An American Man

He first started jerking off to fat guys in high school. It started with a video of two guys spit roasting a girl, and one of the guys was kind of chunky. He followed the link to the chunky guy’s page and wacked off to his videos. At first, he avoided the guy’s solo jerk off vids. He made an effort to only watch porn with girls. But eventually he slipped up and busted the fattest load ever watching that over-bulked man stroke his meat and rub his belly on camera. Then the algorithm figured out what he liked, and he was gooning day in and day out to chubby men. 

The locker room had been a place of intense arousal before he found these videos. His football teammates’ burly physiques glistening with sweat and wobbling under the fluorescent lights made his cock stir to attention. He tried his hardest to ignore his perverted thoughts. Maybe he was bi, but he would never act on it. He knew that for certain. He kept his eyes to himself, but every once in a while he would catch a glimpse and his cock would quiver in excitement. 

After high school he got involved in the church. He volunteered almost every day until college started. Then he joined a Bible group on campus, deleted his browser history and all his porn accounts. He dated a couple girls but they were none that interesting. School wasn’t interesting either and his grades were unimpressive. He needed something more intense, more structured. So he joined the military. 

He was in the military for a year and a half. He stayed focused and pushed his perverted fantasies into the darkest corner of his brain. He never stared too long at the other men. When he jerked off he forced himself to look at photos of women. He was in the best shape of his life when he injured his shoulder and was discharged from the service. He returned to his hometown feeling defeated and aimless. Straight away he was prescribed a variety of meds that put him in a fog. 

At first he sought comfort at the drive-thru. He was helpless unless someone was cooking for him, so a majority of his meals were fast food. Slowly but surely his appetite expanded as the days blurred together. He would scroll job boards in between gaming for hours on end, tossing cans of soda or Bud Light down his gullet endlessly. He’d often find himself up far past midnight, drunk and disoriented, ordering late night pizza and ice cream. On more than one occasion he’d pass out, forgetting about the pint of ice cream on the counter, then wake up to pee in the night and pour the liquid dairy down his throat in a few large gulps. Back in bed, he’d repeat the whole process the next day. Before he knew it, the discipline he’d fostered for so many years had evaporated.

He started going to church again which felt like the right thing to do. His faith was not as strong as it once was, but religion gave him structure. It was somewhere to be and something to do. That’s where he met his future wife. She worked in the church kitchen at the time, feeding hundreds of people out of a half-broken oven and a busted fridge. Nevertheless, her food was incredible and she was nice enough. 

Once they started spending time together it was clear where things were headed. They were both of a certain age where it was expected to settle down. She didn’t ask too many questions and showed affection through food, so it was easy enough for him. Eventually he got an office job at a local logistics firm, they got married, and bought a small house. It all happened in a six month span. From the outside looking in, it was a whirlwind. But really, he was just going through the motions. 

At the wedding he looked solid, broad-shouldered, thick through the middle, not quite fat but definitely filled in. His dress shirt strained faintly at the buttons, tucked tight into a pair of new slacks that hugged his hips and bulbous ass cheeks. His face was fuller and his jawline looked softer under a short beard. When he moved there was a heaviness to him, a bulk that hadn't been there a year earlier. Nobody said anything, because his weight frankly didn’t stand out. Most guys his age were already sporting a pot belly. He looked fit in comparison. 

This began to change when he settled into the routine of an office job. Five days a week he sat at a desk and clicked around in spreadsheets, answering a few emails, half-listening in meetings. His supervisor was obese and never left his chair, so it was easy to fall in line. He stopped pretending to care after the first month, taking long lunches and showing up late like everyone else did. He ate snacks at his desk all day and sometimes he’d leave to “take a call” and just sit in his car scarfing down fast food. No one noticed. Besides, half the team did the same thing. He'd scroll TikTok in between tasks, drink three or four sodas before noon, and nod off during Zoom calls. 

The weight came on slow enough that he barely noticed. Sure, he had to loosen his belt and eventually he outgrew some of his pants. The wife bought him new clothes laced with elastic. He barely paid attention to any of this. He remained in a zombie-like fog due in part to his meds, which he could also blame the weight gain on, but the truth was that it was all intentional. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a Pandora’s box of dark desires that he kept locked away. If he remained on auto-pilot he would be fine (so he told himself). 

That all changed one day waiting in line at the pharmacy when he heard someone call his name. He turned and saw a familiar face from high school. Some guy from the wrestling team whose name he couldn’t remember. “Damn, bro,” were the first words out of the man’s mouth when his eyes dropped downward. “You’ve porked the fuck up.” Before he could react, this guy reached out and gave a firm squeeze to the bare roll of belly fat that had slipped out from under his old college T-shirt. “Looking fat and happy.” The guy clapped him on the shoulder like it was nothing and walked off toward the checkout.

