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Late Night Fun In The Beya, Part 2
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 email@example.com.]
6. Record Breaker
As my weight approached that of Chocho-san and I attained a girth of eighty-five inches, Chocho-san and the rest of the beya gathered around excitedly as I was weighed each morning. Finally, the morning arrived when I clocked up 723 pounds and pipped Chocho-san by one pound. We had a big celebration that night. We didn’t eat our normal fare of chank-nabe and rice but ordered out for pizza and some Western-style drinks. We also ordered some oiran or high-class prostitutes. The oiran were obviously vying with each other to service the biggest rikishi and this meant that Chocho-san and I received more than our fair share of their attention. It was then that I noticed that Chocho-san took as little interest in the oiran as I did. Chocho-san indulged rather heavily in the whisky, not realizing that it was a much stronger drink than sake, the traditional Japanese rice wine. His befuddlement left him less guarded and I noticed him looking longingly at other rikishi, including myself. It became apparent to me that Chocho-san was gay and that I stood a chance of some sort of involvement with him.
Two days later, it was Saturday and, in order to help me celebrate my becoming a man of such substance, Chocho-san took me shopping at his favourite big-and-tall shop. I should explain that many beya have now dispensed with the requirement that rikishi should wear only traditional Japanese attire outside the beya. They had clothes in stock to fit both of us, because they kept stock to fit Chocho-san. It was a great pleasure to spend money on good clothes after more than four years of shopping in Salvation Army Stores. We spent up big and I could not resist buying a pair of light blue jeans and matching denim shirt that caught my fancy. I decided to wear them straight away rather than changing back into the clothes I had been wearing, when I came back out of the changing room. They made me look even bigger than I was. Two such dapper blimps as Chocho-san and I certainly turned heads, even in Tokyo.
That night I decided to make a play for Chocho-san’s affections in exactly the same way that I had for Takeshi’s two years earlier. I inscribed a greeting card with the same poem of Michelangelo’s and the same Japanese translation as I had sent to Takeshi and left it in his pidgeon hole in the common room. Not much seemed to come of the ploy for a week, apart from a few strange looks from Chocho-san. Finally, I got a bite after breakfast the following Saturday morning. We all sat around chatting, after we had finished eating. One by one, the other rikishi made their excuses for leaving the rest of us, until Chocho-san and I were left alone in the dining hall.
“I would like to talk in private with you about the card you sent me,” said Chocho-san as his opening gambit.
“Sure,” I replied, “your quarters or mine?”
“Mine,” he said, giving me a gentle shove to urge me to get up. We ambled slowly down to Chocho-san’s quarters. Once inside, he invited me to sit beside him on an ample sofa, which we filled quite snugly.
Chocho-san placed his chunky hand on mine and I felt the blood pulsing in my temples at this first sign of affection from such a magnificent man. “It’s a very beautiful poem,” he began. “Do you really feel like that about me?”
“Yes, I do,” I replied. “I’ve always wanted to be a big man and I’ve always found such men attractive. The bigger the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
“But beautiful as I find the poem,” he continued, “I find some of it very difficult to understand.” This wasn’t exactly unexpected, as it expressed some feelings and concepts that are not discussed in traditional Japanese literature. I spent half the morning explaining what Michelangelo had been trying to say to his lover.
Eventually, when all was explained, I urged him to get up and I put my arms around him for a long passionate kiss. We had to lean into each other at quite a steep angle to kiss because of our massive paunches. Then my hands strayed to his top shirt button and started to undo his buttons from the top down. He did the same with my shirt. We pulled each other’s shirts out of our jeans and parted the fabric and pushed it back to survey each other’s voluminous and wide bellies. We let our shirts drop to the floor and hugged, struggling to reach our hands around each other’s sides to grasp each other’s voluptuously bulging love-handles.
“Oh, man,” I murmured, “this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Furanko, you’re the sort of man I want, too,” he confessed.
