Atlas Chubbed: Chapter 3

Atlas’ office chair creaked as he leaned back with a full belly. The chair had been protesting ever since he broke three hundred. He belched into his fist and looked down admiringly at his own mass. At three ten he had developed a new roll between his upper belly and chest, and now at three twenty his tits were finally softening up. His impressive gorilla pecs were now sagged with fat as he settled into the physique of a jock turned office slob.

He belched again, feeling the weight of the two gyros he had slammed on his break. In fact, he needed to use the restroom. He lumbered to the bathroom only to discover the two stalls were taken. Sighing, Atlas took the elevator down one floor to the downstairs single-room bathroom. He didn’t love this one because of how cramped it was. It had one of those triangular corner sinks across from a toilet wedged between two old walls. It felt like an airplane bathroom in that he took up the whole space.

Closing the door, his shoulder bumped into each wall. As he removed his pants and sat down his love handle knocked the toilet paper. He took a deep breath, easily took a shit, and struggled to wipe himself in the cramped room. Washing his hands he admired his bulbous upper body. Even with a freshly purchased well-fitting tee every curve of his hulking mass was visible. His love handles were as wide as his shoulders and his belly sagged with the weight of thousands of ultra-rich meals.

He wore a simple T-shirt as he had committed to going out with a new work friend in Hell’s Kitchen that evening. He looked nice, and would’ve been conventionally attractive were he a hundred forty pounds lighter, but Atlas was still nervous. He didn’t go to gay bars much these days, especially the Hell’s Kitchen circuit with all the muscle gays. Four years ago he would’ve felt right at home and had his pick of any man he wanted. But now, at three hundred and twenty pounds, he knew that the boys would look right past him if not outright scoff. Nevertheless, he’d give it a good shot. Besides, he wanted the bonding experience with his colleague, Patrick.

Returning to his desk, he ran into Patrick at the water cooler. “Hey big guy,” Patrick said. Atlas was getting used to such names these days. “Excited for tonight?”

“Just hoping they let me through the door,” Atlas said and patted his overhang.

Patrick squirmed awkwardly. “Don’t worry, there’s all types where we’re going.”

Atlas raised an eyebrow as if to say “we’ll see” and headed back to his desk. He stayed busy for the next couple hours with the usual: emails, spreadsheets, etc. He gobbled up a protein bar and snacked on trail mix throughout. He tried to keep his snacks relatively healthy in public, even though he was known to slam a donut or three from the break room. Finally eight o’clock rolled around and Atlas and Patrick headed for the elevator.

The elevators were annoyingly small for such a large building. On the next stop six people crammed in, causing Patrick’s back to press against Atlas’ belly. Looking down at Patrick, Atlas was struck by the disparity in their size. Patrick was several inches shorter than Atlas with a lean, slightly muscled body that signaled his new gym membership. Atlas’ stomach growled against Patrick’s lower back. Thankfully, they were headed to get food.

Outside, Patrick zipped through the crowds of people with an agility Atlas had lost a hundred pounds ago. When they finally arrived at the casual Mediterranean restaurant Atlas was out of breath and sweating from trying to keep up. He ordered his food between desperate gasps for air, disappointed he was too shy to ask for double because he was with Patrick. The boys were each a beer deep by the time the food arrived and Atlas’ stomach was burning in desperation for calories.

He took one bite of food and lost all control. All that mattered was filling his stomach. Within minutes his plate was cleared. He glanced up at Patrick who tried to contain a look of shock and mild disgust while nibbling away at his plate. Atlas was a bit embarrassed, but mostly he was unsatisfied. He needed more. Across the restaurant was a window through which he spotted a bagel cart closing up for the day. A portly middle eastern man was dumping the leftover bagels into plastic bags. Atlas had an idea.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Atlas said and struggled to his feet, his belly knocking the metal table loudly. “And it may, uh, take a minute.”

