, which stood me in good stead with this venture. Gradually, my plans took on a more definite form. I resolved that I would go to University and study Japanese language and literature and then go to Japan and apply to various beya to be a trainee rikishi.
My every moment was consumed with the obsession that I had about fat men and wanting to be one of them. I hunted daily for images and descriptions of fat men and inflated men. I constantly fantasized about fat men. I spent more and more time wearing padding. I would get out of bed in the evening during the summer months, when it did not get dark too early and pad my pyjamas with all of the pillows from the bedrooms. I would admire my temporarily fat form in the mirrors and dream of being the leader of a colony of men, who had deliberately grown fat. I would also engage in these same games and fantasies in the mornings, while my parents were cooking breakfast in the kitchen downstairs.
At this time of my life, it had never occurred to me that all of the men, whom I so greatly admired, could possibly be less enthusiastic about being fat than I was. I never thought that their magnificent physiques could be viewed as some terrible accident of nature. I dreamed of leaving home to start work. I had decide that it would be best to move to a large city, where my activities would be less noticeable than in my home town. I imagined that I would have a two-hour lunch break, because that was the length of lunch breaks in British schools. I schemed that I would go to two or three restaurants during this break and eat a four-course meal at each one. Then I would do the rounds of three of four more restaurants in the evening. I dreamed of strangers addressing me as “Fatty”. My misapprehension, that aspirations towards becoming obese were commonplace, was soon to be shaken.
One Sunday morning during my fifth year, my father was reading the newspaper in the living room and I was playing in the kitchen at the back of the house. My father had a best friend called Roy, whom I greatly adored and admired. He was one of the fattest men in our circle of acquaintances and he was blessed with a massive belly. Being a kind and jovial man, I found him to be very amicable and was always delighted to see him. I was told to address him as “Uncle Roy”, even though he was not related to us, but I noticed that my father and his friends frequently referred to Roy as “Fatty”. Unfortunately, my young mind lacked the acuity to notice that they only ever referred to him in this way in his absence and never to his face. On that particular Sunday morning, I noticed that Roy had suddenly appeared at the conservatory door, which he opened without knocking first, as was the custom in our neighbourhood at the time.
“Hey up, Dad,” I yelled, “Fatty’s here.” To my surprise, Roy seemed embarrassed and upset. My father put down his paper and came into the kitchen, laughing at my innocently meant comment.
“Did you hear what he just said about me?” demanded Roy indignantly.
“Oh, leave off,” replied my father. “He didn’t mean anything by it. Here’s barely five.”
“If a lad of mine had said something like that,” snapped Roy, “I’d have given him a thick ear.” In this terrible moment, I suddenly realized that most, if not all, fat men were far from happy with their physiques and did not deliberately choose to gain weight. It was suddenly obvious that I would have to keep my dreams secret but the secrecy only made the dreams more delicious.
One morning, when I was six years old, I got out of bed and stuffed my pyjamas with pillows. My blissful play was suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps. I realized that my mother was coming up the stairs. Although there was, in fact, ample time for me to remove my padding, I panicked and crawled under the bed, in order to hide. My mother came into the bedroom and called my name. I held my breath and began to sweat with fear. My heart was pounding. I prayed that she would leave the room without finding me playing this game, of which I still felt ashamed. Suddenly, I felt her hot hands around my ankles. I was dragged from under the bed and forced to stand upright. My mother was convulsed in fits of laughter at her little, fat boy. I had been discovered. My face felt hot with the flush of embarrassment. The blood throbbed through my cheeks with every heartbeat. This frightful moment seemed to last for an eternity. My padding activities were brought temporarily to a stop, for fear that any repetition of this incident would reveal it to be not so much an isolated aberration but a habitual preoccupation of mine. The thought that my mother would not take this event to be of any great significance did not occur to me for some time. However, eventually I realized that my mother would have thought it to be a trifling thing of no significance whatsoever. How could anyone actually want to be fat?