He stood frozen with his face flushed hot pink. Looking down, his gut was definitely hanging out of shirt, more round and soft and pale than it had ever been. He hadn’t even noticed he was this fat… or exposed. He tugged the fabric down like an embarrassed child, mumbled something to the cashier, and left without picking up his prescription. In the car, his hands were shaking as those words echoed in head: “you’ve porked the fuck up.”

Instinctually, he raced to the nearest fast food restaurant and ordered a heavy sack of greasy food. With the order in hand he frantically parked in the back of the lot, unwrapped the double bacon cheeseburger with greedy fingers, and started shoveling it in. Juice ran down his chin and salt coated his lips while his cock swelled painfully in his tight jeans. He unzipped, fished out his throbbing manhood, and started stroking as he chewed. It only took a few minutes for the burger and fries to get shoved into his mouth and washed down with a milkshake. With his face covered in ketchup, his hand slick with grease and precum, crumbs littering his pubes, he unleashed a massive ejaculation that splattered across food wrappers. A guttural groan reverberated through clenched teeth while his bloated belly heaved. Afterward, he sat there panting, zipper wide open, and the car smelling like fast food and cum. He was still horny. He was still hungry. Grabbing his phone, he searched “fat guy straight porn” and got back to it. 

Something was unleashed that day and there was no going back. He would wake up late, shuffle to the kitchen and scarf down whatever the wife had prepared. Getting ready for work meant pushing back greasy hair and stretching elastic-waist jeans and an oversized T-shirt over his body. On the drive to the office he’d hit up the drive-thru for a second breakfast, his cock stiffening as he placed the order. He did the bare minimum at work, took his breaks in the parking lot stuffing his face, and spent most of the day scrolling on his phone. Sometimes he’d duck into the bathroom to watch videos of fat guys jerking or fucking girls. He’d stroke himself for a few minutes, just enough to keep him dazed and distracted, then return to his desk with the smell of his cock on his hand.

At home he planted himself in the recliner and barely moved. His wife brought him big heavy dinners on a TV tray each night. He’d shovel the food down with the TV blaring and then ask for dessert. She always had something, usually pie or ice cream. Eventually she stopped asking if he wanted seconds and served him as though on autopilot. Sometimes, if he felt super bloated and swollen, he would get horned up enough to fuck her. But usually he passed out without giving her a second glance. 

He grew lazier and fatter by the day. Eventually he stopped mowing the lawn and so they hired someone. The gutters sagged with wet leaves in the fall so they paid a local kid to clear them. The porch lights went out and stayed out. His car stayed parked in the driveway all weekend. If a package didn’t get brought inside, he waited for his wife to grab it. Begrudgingly he’d take out the trash and grab the mail, but only if the wife nagged him enough to actually get his fat us up and lumber to the curb. 

His fob for the gym was shoved in the back of one of his drawers. Very occasionally, he’d tell the wife he was going to the gym, but only if he needed an excuse to get out of the house to stuff his face and stroke his cock to the thought of growing fatter. The truth was that he hadn’t stepped foot inside the gym in months. It was doubtful his gym clothes could even fit over his gut at this point. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he barely recognized the man staring back: soft, round, thick-necked, and slow-moving. He was transforming into a fattened American pig and knew he had no other choice but to give in completely. 

Eventually, they had a kid but he didn’t help out much in that department either. The experience was basically a series of hospital visits and takeout meals. He showed up when he had to, posed for a photo or two, but mostly stayed out of the way. Once the baby was home, he kept to his recliner with a six pack at his side. He didn’t contribute to the child rearing and the wife never asked him to. She didn’t expect anything different. She handled it all without complaint and kept feeding him like nothing had changed. She got fatter too after the pregnancy, which only made things easier for him. There was zero pressure to temper his appetite. 

So he grew soft all over. The bulk he’d carried in his chest and arms back in his army days melted into a thick heavy spread of gelatinous flesh. He still had broad shoulders but they were now padded with fat. His upper arms stayed swollen but not from muscle, resting on the rolls piled on his sides. His gut was the real centerpiece. It was round, low-hanging, and heavy in front just like all the other guys on the block around his age. The only difference was that he was on the precipice of outpacing them.

