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bitchysongcomputer · 2 years

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My Second Husband by BearTrainer

From BeefyFrat Library, before it disappears.

When people ask how Max and I ended up together and I tell them the story, I don’t know why I always get the same response. "No way! You’re making that up." I guess folks can’t believe that guys like us really exist, although all they’d really have to do is take one look at Max for proof that we do. Or maybe they were the way I was once—believing what they are told they should think is attractive, instead of going with their gut (no pun intended) about what really turns their crank. But our story is true, and this is how it happened. I had been with Larry since grad school, and he was conventionally beautiful in that very All-American kind of way you see in every magazine—a naturally athletic physique honed to complete perfection at the gym and through long-distance cycling, short cropped dark blonde hair over arresting blue eyes. He had had a wild past before I met him—"I was a slut," he said to me when we first got together, half-proud of it—and at the time, in my younger days, I thought he was a catch. And, frankly by any one’s standards, including mine, he was—he had graduated first in his law school class at Boalt, scored a great job in the state Attorney General’s office, moving up the ranks until he was pulling down an incredible salary, but best of all, he was very much in love with me. His devotion allowed me to do what I needed to do to get my own art consulting business off the ground, and together we had a great life. Big house, long vacations, hot sex life—the works. The end of all this came suddenly and unexpectedly one night in the form of a phone call, and it took me every bit of a year to truly grasp that Larry had been killed. Of all my many friends who helped me through this nightmare, my friend Linda was the best, and though I hardly left the house for a year afterward, she faithfully visited me, talked me through everything that needed to be done, and never failed to try to gently but firmly pull me back into life. Thus, it was she who suggested when the enormous check from Larry’s life insurance came that I consider buying the half-acre lot behind the house, which had been on the market for years and had not yet been sold. "Face it, Bob. You better start putting all this into some kind of investments, otherwise it’s all going to be gone before you know it. And besides, Larry’d want it that way, wouldn’t he?" "But what am I going to do with all that land?" She laughed. "Plant a garden." "Garden?" Now it was my turn to laugh. "I could plant a farm on that much land." "So plant a farm!" "Right. Me, Mr. Outdoors." "Sweetie, you don’t get it. You design it, you’d love doing that, wouldn’t you, and then you hire people to do it for you. I’m sure the owner’d close in a second, especially for all-cash. He hasn’t been able to move that thing in a month of Sundays." I had to admit, she was right. I happened to know that really I was the only one who’d want this parcel, as an extension of my already large backyard, since it was too small really to interest any developers or builders, and, frankly, the idea of a largem, beautiful garden did sound like something I’d enjoy. Plus the symbol of planting a garden to memorialize Larry made me feel good. "But Christ, Linda, the lot’s a mess. It’d take forever to clear." "You aren’t clearing it. You hire people. Must I repeat myself?" Well, indeed, Linda was right on all counts. The sale closed in two weeks, the owner was thrilled to get the money for his own retirement, and after surveying the bramble-covered ground, the misshapen, unpruned fig trees, and overgrown roses, I drew up a few plans for a series of raised beds, a patio of bricks, and an arbor that I could see from our—now my—deck and hot tub in the back. "So now what?" I asked her pointedly one day over lunch at her house. "Who am I going to get to come in and do the grunt work?" She looked over her cup of coffee. "Same guy I use. Max." "Max?" She flipped her hair absentmindedly. "A little bit of a Sad Sack, especially now. Guess his wife ran off on him with some hunk, so he really needs the work. But he’s a workhorse all right. Not your type at all. You know, all dark, hairy and Italian." she kidded me, "Built like a brick chickenhouse, but he’s probably put on a good 30 or 40 pounds since the separation, getting really fat. He’s perfect for things like this—tough work, steady job, not much talk involved. I pay him $10 an hour around here and he puts in 10 and 12 hour days for me when I need him to—you know, taking stuff to the dump, stacking firewood. Call him. He’ll bust his ass for you, promise." No one knew my secret, of course, then, least of all Linda—the secret that just the mere description of Max gave me an instant hard-on, that I had spent my whole life fantasizing about guys like that, that I would go out of my way to hang out around construction sites and workcrews hoping to spot some big overfed bruiser. I’d even tried many times to see if I could get Larry to start to plump up a little, serving him seconds or trying to get him to eat late or drink a few more beers, but he was both both vain about his looks and had the metabolism of a athlete, and the few times after long vacations in Europe he had come home wearing an extra ten or so pounds on his belly, it quickly melted away. So I had long contented myself to stealing glances at chunks around town and occasionally, surreptitiously, I would peek through magazines at the newsracks, storing up pictures in my head for later when I’d imagine these huge, soft, indulgent fat men, making love to me, letting me feed them, reveling in their bodies. I thought at the time that I was the only one who had such fantasies, looking at all the pretty boys and muscle hunks in all the magazines and instead of getting off on them, imagining instead that they were slowly letting themselves go, getting all big and sloppy, turning into real men from the little twinkies everyone else seemed to like. Thus, contrary to Linda’s comments, the idea of hiring Max sounded like the best part of the whole plan yet. When he showed up that Monday, Max was indeed a dream come true. A squat 5’9" or so and an easy 250, he shook my hand with his own rough, thick paw and mumbled a sort of shy , "Hey there." I could see what Linda had said about the weight gain, because he was wearing a pair of denim shorts at least 3 sizes to small still, slung low on his hips, just above his ass, accentuating a belly that bounced firmly beneath his orange sleeveless T-shirt. As he stood in front of me, legs spread wide, shifting his weight from side to side, every part of him was thick, it seemed to me—heavy lids, broad nose, fleshy lips, a pair of Popeye size forearms with a coat of sparse fur, burly chest gone round and jiggly with the extra poundage, bulging biceps and calves that quivered with flesh as he walked with me around the back so I could show him what I wanted him to do. He looked a bit beaten down by life, that was true, his dark eyes big and sad, but then again it was 7:30 a.m. and that might have just been because of the early hour. Even if it was only April, it was better to start early on yardwork before the Sacramento heat kicked in around noon. About to leave him to the bramble bushes, wheelbarrow and shears, I asked casually, "Hey, want some coffee?" thinking this would be perhaps my first test of him. He smiled a little, surveying the yard he was going to be clearing for me. "Yeah, sure." "Say, you hungry at all? I made some muffins." From under his bushy eyebrows, he looked at me and smiled even more broadly. "I was born hungry." Then he rubbed his belly with a sheepish expression, "Lately, especially." "Yeah, Linda told me." "About my situation, you mean?" He looked away, still rubbing himself and gulping a bit. "Yeah. So don’t worry, Max. I got plenty of work for you here." "Cool. I could use the work. Can’t believe she’s taking me for what she’s taking me for. And she left me." "Sounds tough. But forget it about for now. You got your work cut out for you with this lot, believe me. Let me get you your stuff." Hands practically trembling with excitement, I brought him a whole tray and put it on the patio table in the shade nearby—8 or 9 fresh hot blueberry muffins piled high, a big dish of butter and cream cheese, a pot of coffee, with cream and sugar, and he gave me a grateful wave from back by the fence before I went back in. I’m a little ashamed to admit that I spent that entire morning playing with myself as I stood there peeking through the blinds in the back bedroom at him, while he worked. Not knowing I was looking of course, he was completely unself-conscious about his body, shirt riding up constantly over that hairy gut of his with the deep navel, the girth of it amazing to me at any angle—squeezed over his thighs as he bent down, jutting out like a prow when he reached up, gorgeous lovehandles with tiny scratches from the stickerbushes pouched up over the sides. His soft tits would sway deliciously in the tight T-shirt when he’d lean over to pull out some of the weeds and depending on where he was, the shorts he was wearing but had outgrown would then ride down and give me a very arousing view of the crack of his ass. Being essentially a muscular guy under all the newfat he was sporting, his buttcheeks were enormous and firm, sticking out in a way that made me breathless with desire as I watched him. He polished off the muffins and coffee throughout the morning, waddling up to the deck and giving me a great view on his way, strutting on back to his wheelbarrow, arms swinging wide at the side, the way fat men walk when they mean business. I tried to keep myself from shooting as he would pop a whole muffin in his face, washing it down with a big gulp of coffee, his cheeks bloated like a greedy bear feeding for wintertime, half-moons of sweat darkening the shirt under his mantits, and the only thing that kept me from losing it was my own wish to make the pleasure last as long as possible. He was, indeed, a fantasy come true for me, and I realized that it was going to be up to me to make the best of it. Around about noon, I saw Max lumbering toward the house, shirt now wringing wet and clinging to him everywhere, every roll, curve and fold, rivulets of sweat clearly glistening in that furry armpit of his. I scrambled to meet him outside the kitchen door. "Taking a break?" I asked. "You been working hard, I see." Most of the back by the fence was now clear and a high pile of debris was visible on the side. "Yup. Gotta get some