When I was ten years old my mother died. My father, who was fat to start with, started to comfort himself with food and put on huge amounts of weight. All of the clothes, which he outgrew, were thrown into a cupboard on the landing. All of these huge clothes were a young belly-padder’s dream come true. To be sixty inches, then sixty-five inches, then seventy inches round the belly was heaven on earth for me. As I now had to spend much of my time alone in the house, I would pad up most afternoons. Sometimes I would pad and play and at other times I would pad and do homework. At about this time, my preoccupation with disproportionately big bellies started to become more clearly defined. Although, from the age of four I had felt that the most admirable feature of a fat man’s body was a massive, round, protuberant paunch, this had not so far manifested itself in my recreational padding. My play now started to focus not just on being huge but also on having a disproportionately big belly. My inner self started to become more clearly defined. To the rest of the world, I was still a lean and athletic-looking teenager but it was becoming impossible to deny to myself, at least, that inside me there was a fat man, who was determined to be seen.
My father was a bit of a rogue, who was fired for pilfering from every job he had. Eventually, he ended up working as a delivery man for a pharmaceutical company. Sometimes, on Saturday, I would go to work with him and can remember thinking, even at the age of ten, that it was a strangely top-heavy company – too many chiefs and not enough Indians. There were just too many managers for the number of staff that they had to manage. The managers of the pharmaceutical company decided that it would be good to have their deliverymen in uniform and so they commissioned a commercial uniform supplier to do the job. One Saturday morning, each of the deliverymen was handed two pairs of green overalls with the company’s name embroidered on the breast pocket. As they were handed their company overalls, the deliverymen held their overalls up against themselves to gauge the fit. They were huge. You could have fitted two or three of each man into his overalls. “Man,” I thought, “I wish I could get my hands on a pair of those.” I didn’t have to wait long. My father pilfered from the company, got caught and was fired. The two pairs of large, green overalls ended up in the cupboard of discarded clothes at the top of the stairs.
The first time I used the green overalls I stuffed them using every cushion and pillow in the house and there was still room left in them so I used folded up sheets and blankets as well. I must have been about eighty inches round. At this time, I also experimented with padding other parts of my body. I tried giving myself some width as well as protuberance and I tried giving myself some padding in the rear, as I thought that both of these would make my belly look more realistic. It is, however, noteworthy, that I didn’t pad my chest, as I wanted my belly to jut out as far as possible. I padded with the green overalls as often as possible, stuffing them literally to bursting point. One day I got the overalls out of the landing cupboard for a padding session. The fabric was ripping apart and the seams were undone. “My God,” I thought, “if my father sees these overalls looking like this, he’ll know what I’ve been up to.” I put both pairs of overalls in a large plastic bag and dumped them in the trash can. Suspecting that my father might see the bag and open it, thus discovering my secret predilection, I emptied the ashes from the open coal fire over the bag to discourage him from looking.
I was disappointed to lose the green overalls but I did not have to wait long to have an equally delightful garment. My father bought a pair of dungarees from the outsize shop. They were far too big for him and he decided he didn’t like them. So, they ended up in the cupboard of discarded clothes. I had to try the dungarees out, as soon as he threw them onto the pile of unwanted clothes. I knew that they were the largest garment that I had ever used for padding purposes. So, I looked for the largest shirt in the cupboard. I got the tape measure and measured them all until I found the largest one. When the shirt was stuffed to capacity with padding, there was still plenty of room left in the dungarees. This was disappointing and I sulked over it for days. Then I had a bright idea. I got a pair of scissors and cut a slit up the back of the largest shirt. The slit would be hidden by the rear panel of the dungarees and it would allow the back of the shirt to come apart and enable more padding to be put into it. The result was successful. I filled the dungarees tightly. I admired myself in the mirror. I must have been well over eighty inches round the belly. I was in heaven. I continued to pad up like this for nearly a year, until something rather surprising happened.
In England in those days there was no sex education in schools and my father thought that teaching children anything was women’s work. So, no one told me anything about the changes, which were about to happen to my body, mind and emotions. First of all, I noticed quite suddenly that padding became a much more delicious and thrilling experience. The excitement that came of the possibility of being caught became heightened, probably because, if I was caught now, I would be caught engaging in something more than a mere childish pretence. I did not realize it at the time but, looking back, I now recognize that padding had about that time become for me a sexualized experience.
