An Outward Spiral

205 pounds

I’m definitely bigger than I used to be, but I wouldn’t say I’m fat or anything. Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror after a shower and I do see how my stomach curves out a little. It’s not flat anymore, not like when I had abs in my twenties. It’s just a small swell and honestly it looks kind of natural on me. Like I’m suited to be a bit thicker. 

Lately, friends have been making jokes about my “dad bod,” and I always laugh along like it doesn’t matter, but sometimes that word sticks in my head. I guess I am old enough now to be dad, technically. But it feels like I’ve crossed over some threshold without ever realizing it. I’ve also been called “solid” or “stocky” lately, which I prefer. Those words sound stronger and more masculine, less like an insult. When I pull on a T-shirt and it hugs around my chest and shoulders, I do look broad and it feels powerful. It’s only when it catches on the softness of my stomach that I start to question things.

That said, I know I’m hot. It’s not like I’m too big or anything. I still get plenty of matches on the apps. In fact, I’ve even had a couple guys tell me I look strong or thick and they mean it as a compliment. And I have to say, the word “thick” kind of does something to me. I don’t know why, but it’s hot. Like I’m a formidable guy, like I’m built. 

Sometimes I stand in front of the mirror and turn sideways to look at the curve of my belly and imagine what other people see. Do they notice it as much as I do? Do they think about it when I sit down and my shirt stretches tight across it? I don’t think so. I’m exaggerating my circumference I’m sure. Sometimes I do catch myself rubbing it absentmindedly after a big meal. Almost like it needs some attention or something, like the act of fueling up is an act of self love. I don’t know. If I’m being honest, part of me enjoys the reminder that I’m not small anymore.

242 pounds

Okay, I can’t ignore the extra weight anymore. The reality of my appetite, rather, the reality of the repercussions of my appetite, are unavoidable. When I sit down, my stomach doesn’t just bulge out, it rests on my thighs. The first time I noticed that soft skin to skin contact oozing out in front of me, I was fresh out of the shower and sat down at my computer to do something. My lap was warm. I looked down and all I saw was belly. Since then, I notice it every single time. The sensation is constant, heavy, like a reminder I can’t get away from. My shirts creep up in the front, riding just high enough to show a sliver of skin if I’m not careful. I’ve started tugging them down without thinking, but it doesn’t really help. My belly wants to show itself. My old jeans pinch around the waist. I sized up, but it’s almost like the new jeans are too comfortable. Like I shouldn’t get comfortable with this or else I’ll outgrow these ones too.

Socially, people don’t say the word fat. But the comments are a bit more biting. “You’ve really filled out.” I get that a lot. Even worse: “Getting comfortable, huh?” They say it with a laugh, but I feel the edge underneath. On the apps it has gotten even stranger. I get hit on regularly still, but not at the same volume as before. Now I get guys commenting directly about my weight, about how sexy it is that I’m bigger. The first time it happened I almost dropped my phone. How could they know? Instagram? It made me feel kind of exposed, like they’d seen something private I wasn’t prepared to share. But at the same time, I can’t stop reading the messages. I read them over and over so that I can understand what they see. I mean, it is kind of hot, I guess? 

Late at night, when I’m alone and after a big meal I strip in front of the meal. I examine how my stomach pushes outward and how the soft fat yields under my hand. I know I should feel disgusted or even ashamed. But I don’t. Instead, there’s this flicker of heat in my chest that spreads downward. It’s embarrassing even to write this, but sometimes I get hard just looking at how plump and juicy I have become. I try to laugh it off and tell myself it’s just a phase, but you know what? Part of me likes what I’m becoming, even though I could never say that out loud.

286 pounds

Well, there’s no denying it anymore. No denying any of this. I can’t even pass for just chubby at this point. My belly fills my lap every time I sit down. In the car, it pushes into the steering wheel unless I adjust the seat back. Every shirt I own pulls across the middle, buttons straining, fabric riding up. When I laugh, I feel it jiggle ferociously and it sends a shock through me, half mortification and half something else I don’t want to name. Family members say things outright now. “You’ve really put on weight” and even “you’re starting to get fat.” There’s no hiding from it. At work, I’m “the big guy.” For awhile, it felt like everybody noticed before I even did. 

The mirror has become complicated. I look at myself and I see a fucking pig, not just a dad bod. My belly is not some cute chubby thing any more. It is a mound of flesh that dominates my profile, spilling outward in a way I never imagined possible for myself. Sometimes it embarrasses me so badly that I avoid mirrors altogether. Am I really just a “fat guy” now? Some slob who has lost control of his appetite? Is that how people see me? I mean, that’s how I used to view men at this size. 

But then I keep staring, at the rolls, the belly, the love handles, the stretch marks on my ass, and sure enough… I’m hard as a rock. I squeeze my own girth and it stirs something in me that’s stronger than the shame. I run my hands over the softness, pressing in, lifting it, letting it fall, and I feel a rush. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like admitting I’ve given in to something, like surrendering to the eroticism of this heavier, softer version of myself.

Needless to say, the attention online has shifted completely. The ordinary matches have almost vanished. But in their place are dozens of messages from men who see me as desirable exactly because I’m fat. They tell me I’m hot, that I should get even bigger, that they want me to eat donuts off their dick, I’ve heard it all. Sometimes I hate them for tempting me, for making me wonder if I could grow even larger. Other times I scroll through those messages and get so hard I can’t think straight and start rummaging through the fridge. 

364 pounds

I barely remember what it felt like to be smaller. At 200 pounds I thought I was a solid piece of meat. At 240 I thought I might be getting a little chubby. At 280, I knew I was fat. But here, at 350, I’ve reached a new level. Fat isn’t just a part of me anymore. It’s not like some supporting characteristic of my personhood. No, it is now fully who I am. My whole body announces itself before I say a word. When I walk into a room, I see people glance, some quick, some lingering, some openly staring. I feel their eyes tracing how I move, how wide I sit, how my belly overflows my lap and presses against the table edge. In public, I think about space constantly: whether I’ll fit in a booth, how the seatbelt will stretch on a plane, whether the chair under me feels strong enough. My body has made my world smaller, slower, and more precarious. Hell, I struggle to even put on my shoes. 

Life at this size isn’t easy. My walk has slowed, turned into a rolling waddle that makes me breathless. Bending over leaves me sweating. Some days, I wake up and feel crushed by the weight of it all, suffocated by my own body. But other days, I catch my reflection and I’m stunned. I feel powerful by how my belly sags so low, how my thighs spread wide, and how my chest is heavy and round like a woman’s. I am immovable. Truly, no man could lift me out of bed like this. Even visually, my body commands attention in a way it never did before.

Dating apps are ruthless, but also intoxicating. The mainstream swipes, the easy matches, those are long gone. What I get now are messages from men who want me exactly as I am, or bigger. Can you believe it? They want to see me reach 400, even 500 pounds. They probably wouldn’t be happy until I’m immobile. They want to see more, to watch me grow. And the truth I can barely bring myself to write is this: I think I want it too. Their words feed something in me I didn’t know was there. I get off to the idea of being too big, too heavy, too much. I tell myself it’s just a fantasy and my weight will even out eventually. But when I’m alone, hand pressing into the heavy overhang of my gut, reaching over the expanse of my fat pad, I feel myself cock throbbing with the idea of more. Shame mixes with arousal until I can’t tell the difference anymore.