lunch." He was huffing and puffing a bit, continuing to flash his pits at me as he wiped off his forehad with his hand. "But, man, those muffins were great." He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Thanks." I stopped him, as he turned to go. "Hey, Max, wait. I’ll make lunch." He looked back at me and, without thinking, I’m sure, licked his lips, just the idea of food eliciting an automatic response. "Nah, I couldn’t let you. . . . I’ll just go to McDonald’s." "Don’t worry about it. I got to make lunch for myself. And besides, you don’t have anyone cooking for you anymore, do you?" He raised an eyebrow and made a face. "Nope. Actually, I don’t know I’ve gained the 50 I’ve put on since she dumped me, man. But I guess it’s all the junk food I’ve been eating." "Then tell you what, you sit down on the patio, I’ll bring you some lemonade, and how’s about a nice Italian meal. You like carbonara?" His eyes lit up. "I haven’t had that in a long time. You make that?" "Listen, man. You got a long afternoon ahead. It’s the least I could do. Don’t want you falling down in a dead faint from hunger." He laughed and his whole belly shook. "Falling away to a ton, more like it. If you’re sure it ain’t a problem. . . ." He was stroking the bottom of his gut like he was greeting an old friend, and I swear I heard his stomach growl. Yes, indeed, he was a live one, all right, that I could see. Just the mention of a home-cooked meal, and this guy was drooling. After putting the water on to boil, I came back with the frosty pitcher of lemonade I had promised him and suddenly the shoe was on the other and it was I who was drooling. Max had taken off his shirt and was laying back in my lounge chair, wiping his chest off with the T-shirt, his gut rising and falling slowly in the sun. Hearing me come, he sat up and started to apologize. I raised my hand and poured him a tall glass. "Relax. I’ll be cracking the whip this afternoon, big guy. Right now, take your break and get a tan." He slapped his belly. "Lot to tan, these days." "You’ve put on 50 pounds?" I asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact when I could barely keep my voice from quivering from excitement. "Doesn’t look it." "Well, to me it does. I mean, I"ve always been big, but after she left me, I figured, what the fuck. I was always worried about my weight before, with her, but it didn’t seem to make much difference. You know, I was working out all the time, trying to stay tight. So now, baby," he rolled his gut back and forth in his big paws, clearly loving it, "What you see is what you get." "Looks like that’s kind of you, if you know what I mean." "Yup, that’s the way I figure it, too. Big wop peasant, that’s me. You either like or you don’t." I’ll like it, I’ll like it already, I thought to myself on my way back to the kitchen. Making enough spaghetti for ten, stirring the eggs, cheese and bacon, along with a healthy pan of grease into it with a few deft strokes, until it all smoothed out into that sauce everyone raves about, but which is the simplest thing in the world to put together, I tossed a loaf of crusty bread and a plateful of cream cheese cookies on the tray and brought it out to him. He ate like a man just let out of prison, and I tried to pick politely at my own plate of spaghetti across from him at our glass-top patio table but found myself almost completely unable to stop staring as he shoveled in forkful after forkful. He’d wind such large bales of spaghetti on his fork that he had to strain to get it in his unshaven mouth, dumping down whole glasses of lemonade between bites and tearing off hunks of bread to sop up the sauce, ravenous, unapologetic and just unbearably sexy. After about 3 plates heaped high of my handiwork, he leaned back, stomach swollen and shiny in the bright sun and let out a discreet burp. "You don’t know how good it is to have a homemade meal." "I can see,"I said, trying not to sound judgmental. "I know I’m making a pig out of myself, but it’s been a long time since I had this kind of food. Reminds me of Mom. My own old lady was a shitty cook." "Plus you’ve been busting ass all morning. You should eat." He licked his lips and ran his tongue around his teeth. "That, too. I like this kind of work, though. It’s what I’m made for. You know, just a real physical guy." "Works for me. I could use someone like you around the house." He poked his chin out at the pile of cookies. "Homemade, too?" I nodded, "Cream cheese, lemon, poppyseed." "You’re going to think I’m a hog, ain’t you, eating all your food." I waved my hand. "Hey, Max. First of all, you’re working hard. Second of all, you’re a big guy. Third of all, I made it for you to eat. And fourth of all, I’d be insulted if you didn’t like it." Max laughed. "Man! I could use someone like you around the house," and away he dove into the mountain of cookies. My head was swimming as I excused myself to go into the house on some pretext, and creeping into the bedroom again, my hands furiously rubbing my swollen crotch, my dick as wringing wet from precum as Max’s shirt, I debated with myself about whether or not to take a peek at him again. It felt sort of sleazy but the whole morning was so incredibly hot that my lust got the better of me and over I went to the window. Practically bursting to cum anyway, I found itt took only a glance at what Max was doing on the patio and there I was shooting load after load of jism right into my own shorts: there he was, not knowing anyone was looking, grabbing long thick ropes of spaghetti right out of the pot and feeding them to himself with his hands, head tilted back, greedy mouth open wide to the world, as cheese, egg and bacon grease dripped onto his cheeks and tits. He was a hog, all right, a huge dark working-class hog. That was the moment I was determined to make him mine. It felt idiotic, of course, and I didn’t dare breathe a word of it to my friend Linda or anyone else—here I was trying to seduce some fat straight Italian guy by feeding him silly—and for the longest time that month I thought all my troubles in the past year had really knocked me off my rocker. But, you know what, I didn’t care. I was completely getting off on it and had enough discretion and self-control to take my time and not tip Max off to what was going on in my feverish little head. Who knew where it would lead? But as far as I was concerned, I was sure as hell going to give it my best shot. It wasn’t hard to condition the big guy to show up at seven-thirty sharp every morning—not after a week of just happening to make stacks and stacks of fresh walnut waffles with honey cream and strawberries, or a few dozen pancakes drippng with butter and syrup. A couple of good hearty breakfasts like that on his way out to the backyard for work, and Max was the soul of promptness from then on. Unfailingly polite about it, always asking, "You sure you aren’t going to all this trouble for me?" even as he tucked away a few more slices of poundcake or another round of apricot danish, he’d lounge a little bit longer and longer every day before hoisting his bulk up from my kitchen chair, dumping another wallop of half-and-half into his coffee and making his way out back. "A man’s gotta eat, Max. Besides, I feel it’s the best way to get my money’s worth out of you." He caught the joke and smiled. "If this is how you want me to work, Bobby, I’m game," thumping his big old labonza with his two fists, like Tarzan. Mid-morning snacks were always cookies—I tried practically every cookie in Joy of Cooking that month and learned quickly to triple the recipe—and even with an enormous breakfast under his belt and enough treats to feed a kindergarten class twice over, my big guy always managed to have room for the abundant Italian dinners I served for mid-day meal—veal parmigiana turned out to be one of his particular favorites, along with lasagne and tortellini in cream sauce. I was amazed at the gusto with which he could put away anything I put before him, along with a few pitchers of iced tea, and at least a loaf of bread, and figuring it was in my interest to make him completely comfortable in my home, I’d encourage him after such mammoth meals to stretch out on the lounge chair and take a nap. "That’s what they do in Italy, you know. Big meal, take their time, go for a siesta," I told him, as he settled in, pulling his baseball cap down over his eyes, huge thighs spread wide. "They do, huh? I never been. You?" "Oh yeah, I’ve been a few times, on vacation." "Heh, heh. Guess that’s where you learned to make all this great shit, huh?" I loved his habit of rubbing his belly. "You going this year?" "Italy, nah," I said, cleaning up the dishes. "Too much to do around here." "I hear you," he said softly, drifting off to sleep. That’s when I’d have my own fun, listening to him snore, watching his big gut rise and fall in the sun, trying to decide whether his pecs were getting rounder and fuller, his nipples bigger and more prominent, his navel deeper and more inviting, or whether it was all in my perverse imagination. Since he was on a gaining upswing anyway, it wasn’t long before the effect of my abundant meals started to show, and after about a month I could see new folds of flesh gathering up at his waist, another double chin appearing, his lips looking smaller and redder as his face got chubbier, and I knew this wasn’t my imagination. More than a little conflicted about what I was doing, I nevertheless found myself in a state of high erotic tension, jerking off sometimes as much as 5 or 6 times a day, and sometimes even 2 or 3 times in a row during his siesta in which his huge overfed body, that blimping body I was feeding, was sprawled out before me. And yet, there was no clue, not even a hint of erotic response on his part. Like every straight man I had ever known, he seemed perfectly happy to take whatever he could and eat it up. Indeed, if anything, he spoke as if he were my son, telling me constantly things like, "You sure you haven’t been talking to my mom?" whenever I’d make something he really loved, or "You’re babying me, Bobby. Don’t. Stop. Don’t stop," like when I would be spooning out ice cream for him or dishing up a rice pudding. Making excellent progress on the yard, by the end of the month the whole thing was cleared, the trenches had been dug for the raised beds, and really all that was left was for us to go to the nursery and get the planting mix and for me to pick out what it was I wanted to plant. I decided to use the occasion to push my relationship with Max to the next level, if possible. Since I had to go with him to the nursery in his truck, to pick out the plants, on the way, I said casually, "Say, Max, how about we do this? You