The next thing I noticed was that all the while I was wearing padding my cock was thick, stiff, upright and throbbing. I didn’t know what this was about and I didn’t have a word for it, but it felt good. However, I thought no further of it.
I had long since discovered that having to urinate while padded spoils your fun, because it is such a palaver unpadding and padding up again in order to use the toilet. So, I got into the routine of emptying my bladder at the start of the afternoon, spending the whole afternoon padded up and then holding myself towards the end of the day, so that I rushed to the toilet, first thing after unpadding. I started to notice, when going to the toilet at the end of a padding session that the tip of my cock was usually slightly sticky. Again, I didn’t pay much attention to this and thought that the stickiness was might be due to condensed urine.
One Saturday morning I went down town to get a few things done. I would have been thirteen at the time. I was going to get the bus back home, when a beautiful sight caught my eye. It was a very fat, young man. He was big and fat all over with thick limbs including legs like tree trunks. His face was round and handsome. He had a barrel chest. But, most glorious of all was his belly, which must have stuck out a foot and a half in front of the rest of him. That was a big enough thrill for me but what turned me on most of all was the fact that this massive belly was so low. “Wow!” I thought. “Now, that’s what I want to look like.” I followed him around for a long time, being particularly delighted when I got a side view of him, which showed off that magnificent belly to greatest advantage. Eventually, he got into a car and drove away. I got the bus home. My father came home and we had lunch together. After he left, I washed up. Then I went and got padded up.
It was the most excitedly awaited padding session that I had ever had. Once all my clothes and padding were in place, I stood in front of the mirror and put my hands inside my garments. This was possible, because I was wearing a shirt with a slit cut up the back and a pair of dungarees, which were fairly open at the sides. It was easy to get my hands inside my clothes and onto the top of my padding. I stood in front of the mirror to monitor what I was doing and thought to myself, “I want a belly like that young man in town.” I pushed down on my padding and it moved down a fraction of an inch. I could feel my erect cock wedged against the underneath of my padding, although “erect” was not part of my sexual vocabulary at the time. I looked in the mirror. My belly wasn’t low enough to satisfy me. So, I pushed again and again, harder and harder. With each push my belly moved down only a tiny fraction of an inch. I wanted my belly still lower but my cock was noticeably more tightly wedged against my padding with each push and it felt good. Soon, I found myself instinctively rocking backwards and forwards as I pushed repeatedly down on my padding. I felt myself getting more and more worked up and excited. All of a sudden, the most delicious sensation I had ever had pulsed through my entire being. It filled my entire body but was centered on my cock. It seemed to go on for a whole minute. It left me breathless, shaking and weak at the knees. I sat down on the bed to recover. I spent the rest of the afternoon standing in front of the mirror, pushing down on my padding and rocking to and fro, trying to recapture that beautiful sensation but to no avail. At the end of the afternoon, I unpadded and went to the toilet as usual. I found that my underpants were full of something sticky. I cleaned myself up. I thought, “Oh no, I’ve injured myself. Well, I can’t tell anyone about an injury to that part of my anatomy. It’ll just have to heal naturally.”
Every afternoon except Sunday afternoon, I would go through the procedure of pushing my padding down and rocking in front of the mirror. On each occasion I had the same delicious sensation and I found that, try as I might, I could not have that sensation any more than once a day. I didn’t associate the delicious sensation from early in the afternoon with the mess in my underpants at the end of the afternoon. With no sex education, I had some pretty bizarre ideas. I thought that you could get a girl pregnant by just standing next to her and that you could catch VD from a girl by just looking at her the wrong way. I thought that I had some terrible, sexually transmitted disease and I worried myself sick about it.