He wobbled through the cramped and winding restaurant, his belly occasionally bumping into the back of a chair or a patron’s shoulder, and finally made it outside. He flagged down the bagel guy and handed over five dollars for an onion bagel with cream cheese. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. He gobbled up the food as fast as he could, careful not to leave Patrick waiting for too long. When he returned to their table he was sweating and disheveled. Patrick eyed him curiously.

“You have something,” Patrick pointed to the side of his mouth.

Atlas wiped at his lips. It was cream cheese.

“Oh, must have been the soap in the bathroom,” he lied.

From there, they walked to the first bar. The seven block hike left Atlas winded once again, only now sweat stains were spreading across his shirt. Thankfully, the bar was chilly and fairly empty so early in the night. They ordered beers and a shot of whiskey and things got underway. Sitting at the bar stool, Atlas couldn’t help but feel out of place. He was massive in comparison to the seating, to the table, to Patrick, to the bartender, to the three other patrons. He had spent so much of his life standing out for his exceptional good looks, and now he he stood out in a “bad” way. The feeling was a heady mix that triggered shame and arousal in a never ending loop.

One drink turned into two and then three as office gossip was traded like playing cards. By the time they hit the next spot several hours had somehow passed and the men were unexpectedly drunk. After a short wait in line they entered the club. Thumping pop music and the smell of men’s cologne washed over Atlas like a gay baptism. The coworkers waded through the crowd toward the bar. For Patrick that meant slipping around muscle hunks, and for Atlas that meant using his prodigious beer belly to clear the way like a bumper car. Once again, he was the fattest guy in the room.

With drinks that tasted of rubbing alcohol, they headed to the dance floor. Atlas felt a mix of excitement and nerves tighten in his stomach, alongside the food and booze sloshing around inside him. He burped into his fist as he glanced around at the statuesque bodies moving to the music. Atlas had looked like that once, but now he bulged and sagged with extra weight. He could no longer move the same way as the muscle studs. His steps were consequential and sturdy, wobbling and slow.

“Let loose, man!” Patrick shouted over the pounding bass, a broad grin carved across his face.

Atlas took a big swig of his drink. Glancing around there was no avoiding the stares he was attracting, but not all were unpleasant. Some glances were filled with admiration, others intrigued. It was a new experience to be viewed as such an alien. The tempo escalated, drawing him further into the frenzy. His moves were a blend of rhythm and sheer force, each shift of his hulking body causing a ripple across the dance floor as he lost himself in the music. Patrick bounced beside him, procuring more rounds of drinks as time passed and Atlas’ vision began to blur.

The crowd's energy was disorienting. Some admired him, dancing against his body and rubbing his belly amorously. Others whispered and pointed. “Look at the fat ass try to dance,” he heard someone say. The faux progressivism stung worse: “honestly, kudos. I wouldn’t be so brave if I looked like that.” And another: “Look how sweaty his ass crack is.” Slowly laughter and cheers began erupting around him. Were those noises directed at him?

Overwhelmed, Atlas headed to the bathroom. He stood before the dimly lit mirror above the sink, adjusting his shirt for the umpteenth time. It strained around his belly and was completely soaked with sweat. He looked like a pig. In this lighting, he could even tell how his face was beginning to fill out. That used to be his saving grace: his face card. But now, even that was getting swallowed up by the soft corpulence of his appetite.

Atlas headed back to the bar and slammed two more shots. Hands reached around him and grabbed at his overhang. Atlas spun around ready to fight.

“Woah papa, I was just admiring that yummy thickness,” an attractive man said, his arms in the air.

Atlas looked the man up and down with blurred vision. From what he could tell it was yet another muscle stud, though this one had a bit of belly poking out beneath his ribbed tank.

“We good? I just think you’re sexy is all. I liked watchin’ you out on da dancefloor.”

“Oh…” Atlas relaxed. “Thanks, I guess. I’m Atlas.”

“Rickyyy,” the man said. “You lookin’ pretty wasted Atlas. What do you say we get you some water and food. I can tell you like to eat, huh? So do I, papa.”

Ricky patted Atlas’ belly encouragingly.

“That… sounds absolutely perfect,” Atlas grinned.