been working so hard on the garden with me, let’s say you pick out what you want to plant and then you can have half of what I grow." He raised his eyebrows. "And like what am I going to do with it? It’s not like I cook or anything." "Well, I just. . . you know. . . . I feel bad. You’ve built the garden for me, really from scratch, and it’s beautiful. I just want to say thanks, you know." He smiled his crooked little shy smile. "Shit, man, you been paying me. It’s not like you owe me anything. More like the other way around." "What do you mean?" He pouched his lips. "You know what I mean. You treat me like a fucking king. You feed me better than any of my girlfriends, even almost better than my mom, for Christ’s sakes, which is something. Don’t tell I said that. So you don’t owe me nothing, really." "But you know what I’m saying, Max. It’s your work. You should have a piece of it." He thought a bit, reaching around his belly that was practically touching the steering wheel, in order to pull in the nursery lot. "Tell you what, Bob. Let’s do that. It’ll be our garden. That’s cool." And then suddenly, completely unexpectedly, he threw an arm around me in the car and gave a hug. "You been a good friend, Bobby. I really appreciate it." Well, for better or worse, I took all that as a sign of tremendous progress and figured that I just better strike while the iron was hot. Helping him heave the 50 or so sacks of dirt on the back of the truck, and loading both of us up with enough tomoto, zucchini, bean, basil and pepper seedlings for a small village, he pulled the truck into the back yard where the frames for the raised planters lay empty and waiting, and that afternoon, we worked side by side, me tossing the sacks down to him, him ripping them open with his bare hands and dumping them into the beds. It was hot and dirty work and both of us, stripped down to the waist and covered in smelly planting mix, said nothing most of the afternoon. He looked so fine that day, strong and active, tipping the scales at nearly 300 after the weeks of feeding, a big mountain of man, working hard, eating big, sweating like an animal. He helped me down from the back of the truck with a hand and I made him help me decide where to put all the plants we had bought. "Damn, Bob. Look at you," he exclaimed by the end of it all, as I stood watering the boxes with the sprinkler hose. "Sunburned within an inch of your life." "So I am." Actually, I was really just a little red but an idea popped into my head when he said that. "I should probably clean up. What you want for dinner?" I handed him the hose. "Oh, I can’t stay for dinner. Thanks, though." "What do you mean, you can’t stay. You got plans?" He drew his mouth together and looked off. "No, no plans. I never got any plans. It’s just that. . . . Well, I don’t want to impose." I took the liberty of putting my arm around his big shoulders and said in as intimate a way I could, "Not an imposition. Besides, you’re my partner in the garden now. I want you, too." He looked at me sideways, a little uncertain, but not unpleased and broke into a big smile. "That’s right. Half of us this shit’s mine. Don’t forget it." "So let’s do this. I’ll clean up and start dinner. You go take a shower and I’ll call you when I’m ready." "Sounds good, bud." He continued to sprinkle, not looking at me. I amazed myself at how quickly I showered and pulled together a dinner of epic proportions, garlic toasts topped with mozzarella and fresh tomatoes, a first course of linguini with homemade pesto, a second course of pan friend chicken in mushroom cream sauce, with scalopped potatoes and creamed spinach to accompany it, and of course, my own personal specialty, tiramisu for dessert—sponge cake layered with sweet Italian cream, chocolate and cocoa. Hoping things would go as I planned, I kept my eye on the big guy in the back and when I saw him coming toward the house, I met him at the sliding glass door in the back and handed him a couple of huge bath towels. "You know where the bath is, right? Take your time. I’m probably going to be in the tub. Best thing for a sunburn." He sniffed the air, smelling the garlic, the mushrooms the chocolate and he sighed. "I could get used to this," and off he waddled into the bathroom, hairy back still smelling of earth and sweat. That half-hour by myself in the hot tub waiting for him to re-emerge was the longest of my life, because I knew it all would be decided there and then. If he came out and joined me, we were home free. If not, then all my work had been in vain, I had been a fool to think he could be brought to my side of the fence, and I was going to come away from this month with nothing but increased culinary expertise and a lifetime of gainerboy fantasies. He looked like heaven on earth with that big towel wrapped around him, black hair all matted and wet from the shower, belly hanging out, as he waddled onto the deck and stood above me. "You’re not going to believe this, Bob." I looked up at him, all of him, standing like a colossus above me. "What?" "I weighed myself on your scale." I tried to act nonchalant, my arms spread on either side of me. "And? You 300 yet?" He started a bit. "Nooo. Just under. 297." "Then I guess I got some more work to do, huh?" He looked at me and I looked at him, both of us raising our eyebrows in unison and with one fell swoop, he removed his towel and started to laugh. The water spilled out over the tub as he climbed in and came over to my side, pinning me against the tub with his bulk. "Hey, man, I didn’t go to grad school, but I knew what you were up to, boy. You think I didn’t know." I felt so small against him, my whole body surrounded by his warmth and his strength, his stomach and arms holding me motionless, his beautiful lips inches away from mine. "I didn’t know if you knew." I could feel my hard-on jutting between his soft thighs and then felt his, pinned between his gut and my abs. "Tell you a secret. . . ." he said, almost whispering, flirtatiously. "What’s that?" "Linda didn’t tell you?" I drew back and looked at him quizzically. "Tell me what?" "Why my old lady left?" It didn’t take me long to scout out what he was saying to me, just by looking into those eyes of his, gleaming with mirth. "Oh, I see. So that’s what happened." He started stroking my neck with his blunt rough fingers. "Yeah, she found out, and man, I got so depressed, I decided, what the fuck, I’d just eat myself into oblivion. Who would have thought?" I started to moan. "Max, who would have thought?" "I mean, if I hadn’t gotten as fat as I had. . . ." I closed my eyes and kissed him, "You wouldn’t have me, would you?" "I saw you, baby, that first day and I thought, ‘So what’s that fox going to want with some fat guy like me.’ That is until you started fattening me up, then I knew." "You knew the whole time?" He nuzzled my neck and murmured, "Why do you think I’ve been eating like this? I thought it was the only way I was going to get you." "And here I was thinking I was being so clever." "Hey, I’m not as dumb as I look. Besides. . . ." He hesitated, beginning to rub his gut up and down and caress my cock with his thighs underwater. "You need to get new Venetian blinds. The ones you got are noisy." I opened my eyes wide and tried to push him away in mock offense. "No way. You knew! You little shit!" "Heh, heh. Thought you’d like the show. And turns out you did." Stunned, I took a deep breath and ran my hands around his girth, slowly feeling the yielding flesh of his waist and taking a large nipple into my mouth just above the surface of the bubbling water. "I ain’t done with you yet bubba. You’re still a little on the thin side for me." His face grew serious and with a quick deft movement, he spread my legs, opened me up with his fingers and gently sat my ass down on his cock. I grunted with pleasure. "And I ain’t done with you." He began to fuck me, using the rhythm of the water to thrust deep and gentle at the same time. "So tell your big husband what’s for dinner?" I moaned even more loudly, hanging on to him around the neck, feeling his soft hairy tits against my chest, closing my eyes and letting him take me "Everything you love, Max. Just for you. Linguine and pesto." He thrust harder. "Chicken and mushrooms." Another quick deep thrust that made me moan. "Scalopped potatoes." He picked up the pace, panting, "I love scalopped potatoes. Creamed spinach?" he asked, punctuating it with yet another thrust inside me. I could barely speak, Max rutting away in me, feeling him take me. "You gonna make me fat, huh? Bobby? You gonna make me fat?" I was laughing, crying and moaning all at the same time, so stimulated I didn’t even know where I was. He was my whole world right then. "Tiramisu, Max. I made you tiramisu." His mouth and hands were all over me, slick and insistent and both of us got closer and closer, the water sloshing like a tidal wave out of the tub and splashing onto the deck. "I’m going to get huge, Bobby. Fucking huge. And you’re going to make me that way. I want to eat everything. I want to eat you." And then as he started to come inside me, his voice narrowed to a whine, "I love being fat for you, Bob. I love being fat. I love being fat. I love being fat." And holding on to him in an enormous bearhug of my own, I buried my face in all the warm sweet soft flesh of his chest and answered him, as I humped my own load out against his stomach. "I want you, Max. I want you huge. The more there is, the more I want. Get fat for me. Please, get fat for me. Get fat. Get fat." That was seven years ago, and little did we know at the time that each of us were exchanged a wedding vow of sorts, a commitment to a relationship. Max has continued to grow for me, not quite at the pace of that first month, but for a 425 pound man, he looks mighty fine: staying active, working out and chowing down at every possible opportunity makes him look awesome—undeniably fat, with a gargantuan belly and legs bigger than my waist, but moving with all the slow grace of a beautiful strong man. And of course, I couldn’t be happier, enjoying every square inch of him and proud that every pound of him comes from my hand and is given to me every night. As unlikely a couple as we are, people unfailingly ask us how we got together, and when I tell them this story, they try to be polite but I can tell they think I’m bullshitting them. But that’s the truth and that’s how it happened. Maybe I should just make Max come out and demonstrated how easy it is for him to eat a pans of lasagne or one of those whole Boston cream pies he likes so much the way you or I pop down a candy bar. Maybe then they’d believe me when I tell them that my second husband is, indeed, one in a million.