When I returned to school in September, the boys formed cliques, in which they discussed what was going on for them. They talked about erections, so that I now had a word for this phenomenon. They talked about masturbation and how they did it. It tried it out at the first opportunity. It was good but not half as good as the sensation I got from padding up and pushing my padding down. They talked about orgasms and ejaculations and semen. Now I understood what the delicious sensation that I got from pushing my padding down was. I was relieved to find out that the mess in my underpants at the end of a padding session was normal and not the result of some terrible, sexually transmitted disease. They also talked about the girls who turned them on. I didn’t dare tell the boys that I thought that men were better looking than women. There was talk of homos and homosexuals, but the details they fed me about this subject were so bizarre and erroneous that I never thought that I was one of them. At least, though, I knew at last that I was fairly “normal”. Of course, I couldn’t share with them my preoccupation with padding, which was my main sexual activity. And so, as I became an adult, my nature had become clearly defined as man who admired big-bellied men, wanted to be a big-bellied man and could only be sexually aroused and satisfied by a big, bulging belly. My dream was one of two big-bellied men.
3. The University Years
In my final year at school, I got the examination results to get me into the University of London to study Japanese language and literature. I was very careful about what I spent my money on during the first two years of my University course. I bought secondhand books. All my clothes came from Salvation Army stores. I didn’t bother with social life at all. To my mind it was an unnecessary expense. I had better things to spend my money on, namely food, lots of very fattening food. I would have two lunches in the refectory and in the evening back at my hall of residence I went through the servery three times. None of the kitchen staff told me that I could not have three dinners an evening. I don’t know for sure about this but I think they were too amused watching me balloon from a meager 140 pounds to just over 300 pounds in the two years that I was there. My girth swelled to an impressive and satisfying sixty-two inches. Needless to say, I was no longer called Frank but Fatso and that is just what I had wanted to be called. The University provided free use of a gymnasium for the students and I spent an hour there three times a week doing weight training and powerlifting with the aim of putting on extra muscle in order to carry around all of the extra weight that I intended to put on. Mine wasn’t a dream of immobility. I wanted to be active and be able to get around, so that people could stare in astonishment at how fat I was. I wanted to be seen and known as “the fat guy”.
The bathroom scales and tape measure were always close at hand in my little student’s room for those two blissful years. I felt that my obsession was a magnificent one. I would stuff myself with food until I felt ready to burst and then I would still keep gorging, driven by the resolve that on no night would I go to bed either weighing less or measuring less round the girth than I had the previous night at bedtime. I had the satisfaction of becoming the biggest man on campus. I was the man that people stared at. Perhaps they weren’t staring out of admiration but they were staring at something, for which I had nothing but admiration. Moreover, my own swelling paunch exhibited one property common to all other large, round, protuberant, male bellies; it made me feel a thrill that ran through all my body and mind. I was in a state of constant sexual arousal. The only thing that I longed for to completely realize my ecstasy was to feel my paunch slapping against another equally massive one. Even the Greeks, or for that matter Freud himself, had no word for this quintessentially male passion. I tried to think up words for it. I thought of many names for it but the word which I invented and liked most of all to describe this longing, which even by this time, I had never heard of any other human being having experienced, was “gastroerotism”. It might have been nothing like the terms that I would eventually hear to describe such desires but at least, for the time being, I had a word to describe my unspeakable and, so far as I knew, unspoken yearnings. I knew, despite all of society’s indications to the contrary, that someone else somewhere must share my attraction for what to my mind was the most beautiful object in the natural world – a disproportionately massive male belly. What else could be more exquisitely erotic than a vast male paunch with its roundness, its width, its protuberance, its softness, its warmth, its resilience, its pesanteur, the seductive navel depression near its centre and its satisfying capacity for the enjoyment of unlimited quantities of food, drink, sex and growth?
Eventually, the time, which I had been waiting for all my life, arrived. It was time for my year of study in Japan. I booked the cheapest flight that I could find from London to Tokyo. It had to be cheap, as I, of course, had more important things to spend my money on. I had been assigned a place at Todai, the Imperial University in Tokyo, where I was to spend the year studying in the Department of Japanese Language and Literature for gaikokujin or foreigners.