“I want to go all the way,” I said, allowing my hands to follow the sweeping curve of his pecs down to his jutting belly and further down round this beautiful hemisphere of pendulous flab to its midline, where his jeans hugged his impressive girth. His voluptuous belly heaved arousingly in and out, visibly straining to burst out of the confinement of his thick, black leather best. I unzipped his jeans, taking time to appreciate the lovely quarter-circle described by his ponderous underbelly. My fingers fumbled for a whole minute with the buckle of his belt, before I managed to undo it, for my entire body was atremble with the anticipation of the erotic enjoyment of this mountain of undulating and seductive belly. Then I popped the stud and, as his jeans dropped to the floor, his magnificent belly surged forwards another three or four inches, being suddenly released from all constraints. He unzipped and popped my jeans with the same delicious effect. It was exhilarating to feel masses of rippling, undulating belly all pressed together. We eased ourselves as gently as our bulk would allow into a reclining position on the floor. With two such massive guts wedged against each other, we could kiss or massage each other’s members but we could not do both simultaneously. So, we did the one thing and then the other alternately, until our arousal led us to focus on masturbating each other. I could not resist thrusting with my belly at the same time. To me there is nothing as delicious as two gargantuan bellies clashing into each other. Soon we were a sweating, seething mass of impassioned flab. We climaxed simultaneous, shooting what felt like gallons of semen high into the air. We rolled and lay on our backs holding hands, breathless, our deliciously pert bellies rising and falling rhythmically. We lay there recuperating for a long time until lunch was called, when we towelled each other down and helped each other to get dressed again. We then joined the other rikishi in the dining hall.
We found time to make love every day and went out on the town on Saturday night just like other courting lovers, not that courtship is a traditional part of Japanese culture. There was gossip. “It’s Chocho-san and Gaikokujin. He’s that rikishi who had an affair with that wrestler from the Shinjuku Beya.”
7. “Married” Life Begins
After a month of this we were confident that we wanted to be together for life, so we confessed our love for each other to the other rikishi in the beya, to our friends and to the manager of the beya, whom we asked for permission to move into married quarters. The manager was a generous man, who granted our request, and we were in married quarters two days later. Married rikishi in our beya lived in separate traditional-style Japanese houses across the garden from the single men’s quarters in the beya‘s main building. This gave them a little extra privacy, which we were very glad of, because we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I think it fair to say that, had we been more slender individuals, ours would have been considered one of the greatest love stories of world history.
Feeding was still a big part of our daily routine. We would go across to the main building to eat most of our meals with the other rikishi and, when they finished eating, we would retire to our quarters, where further helpings of food were brought over to us by two personal assistants, which the manager had been kind enough to assign to us. We still ate huge amounts of food just to maintain our bulk and mutual feeding was part of our love making. It was wonderful to have sex after dinner, when our bellies were at their heaviest and crammed to bursting point.
One night, we were still feeding each other chanko-nabe, when Chocho-san suddenly asked, “So, what other ambitions do you have? You’ve achieved a lot, becoming a rikishi, then becoming the heaviest ever rikishi. You’ve gained popularity and you have the perfect lover, even if I say so myself.”
“I’ve got one more really big ambition,” I said.
“And what’s that?” asked Chocho-san.
“I want to be bigger, fatter,” I said with tremendous enthusiasm.
“Bigger?” questioned Chocho-san.
“Yes,” I explained, “I want to be the first ever rikishi to weigh more than half a ton.”
“Are you serious about that?” asked Chocho-san with raised eyebrows.
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” I said.
“Then we’d better start feeding you more,” said Chocho-san, solicitous of trying to please a dissatisfied lover. “And there’s no better time to start than the present.” With this he called one of our personal assistants to bring more chanko-nabe and rice.
8. The Half-Ton Rikishi
Chocho-san stuffed me for just over two years, watching my girth and belly steadily grow. The bigger I got the better our sex lives became, because there was just more and more belly between us. The more belly there was, the more difficult love-making became but at the same time it became more enjoyable and rapturous. Just over two years later, my girth was 110 inches. It felt so good and Chocho-san loved me more than ever. With weekly weigh-ins it was very apparent on which Monday morning the goal would be reached. When that day finally arrived, all the rikishi gathered round me, as I stepped on the heavy-duty scales. All jostled to watch the figures on the digital read-out clock up. Eventually, there were gasps of amazement from all directions.
“One thousand and twelve pounds!” exclaimed one rikishi. “Congratulations, Furanko-san!”