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rivet-ing-titanic · 4 years

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American Inquiry Day 7 - Senator Newlands

Witnesses:

Edward Wheelton, Saloon Steward, RMS Titanic;

William H. Taylor, Fireman, RMS Titanic;

George Moore, Able Seaman, RMS Titanic;

Thomas Jones, Able Seaman, RMS Titanic;

Notable Quotes/Lines of Questioning or Summary of Testimony:

Wheelton, when roused, ran to the boat stations, nearby boat number 5 when he was ordered to go to the storeroom. On B deck he passed Thomas Andrews (chief builder and representative of Harland &Wolff) going door to door making sure no people were in them. Once back up on the boat deck, Wheelton assisted in lowering boats 7 and 9 before being ordered into boat 11. Wheelton estimated that there were about 58 people total in the boat, which had been loaded from A deck not the boat deck, they had been ushered down there from the boat deck, by a steward.

“Not one. The only trouble we had was with one lady who would not get into the boat. We attempted twice to get her in, and the last time I said to my friend helping me, ‘Pull her in’; and we pulled her in.” – Wheelton (this is the first testimony that had been heard where a passenger refused to enter a lifeboat)

“I would like to say something about the bravery exhibited by the first officer, Mr. Murdoch. He was perfectly cool and very calm.” –Wheelton

Fireman Taylor was very brief in his initial telling of what happened for him that night. He heard the alarm for accidents ring outside his quarters, he went to his assigned lifeboat, no. 15 (crew boarded from the boat deck and passengers boarded from A deck) and went away in it (they too feared the suction) with about 40-45 people he estimates, the vast majority being third class women and children. Another fireman was in command of this boat and Taylor believed there was an additional 6 crew members. When they hit the water they too rowed towards the light that they thought to be the light of a ship.