I had my objectives clearly set out. I studied hard. I made some money by giving private English lessons. I advertised in a number of newspapers, making it clear in my ads that I was prepared to give substantial discounts to rikishi, who wished to learn English, and that I was even prepared to waive tuition fees altogether in return for sparring sessions. I had enough replies to meet my requirements of augmenting my income, getting myself some basic training in the techniques of sumo and getting direct, physical contact with some of the most beautiful, big-bellied men in the world. It also meant that I was invited to a beya for dinner most evenings and ate copious bowls of chanko-nabe with the wrestlers, who like all Japanese were very generous with their hospitality. Chanko-nabe is a delicious stew of chicken, vegetables and tofu and is the staple diet of rikishi. Rather surprisingly, it is not a particularly fattening dish. Rikishi do not achieve such spectacular weight-gain through what they eat but through the quantity that they eat. The average rikishi eats at a single sitting more than the average Japanese eats in a week and they do that four times a day, making their daily food consumption greater than that of the average Japanese man for a whole month. No wonder they get to be so beautiful! That’s a lot of food, even taking into account that most Japanese people are very parsimonious eaters. Needless to say, I greatly enjoyed my year of study in Japan, being surrounded by so many men, who conformed to my ideal of perfect manhood and male beauty, being able to enjoy so much food at so little cost and watching my belly swell up so huge, so quickly. In that year, my weight increased to over 450 pounds and my girth to sixty-eight inches.
4. First Love
At the Shinjuku Beya I met a magnificent and comparatively young rikishi called Takeshi. This was his given name and not his professional name. Needless to say, my Japanese friends, including Takeshi, found my name very difficult to pronounce and mangled it into Furanko, which I liked because it actually sounded Japanese but had one rather amusing and somewhat disconcerting consequence. When people met me for the first time, they nearly always did a double take of me. After a while I realized the reason for this. Most Japanese women’s names end in –ko, which is frequently translated as “child”. People were expecting to meet a typically petite Japanese woman and instead were confronted with a 450lb male gaikokujin. I was, however, popular, as Japan is a nation of chubby-chasers and most Japanese long, if only secretly, for a fling with a Westerner. They like our complexions, because we’re pinker than they are. Well, being huge and pinker than most gaikokujin, women and gay men flocked around me. I also had red hair, which made them think that I was a little dangerous and, therefore, exciting to associate with, because their mythology is full of stories of red-haired demons. However, I turned down all advances, only being receptive to the attentions of men of comparable stature to myself. I had a growing soft spot for my friend Takeshi but it took me a while to guess that my feelings might be reciprocated.
Takeshi and I would go out on the town on Saturday nights. We didn’t frequent the pubs and nightclubs, as most of them have a sign outside the door, which says in English “No Foreigners Allowed”. We didn’t mind this. We didn’t want to drink and dance. We were of one mind; we wanted to get fatter and so we would do the rounds of a couple of restaurants every Saturday evening. At the end of the night, we would head for the nearest public square to look for a pick-up. Since Japanese cannot satisfy their longing for a fling with a Westerner in the pubs and clubs, they flock to the squares at throwing-out time to meet us. One corner is used for heterosexual encounters and another corner for gay ones. You can see all of the hopeful young people from a distance; well, at least you can see all their cigarette ends glowing in the dark. As sportsmen, Takeshi and I did not smoke. Moreover, I always remembered by father’s oft repeated words of advice: “Smoking stunts your growth.” We always headed for the “straight” corner of the square. I noticed that I was not the only one, who rejected all advances and began to wonder if Takeshi, too, was looking for a man and maybe not just any man, but one of similar stature to himself.
Once I had observed the occasional longing glances, which he would cast after another rikishi, I decided to take a chance. From the literature, which I saw him read, I guessed that he was of a rather romantic inclination like myself. I got hold of a copy of Michelangelo’s Sonnets and a large, extravagant greeting card with a scene of the sakura blossom, which the Japanese spend so much time admiring in spring, on the front. On the left page inside the card I wrote in my best handwriting my favourite of all these sonnets and one, which to my mind is the most powerful love poem ever written, and a gay love poem at that, the one which begins:
Veggio nel tuo bel viso, signor mio,
quel che narrar mal puossi in questa vita:
l’anima, della carne ancor vestita,
con esso è già più volte ascesa a Dio.
