by Probably Brady Russell
My name is Boyden. Boyden Rondonly. I came to college with a subconscious intention to keep my body as it was. After all, I was a culinary student. I met Maudlin at our culinary school. My girl. My chunky wet dream. We fell in love because we both liked being fat. In all honesty, she gave me that. She had no doubt about whether or not she was happy in her body; she was joyously rotund, erotically ample. Before I met her I had thought I should want to be a skinny boy, but getting there would have taken too much effort and that didn't appeal to me. Olive oil appealed to me.
It may not seem normal for a young man to fall in love with fat. I wouldn't have thought so before I came to college because everywhere I looked there was thinness, waifish-ness. Men fell in love with disappearing women, and that was what I believed I should do, as well.
Well I didn't. I fell in love with Maudlin, a big girl. She and I were the sort of people you might not like sitting next to on an airplane. We were the sort of people that could bounce little babies up and down on our tummies without sitting down. We were, probably, too fat. After all, we couldn't see our shoes; nevertheless, we chose our shoes well. See, we rebelled with our bodies. Unlike too many of the heavy-set folks, who give in to the unhappiness society prescribes for our lot, when Maudlin found me she made me as happy as she always had been.
We were a stylish couple. We chose our clothes carefully. We looked good, and we let each other know it by taking good, long looks at each other in public places. We took the sort of looks that other people noticed us taking. Maudlin led me into enjoying my own girth and she was wonderful, wonderful for that.
I took my first cue from her when we met. It's a little embarrassing to describe the moment now, but I almost have to in order to drive home my point. We met. We looked into each other's eyes and then we started to jiggle. We jiggled for joy. I don't remember a happier day since I found the brownie recipe on the back of the Hershey's bakers' chocolate box.
She and I shared all sorts of special habits, but cooking was at the heart of our relationship. We cooked all day in class but we loved it enough to cook together each night. Our reasons for cooking were a little different, though. I was a cooking purist. I loved cooking for the sake of cooking. I loved the spices, the smells, the tastes, and the slow, mystical process of creating a dish. Cooking put me into a sort of trance where all I could see was the next utensil, the next stirring, the next vegetable. It was the food itself that enchanted me enough to choose culinary school, and that was why from time to time cooking so engulfed me that, once in the kitchen, I couldn't even hear. After all, the cook hardly needs to hear anything.
Maudlin liked cooking because she thought it was sensual. That's why she always cooked with me. She made cooking into foreplay. She'd make dirty jokes while stuffing a chicken or melting butter or undressing bananas or moistening breads or really just about anything. So when I could listen—and usually I could—I'd get turned on and work the food harder and harder.
"Look at the way you’re basting that chicken," she'd tease. "Is that the way you'd baste me? You want to get the butter into its skin, don't you? You want to get under its skin, don't you? Make love to it, Boyden, touch your food as if it were a woman."
"I already have the only woman I need," I'd reply, "so why are you trying to mess with my magic?" I was a little overconfident.
Her bawdiness must have rubbed off on me over the months of cooking, because one ingredient came to receive my tender loving care: garlic.
Garlic cloves look something like a woman's upper thigh and something like her nose. Garlic cloves demand the most careful undressing, and, once laying naked, a clove has so much to savor. Maudlin's talk made me want to save the garlic to undress slowly, with great care. I'd slice it and crush each piece between my fingers, so its smell would get embedded in my hands. The first time Maudlin noticed what I was doing she smelled my hand and said, "Don't wash."
By now Maudlin's two enormous appetites should be obvious; my
cooking sated one and aroused another. The day she discovered
my little trysts with garlic she became voracious. After we ate, she
licked my hands up and down, and I don't know. She seemed to put
them everywhere. "God," she said, "garlic even makes
sex taste better." And it did.
So our life together was good. We had our looks, our clothes, we had each other, and now we had garlic. We also had a wonderful school where we were preparing for a wonderful life as chefs. The school wasn't just for cooks, though. It was a hospitality school where others learned to manage restaurants and hotels. A lot of hospitality people had to take a few of our classes, and so the better cooks helped them out a lot of times. It wasn't a competitive environment, and helping them wasn't a big deal for us. I'm sort of easing into telling about this last one I tutored, because I don't want to make it seem like any big deal. Both Maudlin and I had helped several students before this last one trotted along.
She was a hostess to-be. She and I had planned to spend a couple of hours in the lab working on her fileting and some basting techniques. She was lost on spices, too. Still, I didn't want to take too long with her because I had plans for dinner with Maudlin, though my pupil was a very pretty woman. Slender and sweet and smart, she just was not much of a cook. Honesty wasn't one of her virtues, either, because as it turned out she wanted more than some help on her homework.
How could I have guessed? Sure, every fat boy has heard the rumors about skinny girls who like guys like us, but I'd never really believed they existed. It was a total surprise when this hostess started coming on to me. I was flattered. That was a mistake, and today I know better. I won't even glance at a girl if she isn't my size or similar, but I was younger then.
So I ended up cooking for her. Really cooking. I cooked for her a lot like I did for Maudlin (with the same post-repast results). Guess what? She liked garlic, too.
And maybe it wasn't just me and my limited charms that she had fallen for. Maybe Maudlin had dressed me too dashingly that day. Perhaps my careful coif and my eye-catching cashmere had drawn her in. Maybe, in a funny way, Maudlin had herself to blame for my infidelity. Either way, I lost out.
My mind was sort of racing after the shameful fact. My post-cuckoldry cranium couldn't concede that I might be late for my date and slip home for a shower, no; so, afterwards, I was stuck. I'd promised Maudlin I'd be at her place that night and time was running short and garlic was all over me. If Maudlin and I had just cooked right off the bat like we normally did, everything would have been fine. Too bad, Maudlin had other plans. Her door opened and she said, "We made the best parmigiana of all time in class today. I need you now!" Oh shit.
She smelled the garlic. Almost as soon as she kissed me, she smelled the garlic. Garlic only buries itself in the skin if a cook is getting more from the garlic than a little taste. Garlic and lust have their own special smell. It was deep in my fingers and she could smell it there, and she knew.
"Get away from me," Maudlin said, "I'll only eat fresh garlic."
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