Able Seaman Moore was another member of the crew who likened the impact as “there was suddenly a noise like a cable running out, like a ship dropping anchor. There was not any shock at all.”

Moore assisted in lowering boats 5 and 7, and when number 3 was swung out, he was ordered into the boat to assist the women and children by First Officer Murdoch. After there were no more women and children, Moore testified that five or six firemen jumped in the boat. In total boat 3 had 32 people. They too pulled towards the white light, which Moore believed to be a fisherman.

“It seemed pretty full, but I dare say we could have jammed more in. The passengers were not anxious to get in the boats; they were not anxious to get in the first lot of boats.” – Moore

” I saw the forward part of her go down, and it appeared to me as if she broke in half, and then the after part went. I can remember two explosions.” –Moore

On going back to the ship: “All the people in the boat wanted to get clear of the ship. They did not want to go near her. They kept urging me to keep away; to pull away from her. In fact, they wanted to get farther away.” – Moore

A number of the crew were asked by Senator Newlands why almost 1/3 of the survivors were members of the crew. Moore could account “I can only account for the seamen being saved, two in each boat. That would number just about the number of seamen who were saved … I think 39 were saved.”

Newlands (and other senators) also asked why there was no drill held on Sunday (as was customary) and many replied that they did not know (which, not being officers, they would not). They were also questioned as to the difference it would have made had the crew been sailing together longer say 6 months, whether that would have made a difference. Both Moore and Able Seaman Jones felt they had quite the accomplished crew, and they could work together as well as any.

Jones had also been a lookout on previous ships, and when asked about the utility of glasses in the crow’s nest, he said “not much of a help to pick anything up; but to make it out afterwards, they were.” He also stated that they were not of any use at all at night.

“I got the collapsible boat on the port side ready. I got my own boat, No. 8, ready. An officer sent me for a lamp…I went back again, and this No. 8 boat was there, all swung out, and there were about 35 ladies in it. I jumped in the boat. The captain asked me was the plug in the boat, and I answered, ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘All right,’ he said, ‘Any more ladies?’ There was one lady came there and left her husband, She wanted her husband to go with her, but he backed away, and the captain shouted again - in fact, twice again - ‘Any more ladies?’ There were no more there, and he lowered away... Yes [the lady got in] , her and a little girl. I don't know who she was. I don't know her name. He told me to row for the light, and land the passengers and return to the ship. I pulled for the light, and I found that I could not get near the light, and I stood by for a little while. I wanted to return to the ship, but the ladies were frightened, and I had to carry out the captain's orders and pull for that light; so I did so. I pulled for about two hours, and then it started to get daybreak, and we lost the light; and then all of a sudden we saw the Carpathia coming, and we turned right back and made for the Carpathia. That is all I know, sir.” – Jones

Jones on the Countess of Rothes: “One lady. She had a lot to say, and I put her to steering my boat.”

It has been a trend that all crew believed she would not sink, that they were being sent out on the boats for a couple of hours and they would then return. Some of the firemen were even joking about it. Most still did not believe it until they were in the boats away from her and saw that she was going down by the bow.

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xtruss · 3 years

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What I Learned When I Rented My Parents’ Former Home as an Airbnb

They’d tried to escape the future by building a home off the grid. But the future found them anyway.

— By Thad Russell

— The Atlantic | August 29, 2021

September 2005 (All photos by Thad Russell)

About the author: Thad Russell is a photographer who lives with his wife and two children in Providence, Rhode Island, and teaches at the Rhode Island School of Design.

Two summers ago, my siblings and I found my late parents’ former house in northern Vermont listed on Airbnb. Once we got over our shock—“Wait! That’s our house!”—we immediately made reservations to rent it for a family vacation. The new owners had known my parents and generously waived our rental fee upon realizing who we were. The online description—“rustic retreat”—brought back memories of countless family gatherings of summers past: taking long walks, swimming in the lake, eating local corn and blueberry pie. I remembered hanging out together on the deck that extended into my parents’ gentle, south-sloping meadow like a pier, appreciating the peaceful view of hay fields, spruce trees, mountains, and an ever-changing sky.

I looked forward to the reunion for months. And yet, as I drove with my wife and young children along winding mountain roads that I knew by heart, I was surprised by the emotions stirring inside me. I began to realize something that should have been obvious. This special, idealized place that I was so excited to return to wasn’t a repository of just happy memories, but of difficult ones too. My parents had been concerned about the political and environmental trends in America. Their place in Vermont was meant to be a political statement in the form of a modern-day frontier house—hand-built, off the grid, and completely DIY. In other words, it was very difficult to live in and maintain. Now that many of their worries about climate change and political unrest have become reality, I understand the prescience of their vision and the virtues of the life they were designing. I also realized something even more important, however, when I rented their home as an Airbnb: No matter how hard you try to escape the future, the future will find you anyway.

May 2015

In the 1990s, my parents sold our family home in suburban Boston and moved to a virgin piece of pasture in Vermont’s rural and remote Northeast Kingdom in order to build a house—and a life—from scratch. They wanted to slow down, to live simply and more in concert with nature and its seasonal rhythms. My siblings, their spouses, and I not only supported this new chapter but were actively involved every step of the way. Though we all had careers, homes, and lives in other places, we would parachute in every August to help pour a foundation, build a timber frame, side a barn, or mow a field. This collective labor gave us a sense of investment in the property—“sweat equity”—and senses of accomplishment, pride, and joy in its growing compound of rough-hewn structures. We finished the “little house” (which is actually tiny) in time for my sister’s wedding one August, and we finished the “big house” (which is actually quite little) in time for my brother’s wedding six years (to the day) later.

This property was the realization of a long-held dream. My father was an MIT-trained architect and builder with his own brand of rugged modernism. His houses were shrines to their specific surroundings, made out of locally sourced wood, stone, and glass. After spending a lifetime building homes for others, he wanted to finally build one for himself and his family.

But he wasn’t trying to construct a well-appointed vacation home, and my parents weren’t hoping to retire comfortably to the country. They were hoping that their modest compound could be a refuge, a place separate and protected from the evil and disease of the modern world, a place to which we could all retreat when the long-prophesied and always-imminent economic and ecological disaster of Man’s own making finally came home to roost. With its solar panels, windmill, vegetable garden, root cellar, and well, it was designed to be a self-sufficient place apart, a lifeboat of sorts.

Though my parents’ organic, less-is-more lifestyle was supposed to be simple, it was never easy. Their life was intentional and incredibly labor-intensive, marked by hard work and discomfort. Their property became an unrelenting taskmaster. Many projects never got completed. Some just didn’t work. The sun didn’t always shine. The wind didn’t always blow. Batteries failed. The bespoke, high-efficiency refrigerator didn’t actually keep food cold. The well was contaminated with surface water from a nearby cow pasture and never produced reliably potable water. My parents’ self-imposed restrictions on energy usage—my father designed an aggressively frugal system that used only one-20th the amount of electricity of an average American family—seemed arbitrary, impossibly difficult, and puritanical; a dishwasher or clothes dryer was out of the question.