Roughly translated, this means, “I see in your beautiful face, my Lord, what can be but ill expressed in this life; my soul, still clothed in flesh, has already therewith many times ascended to God.” To me this poem has always been a creed, which I think that all gay lovers should live by. On the facing page, I wrote a poor Japanese translation. I put the card in the accompanying envelope and mailed it to Takeshi.
Two evenings later I went to the Shinjuku Beya. Takeshi came to usher me in. The beaming smile on his face told me that my message of love had struck its intended mark. We ate our fill of chanko-nabe and rice with the other rikishi and then sat around talking with them. It was mainly sumo talk but it took an interesting turn towards the end.
“I reckon that Takeshi’s got a girlfriend,” said one of the rikishi.
“What makes you think that?” asked a second one.
“Because,” explained the first one, “he’s been going round all yesterday and today with a grin on his face like a cat that stole a fish.” The whole company fell around in fits of uproarious laughter at this remark, their naked bellies all quivering in voluptuous jollity.
“It must be an oiran,” remarked one coarse fellow. “Who else would go with an ugly old devil like Takeshi?”
“Do you mind if I excuse myself?” asked Takeshi. “I have a couple of questions for my English teacher.” With that Takeshi and I arose and went to his private quarters. We sat on the ample sofa, provided by the beya to accommodate the rears of such magnificent specimens of manhood as were to be found in such an establishment. I felt his hand slip around my broad and ample love-handles.
“That was a very beautiful poem that you sent me,” he started almost reticently. “Is that really the way you think about me?”
“I think…” I hesitated. “I think you’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met.” Our eyes were locked into a mutual gaze. My eyes strayed down to his beautifully rotund and protuberant belly. I chanced my hand upon this magnificent orb of fat and found that he responded with his hand on mine.
“What do you like about a man like me?” he asked still quite perplexed that anyone could find him attractive.
“You’re the sort of man that I’ve always wanted,” I replied, rubbing his warm, soft paunch. “A lesser man would never be able to satisfy me.”
“You like this?” he asked and I felt him unhand me and take his massive gut in both hands and shake it up and down.
“I’ve always wanted a man with a belly,” I replied, letting my hands show how I appreciated his. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
“I’ve always wanted the same,” he concurred. “I wanted to have a huge belly and to have a relationship with a guy who had one himself. That’s why I went in for sumo.”
“Me, too,” I murmured. By now we had moved closer together and our two massive bellies were wedged against each other in what can only be described as ecstasy. Our two lovely balls of blubber heaved passionately in and out of each other, softly and fluidly, as if they were about to merge into one body. A sense of moisture inside my mawashi made me realize that body fluids were already starting to ooze. We slid down onto the floor and ripped each other’s mawashi off, uncontrollably eager to bury ourselves in each other’s warm and bouncy softness. It was what I had longed for all my life. It wasn’t even two fat gay men making love; it was just two colossal bellies making love. We were nothing but a seething mass of amorous, sweating belly.
I reached beneath my new lover’s mountainous belly to grasp his pulsating member and he took mine in his hand. We massaged each other’s manhood and thrust our rippling bellies into each other.
“It’s so hard to reach your cock with our two bellies pressed together,” said Takeshi.
“It sure is,” I said. “But you know that’s one of the nice things about having such a large belly. At one and the same time, it makes everything you do so much more difficult yet so much more fun.”
“You’re certainly righty about that,” he gasped, equally as breathless as I was, from the heaving to and fro of our huge, fat bodies. I leaned forwards and put my free hand around his neck to draw his face, his handsome, chubby face closer to mine. I paused for a moment to gaze upon those full lips, which were so ripe for kissing and which I had longed for many months to feel pressed against my own. Then I buried my tongue in his mouth. It was so difficult to maintain this position. Our vast bellies were pushing every other part of us apart. To massage each other’s cocks was hard enough but to kiss at the same time was almost impossible. But it felt so good that we maintained this posture for a good fifteen minutes. Such bulky men were we, that our lovemaking was like the union of two elemental being, two kami, two oceans of clashing, billowing blubber. And then an electrical feeling flooded both our bodies at the same time. Our climax lasted for minutes on end as we both gushed what seemed like whole pints of love-juice. Takeshi went to move away but I pulled him back.