His stomach flooded over his waistband and atop his thighs when he sat down. His tattered wife beater was stretched to capacity so that his lower back and love handles were constantly exposed. The shirt was always stained, no matter how fresh from the wash. Splotches of grease and crumbs caught in his and folds and soiled the fabric. He wore it around the house like a uniform along with the same pair of jeans. They were denim with an elastic waistband that still dug into his hips, so he left them unbuttoned more often than not. It was getting to the point where his gut hung lower every month, so he didn’t even bother trying to update his clothes. 

His thighs were thickened up as well, rubbing together constantly when he walked. His ass had gone soft and heavy, overfilling every chair he sat in and boosting him up at tables a good few inches. His neck disappeared into his traps and chest, and his face had puffed out to the point that he looked swollen even when he wasn’t stuffed. Sometimes he’d catch his reflection when and see the way his gut pooled in his lap, or hung like a sack of dough from his frame. It turned him on in a way he kept secret from everyone around him.

The years passed, seasons changed, birthdays came and went, and still he sat in the same sagging recliner fattening himself up slow and steady. He kept the erotic edge his girth buried deep in his mind. In the quiet of the house, when the kid was at school and his wife was running errands, he’d huff and puff to the bathroom or sit hunched in the car with a greasy bag of burgers, jerking off to grainy videos of other men growing fatter, slower, and more helpless just like himself. He stopped watching straight porn altogether. He didn’t need the pretense, he just needed men and fat. The family kept moving forward with school events and church functions while he remained stationary. A constantly swelling fixture in front of the television with a never ending waterfall of beer. He had no friends and no hobbies. His life was one long foggy drift from one bite to the next.

Naturally, he grew bigger than most of the other guys in town. Before long, every part of his body formed a thick sagging roll of chub. From his neck and chin to the fat pad swallowing up his manhood, he was just a series of rolls and creases. His wife started suggesting lighter meals, switching to low-fat versions of her usual casseroles, diet sodas too, but none of it mattered. The volume of food he was ingesting was enough, and if he wasn’t satiated he’d huff and puff to the car to fetch his own calories. His parents also made quiet comments when they visited, but it only pushed him deeper into ravenous gluttony. Every time someone told him to slow down on the milkshakes, to cut back on the beer, his cock would stir in defiance. He would eat more out of spite. He would stuff himself until his belly was aching and in between heavy breaths he would stroke himself while imagining getting even larger.

Gluttony fully shaped his existence now. He had a pure and unrelenting hunger, an absolute lust for food and growth. Only when he stuffed himself to capacity, when his stomach felt like it was going to burst as it hung in a heavy hammock of blubber between his legs, did everything else in his life dissipate. It had started so small: his wife’s homemade meals, second lunches, fast food and porn in the parking lot. Now, he was waddling. He could hardly bend over. His belly pressed against the steering wheel and it was only a matter of time until his cock was fully out of reach too. Neighbors gossiped and coworkers watched him with concern. The whole town witnessed his belly grow heavier, his gait slower, his breath more labored from simple activities. Soon enough, HR offered him the option to work entirely remote. It was for his "comfort," they said, though he could read between the lines.

Rumors circulated, of course. The other fat men, now smaller in comparison, passed judgment. Their sturdy beer guts were a symbol of a well-lived and masculine existence, but he was getting too fat to function. How would he take care of his family? He was obviously weak, like a woman. He couldn’t even handle going into the office. Rumor had it there was no chair strong enough to hold him. He was a failed provider and therefore dishonored in the community. He had succumbed too fully to their way of life, his capacity for greed too vast. He was no longer a provider, just a pure consumer.

None of it mattered. Working from home suited him anyway. There was no dress code, no pretense of professionalism. He would set his laptop on the kitchen table and surround himself with food: microwave burritos, chips, donuts, whatever would keep his hands busy and his mouth full. Showers became optional and pants became a burden. He waddled from his bed to the fridge to the recliner in a cycle so habitual it didn’t register that he barely left the house anymore. He ordered takeout constantly regardless of the time of day or if he had just eaten. He drank soda by the liter and took long naps in the afternoon, often with crumbs stuck to his chest. He no longer tracked time. There was only full or not-full.

Outside his window, the world carried on. Delivery trucks rolled through the neighborhood. Ads played between the endless scroll of videos across his phone. Most of the ads he was served were for food, and he usually clicked on them. New seasons of the same shows auto-played in the background of his existence. His body fat metastasized. Fattened by convenience, dulled by comfort, shaped by algorithms and processed meals. He never questioned it as long as his cock stayed hard. He just opened his mouth and let it happen. He was a heaping mound of fat, a “man” grown soft and slow in the quiet backwaters of American life, yet another consumer caught in the current, drifting deeper and deeper towards his destiny.