They—and we—argued a lot about how they lived, and the choices they had made. I thought theirs should be a model home, an equally attractive, non-fossil-fuel alternative that others could easily emulate so that we could collectively save the planet. My father thought it should be more of a laboratory that embraced cutting-edge experimentation, took risks, and courted failure. He thought it should be difficult by design so as to attract only zealots, purists, and true believers.

August 2019; May 2015

My mother sometimes complained about the ways the house didn’t work and she felt burdened by the endless list of domestic chores that seemed to fall disproportionately on her, but she nonetheless embraced this new life with passion and conviction. Why? For starters, she loved my dad and believed in his genius and vision. She was also a longtime political and environmental activist. Lastly, thanks to her strong Protestant work ethic and her progressive Christian faith, she always believed that wisdom and virtue came from labor, sacrifice, and struggle. I think she loved this new, difficult chapter of her life, not despite the challenges but because of them. It made her feel more alive, more connected to her husband and to herself, her planet, and her God.

One particularly hot and restless night in the summer of 2003, while sleeping in my parents’ barn, I awoke with a scary premonition: Things here were not going to end well. My parents were not going to live forever, and I had a feeling that their path ahead might be far more difficult and treacherous than any of us were prepared for. A few months later, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. The next three years were consumed by her illness, including her weekly drives across the state for radiation and chemotherapy. The August after she died, we had a memorial service for her under a tent in the exact same spot in the meadow where my sister and brother had each been married years earlier.

My father lived for eight more years, but his heart was never the same. First it was broken, and then, eventually, it began to fail. What he could do—and wanted to do—shrank considerably. For the first time ever, he stopped planting a garden. “What’s the point?” he said. Mail piled up. Bills went unpaid. Phone calls went unanswered. Dirt and dust collected everywhere. Necessary and long-overdue house maintenance was put off indefinitely. He would spend hours and days sitting and staring, at the clouds in the summer and at the wood fire in the winter. The house he built with his own hands became a waiting room, a purgatory clad in native spruce. One day in November 2013, he couldn’t get out of bed. I was visiting at the time, having driven north from Rhode Island after receiving a call from a concerned neighbor. I remember the ambulance in the front yard, parked on top of my mother’s perennial garden and EMTs dressed in Carhartt overalls taking my dad away on a gurney.

My father died the following August; two months later, we mixed my parents’ ashes and spread them in the meadow as friends and family looked on.

After my father’s death, my siblings and I debated whether to keep the Vermont property. I always thought we would. But the more we talked, the more I realized it was going to be financially and logistically impossible. The buildings were not in great shape. Managing their restoration and preservation was going to be complicated and expensive, and was going to take time, energy, and money that none of us had. Moreover, the property was hard to reach. We also realized that we weren’t simply inheriting a house or a piece of land, but a way of life, a philosophy, a set of values that we all respected but didn’t fully subscribe to. No, we all decided, it wasn’t right—or perhaps the right time—for any of us. With heavy hearts, we decided to let it go.

October 2005

Fast-forward to the summer before last, five years after my father’s death: We were returning to our family homestead, but this time as Airbnb guests. As we approached the house from the long dirt driveway, everything was at once familiar and surprisingly different. I instantly noticed all of the improvements: a new metal roof, new wood siding, and a completely rebuilt breezeway connecting the two houses; lush new landscaping featuring exotic flora and brilliant orange poppies that reminded me of California; a new well, professionally dug, with (I learned later) sweet, cold—and E. coli–free—artesian water.

The interior was stunning and immaculate. Everything seemed carefully and painstakingly finished, no more exposed electrical wires or pipes. A new floor was made out of spotted maple, and a fresh coat of satin varnish covered all the wood surfaces. The decor was modern and sparse—chairs made out of soft Italian leather and German stainless-steel appliances, including a dishwasher and a dryer. To my eyes, the house had never looked better and had never been more beautiful, more finished, more realized. The future looked good on this house. My appreciation was complicated, however, tinged with envy and regret. Why couldn’t this beautifully designed and now brilliantly realized house still be ours?

I also couldn’t help but notice what was no longer there: the vegetable garden; the windmill; the woodshed, wood stoves, and Finnish oven; the solar electric system. The house is now on the grid and comfortably heated with gas, its massive propane storage tank elegantly concealed underground. Sure, the house still looks groovy, but it’s now hippie house lite, like tie-dyes and distressed bell-bottoms one buys at the Gap. It has the counterculture aesthetic but all the dirt, difficulty, and rebelliousness have been removed. As my father might say, “What’s the point?”

But I have come to realize that the new owners have actually been the perfect stewards of our old property. Their careful and systematic restoration has removed the dust, decay, and dysfunction while preserving the essential design and rustic charm. I also realize that it is their house now, not ours, and maybe that’s a good thing. The burden of the property, its deferred maintenance and challenging memories, was too much, and is too much for me still.

The author’s brother, mother, and father. August 2001

Now, two years—and a world of difference—later, I find myself thinking about that piece of pasture in northern Vermont and my family’s 25-year adventure there. We are living through such scary and turbulent times. We are simultaneously in the throes of a resurgent global pandemic and a rapidly emerging climate crisis. Viral death tolls, huge heat domes, megadroughts, and 1,000-year floods mark our daily news. As I write this, dozens of massive western fires burn uncontained, their smoke turning even eastern skies an eerie and unhealthy shade of ocher. The world is changing in ways that many people find hard to believe and hard to endure, but that my parents essentially anticipated. They were preparing for this future; they saw it coming and tried so hard to protect their family—and themselves—from the pain and suffering that they feared it might bring. Now that that future is here, I realize we can’t really escape it. The future always catches up with us, and no matter where we are or where we go, we are all survivalists now.

— Thad Russell is a photographer who lives with his wife and two children in Providence, Rhode Island, and teaches at the Rhode Island School of Design.

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chriscoleman · 3 years

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Covid Lockdown

March 2020 to May 2021

The COVID quarantine is slowly lifting. Here is a quick review of our last year in limbo.

The first COVID death in Seattle was in a nursing home on February 29th, 2020. We discussed the serious threat at Ultimate that day. Then Julia and I went to a Umphrey’s McGee concert at Showbox SODO that evening. I remember questioning if we should be taking this virus seriously, but brushing off the idea.

March 2nd our life was turned around in another way - the rental apartment we lived in for the past 8 years was being sold. Time to decide if buying a house is a smart decision…

March 11th the CDC officially declared COVID a pandemic. Things get serious fast. We begin watching the news constantly.

March 14th was our last day skiing for the 2019/2020 season. There was still significant snow on the mountain - but state restrictions closed down the resort. Then we jumped into a backcountry ski/camp trip. Shortly after that - even backcountry skiing was forbidden. That’s when the lockdown got serious.

The rest of March and April were uneventful. I thought I had COVID at 1 point, but tests were hard to get. The at-home test I did get returned a negative result. Julia had a small accident that took the Subaru out of commission for a little bit. No big deal.

Sadly the white cat, Lucy, had to be put down. The process with COVID restrictions at the vet made the experience extra hard. Sad to see my favorite cat gone after 12 years together.