“No,” I protested, “I want your belly to stay pressed against mine.”
“Your right,” he said. “Keeping our bellies together makes it feel as if the orgasm is still going on.”
“Yeah,” I gasped still twitching with delight. “Two lesser men couldn’t make love like that.”
We just lay there whispering sweet nothings to each other, caressing each other’s great and sweeping curves until we drifted into that sweet state, half sleep, half passion, known only to new lovers. We awoke in the morning still locked in a passionate embrace with a puddle of cum on the floor beneath our bellies.
At breakfast, the other rikishi were surprised to see me. Takeshi took it upon himself to announce to the others that we were both “gentlemen of the Satsuma persuasion”, as the Japanese of earlier times were wont to put it, and that we were in love with each other. I slept at the beya every night after that. We were passionate lovers. We made love three times a day, once after dinner, the most delicious time of all, when we were stuffed, heavy and bloated from our huge repast of thirty or more bowls of chanko-nabe, again at bedtime and again in the morning, before taking a shower.
We soon became a notable pair on the social scene in the Shinjuku and Ginza areas on Saturday night. We did not hide our love for each other. Japanese people didn’t find it at all bizarre that two such titanic men should be lovers. However, not infrequently some gaikokujin would pass a remark to one of his companions - a comment such as: “Oh, my God, look at those two enormous fat guys over there making out with each other. How disgusting!” It was all like water off a duck’s back to Takeshi and me. We were glad of being so fat and big-bellied and in love, and we were proud of it. After our rounds of three or four restaurants on a Saturday night, we would walk home hand in hand for all to see.
My year in Japan passed very quickly. I enjoyed my studies. I was surrounded by fat-bellied men and my own belly blew up like balloon up to seventy-two inches, and I had the most magnificent lover in the world. Takeshi’s girth was one inch greater than my own but it looked a lot more than that on his shorter Japanese frame. He was all belly and that was one of the things that I liked about him so much.
Our parting was tearful. Considerable depth of feeling had developed between Takeshi and me. During my first couple of months back in England, Takeshi and I constantly wrote letters to each other but as my studies took up more time and as Takeshi’s career blossomed, we gradually lost touch.
5. My Career Begins
I managed to get back into my old hall of residence. This had a couple of advantages. Firstly, it meant that I could devote more time to study, as I didn’t have to cook and shop. Secondly, it meant that I could go through the servery a couple of extra times at mealtimes at no extra cost. It also meant I ran into a few old friends, who had stayed on to do postgraduate studies. They were all astounded at my new bulk. A couple of them commented, “My God, did you take up sumo wrestling while you were in Japan?” I would just smile and say, “Something like that.” I was the object of much attention and many staring eyes. I knew that I was the fattest man that many people had seen and I relished the fact. My weight over the final year of my studies climbed steadily to just over 550 pounds and my girth grew to a delightful seventy-five inches.
I graduated with good grades, as I had spent four years studying hard. After receiving my degree, I booked a couple of seats on a flight to Tokyo, where I set up initially as a private English teacher on the same basis as a year earlier. Discounts were again available to rikishi and I waived my fee completely in return for sparring sessions. I started to apply to beya for a place as a trainee wrestler. I found the going tough and it took a while to find a place. Eventually, I was offered a place at the Ginza Beya, the manager of that particular beya believing that my size gave me a great advantage right from the very beginning.
Shortly after I had taken up residence the Ginza Beya, I took a trip to the Shinjuku Beya. It was good to see so many old friends again and they were impressed with my increased bulk. However, I was disappointed to find that Takeshi was no longer living there. The other rikishi informed me that he had moved to Osaka and had a place at a beya there but they expressed deep regret that he had left no forwarding address, for they knew how much I loved him. We had a gargantuan feast at the Shinjuku Beya that night and we spent most of the night talking about old times. I didn’t get home to my own beya until dawn.
