Her Habits My Waistlne

Chapter 1

Terry had spent most of his adult life pretending to be the man everyone else wanted him to be.

At thirty-six, I had the kind of life people congratulated you for. I was six foot three, broad shouldered, permanently tan from hiking and the gym, and disciplined enough that I still had the stomach definition I'd worked for in college. I drove a nice truck, made good money in commercial real estate, and had dated women who looked like they belonged in luxury skincare commercials.

People envied me constantly.

But the truth was, I had spent years feeling hollow.

My ex-wife, Danielle, had been gorgeous. Tiny waist, perfect blonde hair, Pilates six mornings a week. Before her there had been fitness influencers, yoga instructors, even a pageant contestant for six months. Every relationship followed the same pattern. At first I'd feel proud walking beside them because that was what I'd been taught to want. Then eventually I'd feel detached, almost like I was playing a role in somebody else's movie.

Because the women I secretly noticed weren't the women I was supposed to notice.

It was the fat women.

Not as a joke. Not secretly to mock them the way some men did. I genuinely adored them. I loved softness, bellies, thick thighs, huge hips, the confidence some big women carried when they stopped apologizing for taking up space. I loved the femininity of it. The warmth of it. The abundance.

And buried even deeper than that was another fantasy I'd never admitted aloud.

Sometimes I imagined becoming soft myself.

Not just heavier. Feminine.

The thought usually arrived late at night after a few drinks or during long showers where my mind wandered somewhere dangerous. I'd imagine my body changing, growing softer and fuller, my hard edges disappearing beneath curves. Sometimes in those fantasies I wasn't just fat. I was a woman. Big, glamorous, desired.

Every time those thoughts surfaced, shame followed immediately behind them.

Men like me weren't supposed to think those things.

So I buried them.

For years.

Then I met Alex.

The first time I saw her, she was behind the register at a gas station five minutes from my condo. I'd gone in for protein bars and an energy drink after the gym, still wearing a fitted black shirt that clung to my chest and arms.

And then I saw her.

She towered over the other cashier beside her, easily six feet tall even without heels. Her dark curls spilled over her shoulders and her eyeliner was perfect despite the fluorescent lighting. Her body was enormous. Three hundred pounds at least, maybe more. Her gas station uniform strained against her chest and stomach so tightly that I could see the buttons pulling.

She was stunning.

Not in spite of her size.

Because of it.

I remember staring too long. Long enough that she noticed.

Instead of looking uncomfortable, Alex smiled slowly like she already understood exactly what was happening in my head.

"You finding everything okay?" she asked.

Her voice was low and velvety.

I stumbled over my response like a teenager.

After that, I started finding excuses to go there constantly. Coffee in the mornings. Snacks after work. Bottled water I didn't need. Some part of me knew it was ridiculous, but another part of me felt magnetically pulled toward her.

Over the next few weeks we talked more every time I came in.

Alex was funny in a dry, intelligent way that caught me off guard. She remembered details about me. Asked questions nobody else ever did. And she looked directly into my eyes when she spoke, with a confidence that made me feel strangely exposed.

One evening she leaned against the counter while I bought a soda.

"You work out a lot," she observed.

I laughed nervously. "That obvious?"

"A little." Her eyes moved down my body and back up again. "Seems exhausting."

Something about the way she said it made my pulse jump.

I shrugged. "Habit, I guess."

"You ever get tired of trying so hard?"

The question hit harder than it should have.

I didn't answer immediately.

Alex smiled faintly, like she already knew.

The attraction between us built slowly after that, thick and undeniable every time I walked through those automatic doors. Sometimes I caught her watching me while I wandered the aisles pretending to compare brands of chips. Sometimes our conversations stretched so long another customer would awkwardly clear their throat behind me.

I learned she was trans during our third real conversation.

She mentioned it casually while talking about dating horror stories.

I remember feeling heat spread through my entire body when she said it. Not discomfort. Excitement. Relief, almost. Another thing I'd spent years secretly fantasizing about standing right in front of me, smiling knowingly across a gas station counter.

And somehow Alex never seemed embarrassed about any part of herself.

That confidence fascinated me more than anything else.

Then one rainy Thursday night everything changed.

I'd stopped in after work, still loosened from two bourbons at a client dinner. Alex looked incredible. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat inside the store, and her uniform looked even tighter than usual around her hips and stomach.

"You look tired," she said softly as she rang up my drink.

"Long day."

"You should relax more."

"I don't know how."

Her lips curved upward.

"I could probably help with that."

My chest tightened instantly.

The receipt printed. She folded it once before handing it to me.

Our fingers touched briefly.

"Drive safe, Terry."

I walked back to my truck in a daze.

Halfway home I finally looked down at the receipt sitting in the passenger seat.

A phone number was written across the back in thick black ink.

Underneath it she'd written:

Text me already.

I laughed out loud in disbelief.

My hands were shaking when I sent the first message at a red light.

Hey. It's Terry.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Took you long enough.

Then another message immediately after.

Meet me at Golden Corral in 30 minutes.

I blinked at the screen.

A buffet?

Part of me thought it was bizarre. Who invited someone to a buffet for a first date with less than an hour's notice?

But another part of me - the honest part - was intensely turned on by the idea.

I couldn't stop imagining Alex there beneath bright buffet lights, loading plates high with food while squeezed into that tight uniform. The image made my stomach tighten with hunger and desire at the same time.

I turned the truck toward the highway.

As I drove, my own hunger grew sharper. I realized I'd barely eaten all day besides protein snacks and grilled chicken between meetings. Suddenly the thought of endless trays of pasta, fried food, desserts, and warm bread sounded intoxicating.

And then my thoughts drifted somewhere stranger.

I imagined Alex encouraging me to eat.

Telling me to loosen up.

Telling me I didn't need to work so hard to stay perfect all the time.

The fantasies escalated quickly after that.

I pictured myself bigger somehow. Softer. Sitting beside her in a booth while our stomachs pressed against the table edge. I imagined her laughing warmly while feeding me bites of cake. Imagined my carefully maintained body thickening slowly under her attention.

Then the fantasies became even more dangerous.

What if she dressed me up?

What if she wanted me softer and prettier and fuller?

What if I wanted that too?

The thoughts should have terrified me.

Instead they made my entire body buzz with anticipation.

Rain streaked across my windshield as the glowing sign for the buffet finally appeared ahead of me.

My stomach growled loudly.

I pulled into the crowded parking lot and sat there for a long moment with both hands gripping the steering wheel.

Inside that building was everything I'd spent years pretending not to want.

And for the first time in my life, I was finally about to walk toward it instead of away.