May 27th we got the keys to our new house in Beacon Hill, Seattle! Huge day for us. One I didn’t think would ever come. Home prices in Seattle are pure insanity. Buying at the beginning of the pandemic gave us a little advantage - no bidding war at all. In retrospect it was an amazing decision.

We ate momo’s (Himalayan dumplings) the first night on cardboard boxes. Then got to work on improvements right away. I made the terrible decision to do ‘exploratory drilling’ in our walls at 2am that night to route some ethernet cables for the cable company coming the next day. Luckily it worked out - but I don’t recommend putting holes in your new home on day #1.

A train of professionals came out for the big jobs:

* Plumbers - pressure reducer and expansion tank

* Electricians - new panel and service

* Insulation - replace attic insulation

* Flooring - LVP in the mud room

Julia and I got our hands dirty a bunch too:

* Closet shelving/rods

* Toilet replacement

* TV mount install

* Hanging blinds (after 1 month with none!)

* Siding repair

* Install dog door

* Light/Fan upgrades

* Fence repair

* Bench and table builds

* Chicken coop converted to raised beds

* Yard work of all kinds

* More yard work of different kinds

* Plus a bunch of small stuff that continually keep us busy

Bamboo and Blackberries were the big task. Our house is directly next to a city ‘right of way’. Basically a big plot of land the city owns where no one can build. Kinda like a park or play field directly to our south. We call it the “side yard”. Opposite our fence that separates us from the side yard was a 6 foot tall 6 foot wide 60 foot long thicket of blackberries. Then it turned into 30 foot tall bamboo beyond that.

Julia and I took 1 weekend to clear the bamboo from inside our backyard. Then another 2 weekends to clear the bamboo from the side yard. Luckily a city mower came and tore down most of the blackberries with a tractor after I reported it as a nuisance. It was a beast of a job - but the neighbors came out to help (at least to take away the bamboo poles for their gardens). Then we sheet mulched the entire area to prevent regrowth. Huge project - which we are still fighting currently - but a massive improvement the whole neighborhood enjoys.

Discovering new local restaurants was hard during COVID. Many places still offered delivery or take-out, but no inside dining. Bahn Mi sandwiches and Bubble Tea has been a staple for us. Too many cheesesteaks and taco truck burritos also. Plus a bunch of other Viatemese, Chinese, and Asian restaurants that are popular here in south Beacon Hill.

Throwing the frisbee with my teammate, Patrick, was my only activity with someone other than Julia or the Grubhub driver. We got together about once a week with masks at Judkins Park to toss. A fun way to get some sun, exercise, and social interaction.

July 11th my grandmother died in upstate NY with my mother and family close by. Not COVID related, just her time to go. The best grandma anyone could have asked for. Always an open house and supportive of all my life adventures.

September 3-6 we got permits to hike in the Cascades, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, Enchantments. It’s a protected area with very limited daily permits for backcountry camping. I tried for 8 years to get these permits - so no chance we were gonna miss the opportunity. Unfortunately I got a small hernia on our birthday in July - but again - not gonna stop me! The prep-hikes in July/August went great. Another fun way to get outdoors safely.

The trip ended up amazing all around. A true life-list adventure filled with lakes, goats, vistas, and leg burning trails.

October, November, and December were totally uneventful.

January 2021 we began a bathroom remodel with Premier Contractors. Toby and his family/team worked with us to design a totally custom dream bathroom. Ferguson supplied the materials, the discount I’ve been waiting to use for 16 years of employment. Jackpot!

End of January came with great bathroom progress. They ended up replacing the majority of the house plumbing - as our old galvanized pipes were badly corroded. The electricians also came back to install new circuits for the heated flooring, jetted tub, mirror, and heater/fan/lights. We also got new circuits in the garage and my office to expand the power downstairs.

Because we are crazy - we decided to begin a 2nd project at the same time - a deck rebuild. The construction crew we got to design our back deck randomly had availability earlier than expected, which we jumped on. Why not knock out both at once?!? Demo began February 16th.

End of February the bathroom was tiled and the deck had cedar floorboards installed. Floyd, Hank, Jeff, Brian, Robert, and the whole Blue Oak Builders crew were amazing. Unfortunately the bathroom project stalled for a variety of supply/time reasons. They slowly made progress through March.

March 31st Julia and I got our first COVID vaccine shot. We jumped at the first opportunity, one of the first in our age group to get an appointment. We drove down south to the minor league hockey rink where they had the process down solid after a month of giving shots to more vulnerable people. Relief that the end was in sight! We celebrated by buying strawberry plants on the way home. :)

Then our 2nd Pfizer shot on April 20th. May 5th we were considered fully vaccinated. I celebrated with a game of pickup the first chance possible. I ended up going 441 days without ultimate - my longest streak in 24 years. Before this I had never gone 14 days without some sort of pickup, practice, league, or tournament game of ultimate. It felt amazing to be back in action - even if I’m fatter + slower than ever.

That brings us to today - May 23, 2021. Ski season is nearly over, flowers are blooming, concerts are announcing, Sounders are playing, friends are calling, and mask mandates are lifting. My schedule is already starting to fill up with fun. There really does feel like a light at the end of this tunnel. Finally!

Overall - I consider us lucky. Julia and I were able to work from home without interruption. Our companies had hiccups, but are more profitable than ever. Julia has been extremely busy with work - but that’s the life in a startup I guess.

We had no clue what buying a home at the start of a pandemic would mean. It ended up being ideal for us. Canceled vacations gave us extra time and money to invest in this 62 year old raised ranch style house. Room for Skye to enjoy, as she is getting old fast, is a treat. Not to mention offices on separate floors might have saved our relationship (seriously - who talks that loud on conference calls? just kidding my lover). We even got lucky with great neighbors who really look out for each other.

I realize that so many other people in Seattle / WA / USA / World were not so lucky during this pandemic. It sucks. I hope as these restrictions are lifted that everyone can begin to prosper again - both socially and financially. 2020 will go down as a monumental time in our lives. I look forward to post-pandemic-2021!

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actutrends · 5 years

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GamesBeat managing editor Jason Wilson’s favorite games of 2019

Each year, it gets harder to nail down my favorite games of the past season. Part of this is because there are just so many studios putting out fantastic games. The rise of live-service games plays a role here, too — each year, the living games I enjoy seem to get better and take up more of my life. I can’t think of a better time to enjoy games, and as my compatriots at GamesBeat have shown, this year has had such an amazing amount of quality — be it on PC (my favorite platform), consoles like the PlayStation 4 or Nintendo Switch (portable mode is a godsend for role-playing games), or my phone. Here’re my favorite games of 2019. Note: These aren’t the games I consider to be “the best.” The most important factor is how much I enjoy playing them (and, increasingly, how much my kids enjoy watching me play them). The Outer Worlds

The Outer Worlds can be gorgeous.

Obsidian Entertainment is one of my favorite studios. It’s made three of my most-played RPGs of the past 15 years — Neverwinter Nights 2 (and its expansions), and the two Pillars of Eternity games. The Outer Worlds is different than these. You’re running around a system of planets that are at the mercy of a group of greedy, power-hungry corporations. It’s a capitalist dystopia, but it’s a funny one. And it skewers a world in which plutocrats, not people, run things. It also comes with a good character-building system, and its loading screens show off fantastic pieces of art (some of which only shows up based on your decisions). It wears its Fallout influence on its power armor (its makers include some of that landmark RPG’s creators). The Outer Worlds will also leave an important legacy for Obsidian: a fantastic finish to its run as an independent game studio. Pokémon Shield

Dynamax Pokémon loom over the battlefield.