“Furanko-san,” said another, “you’re the first rikishi ever to weigh half a ton.”
The other rikishi all pressed around me and most of them tried to give me a congratulatory hug. They hugged what they could; there was no longer any man alive, who could get his arms around me.
“Tonight, we’ll celebrate,” suggested one of the rikishi. “We’ll order some pizza and some drinks and we’ll have some oiran round.” All agreed that this was the thing to do. This was the moment, when I finally gained acceptance. As a guest in their country, the Japanese had always treated me well but now, I felt, they accepted me as one of their own.
Towards the end of dinner time that evening, Mr. Tanaka, the owner of the beya called in to congratulate me and to exhort all of the rikishi to seek to achieve equally highly. It felt good to live in a country where such obesity as mine could be so highly prized and admired.
“I wish more of you were the size of Furanko-san and Chocho-san,” Mr. Tanaka’s little speech continued. “It would be very good for business. I would be able to start up supasumo with super-sized wrestlers. Imagine how popular that would be.” We all laughed long and loud at Mr. Tanaka’s apparently jocular exhortation.
Eventually, Mr. Tanaka departed and we phoned out for deliveries of pizza and whisky. We tucked into the food and drink as soon as it was delivered. Not long afterwards the oiran started to arrive and were happy to share our festive fare. One of the oiran was more forward than most. Her name was Reiko. The oiran were particularly fascinated with me and not to a greatly lesser extent with Chocho-san. As I sat on the floor with my massive belly spilling out between my legs, Reiko came to fondle it.
“I’d give a special, discount rate to a big, handsome guy like you,” she cajoled.
“He’s not for you, dear!” exclaimed one of the other rikishi. “He’s a gentleman of the Satsuma persuasion.”
Everyone except Reiko fell around in uproarious laughter. Reiko looked rather perplexed.
“He’s Furanko-san,” the wrestler continued. “He and the other really big guy, Chocho-san, are lovers and live together here in married quarters.” Reiko looked quite disappointed at being denied the opportunity of servicing the biggest man of her career.
“You can give me a massage,” I said to console her, as I took her tiny hand and guided it over the surface of my big ball of fat. Her face lit up again.
A good time was had by all that night. The oiran were very pleased to have as new clients a whole beya full of rikishi. It was obvious that a number of special “friendships” were formed that night.
Chocho-san and I retired to our quarters just after midnight. Chocho-san was rather mellow with whisky and so we didn’t feel capable of doing very much. We didn’t even take off our mawashi. We just reclined on our giant futon, sank into each other’s bellies and drifted into a sleep filled with dreams of such pleasures as only truly obese lovers can know in waking hours.
When we got up the next morning, the common room was still full of rikishi and oiran. Many of them had paired off and we snuggled together in a mutual embrace. The oiran stayed on to share our breakfast, many of them taking delight in feeding their big men. It was a spectacle of delight.
“Hey, Reiko,” asked one of the rikishi. “We’ve all had a good night. So, could we have your telephone number? Next time we have a night like last night, we’ll give you a call and have your girls around again.” Reiko came over to him and handed him her meishi.
Many hugs and kisses later, the bunch of oiran left the beya. Training didn’t go well that morning.
9. The Television Interview
Later that week I was interviewed live on an evening current affairs programme produced by one of Japan’s biggest TV companies. I was interviewed by Mayumi, a young lady, whom many regarded as one of the country’s leading TV interviewers.
“Good evening,” Mayumi began, talking to the camera, “this evening we talk to Furanko-san, who for a long time has been the heaviest rikishi who has ever lived. Now he has become the first wrestler to weigh over half a ton. He is currently an ozeki.”
“Furanko-san,” she continued, turning to address me face to face, “you have been known by many names. What should I call you?”
“Call me Furanko,” I said, “like everyone else does.”
“What name did your parents give you?” she asked.
“Frank Smith,” I replied with a wry smile, knowing well that she would find it almost impossible to pronounce.
“Furanko Sumisu?” she repeated, well, almost. I repeated my name a couple of times, trying to give pronunciation tips to help her but to no avail.