On the Tuesday of the next week I noticed an unbelievably huge man at my new beya. When I enquired who he was, I was told that he was Chocho-san, the heaviest rikishi who had ever lived. It turned out that neither Chocho-san nor his colleagues were aware that his name was well known to Westerners. They were all highly amused to learn that Madame Butterfly in Verdi’s opera of that name calls herself Cio-Cio-san, which can be translated as Madame Butterfly but it can equally well be translated as Mr. Butterfly. Chocho-san had chosen this as his professional name, because despite his colossal weight of just over 720 pounds he was agile and, therefore, reputed to move around the dohyo or wrestling ring like a butterfly. He had a girth of almost ninety inches and was a stunningly handsome man in my eyes. Needless to say I was drawn to him but didn’t dare to hope for anything more than a simple friendship. My solicitations paid off and we did, in fact, become close friends.
One evening the rikishi of our beya were sitting around chatting after dinner. Chocho-san turned to me and asked, “Well, Furanko-san, what exactly are your ambitions?”
“Well,” I replied, “I want to be a rikishi.”
“We already know that or you wouldn’t be here,” Chocho-san retorted. “We want to know if you want to achieve the status of a yokozuna (a sumo grand champion). Or perhaps you want to be a popular rikishi?”
Feeling rather bold, I said, “Well, it would be great to be a yokozuna and popularity would certainly come with that but what I want most of all, what I’ve wanted ever since the age of four, is to become the heaviest rikishi who has ever lived.”
“You want my place!” he roared. “Well, gaikokujin,” he continued more generously, “every record has to be broken. If you want to take my place, then you must live like me. Come and eat with me at mealtimes and I will take personal charge of bulking you up.” The thought of the fattest ever rikishi stuffing me to bursting point four times a day was so arousing. Did I dare to hope for more?
Every day Chocho-san coached me in the art of gorging myself to bursting point. “Come on, gaijin,” he would encourage me, “another piece of chicken… and a piece of tofu… a little more… every day… that’s it… one more mouthful… It takes a long time to make a yokozuna… It’ll take longer to make a second Chocho-san… A pound a day and you’ll be there in a year maybe…”
Soon I was getting through fifty bowls of chanko-nabe at each meal. It felt good to enjoy so much food and to be getting so huge. Chocho-san spent much time feeding me, often putting each morsel of food in my mouth with the chopsticks. It never really occurred to me that this constituted a great intimacy and spelled out hope of even better things but I just did not think of where this was leading for fear of the possibility of disappointment. I grew and grew. As I grew, my gratitude towards Chocho-san grew, and as that grew, my feelings for him became stronger in other ways.
It was not long before I was taking part in my first sumo tournament. It was then that I learnt that the International Sumo Federation had passed a new rule to the effect that rikishi with girths of greater than seventy-five inches did not have to put their hands on the start lines in the dohyo at the beginning of a match. The new rule had been brought in to accommodate Chocho-san. By now my girth was not far short of that magic measurement. At this tournament Chocho-san was competing as an ozeki, the second highest rank, and I was a mere novice. Nevertheless, I attained instant popularity because of my size. The manager tried to get me to be known by a number of professional names, none of which found acceptance with the public, who insisted on referring to me as Gaikokujin, “the Foreigner”. I was frequently interviewed by the press and television companies. I presented Japan with a thorny problem. I was obviously a promising wrestler despite my status as a novice. I was compared with an earlier rikishi called Konishiki, a comparison which I found to be quite flattering. He too was a foreigner and was a former holder of the title of heaviest ever rikishi. There was a time when it looked as if he might qualify as a yokozuna and that possibility sparked a controversy around whether a foreigner could possibly have the cultural knowledge to fill the role of a grand champion in such a quintessentially Japanese institution as sumo. My B.A. in Japanese language and literature meant that my cultural knowledge of matters Japanese was greater than that of mamy Japanese people, including rikishi. Controversy surrounded me everywhere I went, especially when it became likely that I would soon outstrip Chocho-san as the heaviest rikishi ever.
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