Image Credit: GamesBeat

Years ago, I wrote about how much I hated Pokémon when I tried Red, the then-new release for the Nintendo 3DS. But last year, Let’s Go: Pikachu captured my heart. I credit part of this to my children, who love the TV series and the cards. Yet the game has plenty to recommend it. It’s cheery, and the way so many of its characters are supportive of you and each other is touching in an age where so many people seek to just tear everyone and everything down. It’s also fun to find all these new Pokémon, use the Dynamaxx power to turn them into giant monsters, watch them evolve, and explore the world. My favorite part, though, had little to do with the gameplay. Every time we encountered a new Pokémon, my kids would look it up in their books, helping me find its vulnerabilities and plotting how I should set up my team. Pokémon’s better when we’re playing like this, together. Star Wars Jedi: Fallen Order

There are fouler things than Imperial Stormtroopers in the deep places of the world.

Image Credit: Respawn

Respawn created new worlds and characters in Jedi: Fallen Order. It nailed how I’ve long thought a Jedi should feel in a game. Using your Jedi powers and lightsabers to smash through legions of stormtroopers just feels right. Mixing in metroidvania-like levels gives players plenty of places to explore, and I enjoyed going back to different worlds in key moments of the story (like your second time on Kashyyyk). But most important, it creates a compelling, sympathetic character in the Second Sister, showing that a servant of the Sith can be more than an evil person with a lightsaber. My only quibble: I wish Respawn’s easier modes made it, well, easier to deal with some of the challenging platforming sections, not just nerfing combat. Mistover This is a fantastic spin on Darkest Dungeon and Etrian Odyssey from Krafton, a small team inside the larger Krafton Game Union group. You start in a town, recruit a party, get quests, and outfit your crew. This is where it feels like Etrian Odyssey. But in town, you open up different buildings as you accomplish quests, the first of its many Darkest Dungeon influences. Food and light play a role in the exploration as well. Once you’re in a dungeon, moving around becomes more like a traditional roguelike. For every move you make, the monsters move as well. Combat is strategic as well, as your formations and the abilities you choose matter on the battlefield. It’s a fantastic take on roguelikes, and it’s worth playing. Grindstone

Grindstone is a clever puzzler in which you slay monsters by drawing lines for your buffed-up brawler.

Image Credit: Capy Games

Capy’ Games Might & Magic: Clash of Heroes and Superbrothers: Sword and Sworcery are two of my all-time favorite mobile games. So when Grindstone hit Apple Arcade earlier this year, I had to check it out. And when it debuted, I spent about 2 hours playing it. It reminds me of Clash of Heroes in how you line up enemies to slay. It’s a puzzler. You draw a line from your warrior through groups of baddies. It’s simple enough that young children can understand it, but it gets complex enough that it becomes a real challenge to accomplish every map’s goal. It’s fantastic, and I think it’s the best game on Apple Arcade. Magic: The Gathering — Arena

The Brawl decks I’ve settled on during the final day of the event.

Image Credit: GamesBeat

Two years ago, I had no idea I’d love Magic. Now, I play it almost every day thanks to Arena. It’s a fantastic adaptation of the granddaddy of all collectible card games. I’ve learned to play every color, and I’ve even had success beating tuned netdecks with creations of my own. I’ve become a better-than-average draft player as well, and when publisher Wizards of the Coast introduced Brawl, I not only found myself making decks in Arena but with my growing cardboard-card collection as well. Earlier this year, Arena left its open-beta status. The game still has some problems. Most days, you’ll find someone on Reddit complaining about performance issues. Wizards’ monetization tactics are annoying — more than once now, it has introduced an idea (such as the 2-to-1 wild card crafting cost for Historic cards), then changed it after outcry from players. Right now, it’s charging 10,000 in-game gold for a month-long Brawl event, and while you do get one special card as a reward, it’s pretty much charging you to play what I and others consider to be Arena’s best format. That sucks, as Brawl should be a format we can play in a queue, not just in a friendly challenge, at any time. But despite these issues, Arena has proven to be the best way to play Magic when you can’t shuffle cards with your friends. And that’s pretty awesome. Hearthstone

There be dragons!

Image Credit: Blizzard

Year 5 of Blizzard Entertainment’s free-to-play collectible card game might be its best yet. Hearthstone’s development team has been more active this year than ever before, introducing a flurry of prompt card changes to fix problems, better in-game events, its first new mode in years (Battlegrounds, which is pretty dang good), and a willingness to try new things (like the recent Wild event or Arena rotations). It’s even telling better stories with its expansions. Like Magic, Blizzard has stumbled some this year. During its Wild event, it didn’t do anything to address the power of Evolve Shaman, which drove many players (like me) away from Standard and into other modes like Battlegrounds … or spending more time with other games. And its handling of the Hong Kong situation was clumsier than a newborn calf trying to stand up for the first time. But even with those problems, Hearthstone feels more vibrant now than any time since its first expansion. And that’s a good thing for Blizzard and its millions of players worldwide. Dragon Quest Builders 2

Even the quest lines have punny names in Dragon Quest Builders 2.

Image Credit: GamesBeat

I’ve never been able to get into Minecraft. I know it’s fabulous. My kids love it. But I like a little more direction, and I get this from Square Enix’s Dragon Quest Builders series. In the sequel, you’re building your way to defeating a great evil. It’s charming, and as you finish off quests, you open up more building materials and options. It has most of the fun of a Dragon Quest game, but with a sandbox openness. It’s neat, and it’s even more fun when you play with kids. Disco Elysium

Disco Elysium is like no other RPG that came out this year … or in any recent year.

Image Credit: ZA/UM

This might be the trippiest RPG I’ve ever played, and I dig it. You play a detective coming off a bender, trying to solve the mystery of a hanged man left on a tree. It doesn’t have combat, really. You face decisions in conversations you have with the characters around you (and in your head). The system revolves on skill checks in conversations and reactions to the words you and others use, not weapons, warriors, or wizards. It’s fascinating, and it developer ZA/UM delivers something I’ve rarely seen in my decades of gaming: an RPG where choice, not combat, matters the most. A Plague’s Tale: Innocence

A Plague’s Tale: Innocence is a fascinating game.

Image Credit: Asobo Studio

I’ve been fascinated with this game since seeing it at E3 in 2017. It’s from Asobo Studio in France, and it’s about a 15-year-old girl and her younger brother surviving during a horrible plague afflicting France. And rats. Swarms of rats. Millions and millions of rats. The pair must use stealth to escape an inquisition that’s after them … and may be at the center of the plague. It’s a terrific, terrifying story, and it has the bonus of capturing the repulsiveness rats and magnifying it into a game that both fascinates and disgusts. It’s unique. Honorable mentions Code Vein Etrian Odyssey: Nexus Iratus: Lord of the Dead Metro: Exodus MechWarrior 5: Mercenaries Path of Exile Queen’s Wish: The Conqueror Slay the Spire The Surge 2

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