“Hm, Sumisu,” she finally concluded, “sounds like sumo. Perhaps your name predestined you to become a sumo wrestler.” She laughed awkwardly and then regained her composure.
Mayumi questioned me about my upbringing, about what I liked about Japan, about my degree in Japanese language and literature and especially about my relationship with Chocho-san. Eventually, the interview came round to my weight.
“So, Furanko-san, you’re the heaviest sumo wrestler who has ever lived,” she began. “How did that come about?”
“Well,” I explained. “I’ve always wanted to be a rikishi since the age of four. And, since that age, I didn’t want to be just any wrestler; I wanted to be the fattest, heaviest wrestler, who has ever lived. Since then, my entire life has been devoted to those two goals.”
“Some ambition!” she exclaimed. “And do you intend to get any bigger?”
“Oh, yes,” I smiled, “I’d love to get bigger but I don’t want to put on any more weight. It wouldn’t really be practical.”
Hm,” she laughed, “well, Furanko-san, you can’t get bigger without putting on weight.” That remark of Mayumi’s echoed through my mind over the ensuing months. I just kept wondering if it was at all possible to get even bigger without getting any heavier. At this juncture, the interview time ran out and Mayumi wrapped up the discussion and invited viewers to comment on the interview with me either by telephone or email.
That night at dinner, Chocho-san said to me, “The TV interview ended on an interesting note. You want to get bigger but you don’t want to put on more weight.” The other rikishi laughed, making comments to the effect that it wasn’t possible to get bigger without putting on weight.
“I know that,” I said in an attempt to shut them all up, “but it’s a lovely dream, isn’t it?”
“Dreams get you nowhere, Furanko-san,” admonished one of the rikishi.
Not wishing to concede this point, I found myself saying, “Today’s dreams are of stuff that tomorrow’s reality is made of.” This words brought all talk to an end for the night and echoed repeatedly through my head for months to come.
10. Naming Day in the Beya
When I arrived home from the TV station after my interview later that evening, there was a telephone call for me from Mr. Tanaka. Now that I was the first rikishi to weigh half a ton, he felt that I should have a proper professional name. The name Gaikokujin would no longer do. I told him that I had no ideas myself on the subject and asked if I could discuss the matter with my fellow rikishi at dinner the next evening to see what ideas they had. Mr. Tanaka agreed to this.
The next night at dinner I broached the subject of having to choose a professional name with the other rikishi. A heated discussion followed, in which every other rikishi was keen to rename me. Numerous suggestions were made, until one of the wrestlers, whose real name was Rikyu and who was a particularly close friend of Chocho-san and me piped up with: “People go crazy over the sight of you because you have such a big belly. So, your new professional name should have the word hara (the Japanese word for belly) in it.” All, including myself, seemed to be in agreement with Rikyu’s idea.
“Yes,” I said, “I agree with that but I can’t think of a good name with hara in it.”
“I know,” proposed one of the other rikishi, “you could call yourself Harahara.” The name wasn’t exactly greeted with enthusiasm.
“You see,” continued the same rikishi, in broken English, “hara mean berry, and harahara mean surirringu.”
Even though I knew what harahara meant, I had difficulty in deciphering this last remark. It was not too difficult to work out that “berry” was his mispronunciation of “very”. After half a minute, the penny dropped that this rikishi was trying to say the word “thrilling”. I pronounced the word for him several times and tried to get him to repeat it. All that he could manage was “surirringu”. The other wrestlers howled with laughter at his mispronunciation.
“Better leave the languages to Furanko-san,” concluded another wrestler. The laughter continued.
Eventually, calm was restored and I commented, “I appreciated the double meaning but it’s not a catchy word and I think that the repetition sounds childish.” The other rikishi seemed to agree with me.
“I know,” said Rikyu, “you could call yourself Kamihara. It means Divine Belly.”
“Yes, I know that,” I said. “It sounds good. Kamihara… Kamihara… Kamihara… Well, there’s nothing more to discuss. From now on I’m Kamihara.”
“And,” Rikyu insisted on adding, “it will remind people of the name of the god Kaminari.” Mutters of agreement ran around the room.
Later that evening I telephoned Mr. Tanaka to inform him of the name that I had chosen. He agreed that it was a good choice.
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