Milestones

At 170 pounds I had an average build. No one remarked on my fitness or lack thereof. I was your everyman, your Joe Schmo. I didn’t have much muscle mass but I also wasn’t weak. I hit the gym a few times a week for light cardio and some weights. I didn’t stress if I missed a day. I tried to eat healthy most of the time, though I wasn’t fanatical about it. I could put away a burger and fries but I didn’t do it too often. I enjoyed deserts if I was at a restaurant, but my pantry remained pretty bare.

I mostly wore large shirts and some mediums. They fit fine, not too loose, not too tight. My pants were size 31 and had been since college. I didn’t need a belt but owned a few for formal events. I usually wore neutral colors and dark blue jeans. I had a lot of gray in my closet. I usually hung out at home in some gray sweats and a hoodie. I sometimes teased that I should have been named John Smith. That seemed fitting for your average American dude working in finance.

At 180 pounds I was going to the gym a lot less. Mostly because work was getting busy, I think. I guess I’m not really sure why, but I was definitely going less. A McDonald’s opened up one block away from my apartment and that became a frequent stop on my commute. Usually I just grabbed an iced coffee but sometimes I’d get an apple pie as well. I don’t think it was very noticeable that I had gained ten pounds. At least, I barely noticed.

At 190 pounds I started to notice a bit more. My medium shirts were a bit snug. You could see my belly poking out, especially when I sat down. I guess I had what you would call a “paunch.” It just sort of poked out above the button of my jeans. If I was wearing a jacket or sweater you could barely tell at all.

At this point the gym was a once a week thing. It was a good day if I made it in, though the actual work outs were getting tough. My stamina wasn’t what it once was and I found myself avoiding cardio more and more. Weights were a bit easier, though they often left me sore. A good gym day was rewarding nonetheless and usually emboldened me to order that extra side at McDonald’s on the way home. I earned it after all.

At 200 pounds came a reality check. My doctor told me I was officially in the overweight BMI range and recommended I lose some weight. He asked me about changes to my diet and I realized I was eating a lot more fast food lately. It was just so convenient and cheaper than ordering out. He also asked me the last time I went to the gym and I could barely remember. I supposed it had been over a couple months which surprised me. Time moved so quickly.

It wasn’t like I was in denial that I was putting on weight. My jeans were getting difficult to button and I had already sized up my work pants to a 34, which was a little spacious but they stayed up with a belt. I had thrown out all my medium shirts and wore exclusively large ones which were already a bit snug. In short, there was no hiding from my expanding waistline. Still, it didn’t feel all that dramatic until the doctor used the word “overweight.” I mean, 200 was the national average for men in the US. Didn’t that make me normal weight?

At 210 pounds I was settling into my larger appetite. Large portions and fast food became a normal part of my life. I was also drinking a lot of frappuccinos and heavy dairy products. I don’t know what it was but I started craving dairy in a way that I never had before. I didn’t really feel like I had gained much weight but I suppose I did. In a lot of ways I felt like the same guy as when I was 170 pounds.

At 220 pounds there was no more hiding it: I was getting chubby. Pivotally, I canceled my gym membership. I hadn’t been in a year and I hadn’t gone consistently in even longer. I had to face the music about the man I was becoming. No longer could I squeeze into clothing from my college years or put off sizing up in case I lost the weight. This was me now. I needed new clothes otherwise they would start tearing. I replaced a big chunk of my wardrobe and never looked back. Flannels, plaid, and elastic were my new best friends.

My face was filling out too. To complement my more manly wardrobe and to cover up my double chin, I decided to grow out my facial hair a bit. It was well-received by my colleagues and friends, who all praised my new “lumberjack” look. In fact, I was getting so much attention for my looks that it made the transition to a big guy even easier. Why hadn’t I gained weight before? It was kind of fun.

At 230 pounds I realized I was addicted to fast food. I was hitting up McDonald’s every morning on the way to work. An iced coffee and an apple pie were now paired with a few breakfast sandwiches. I woke up craving the salty food on my lips. It was also getting hard to not stop for more on my way home. I was hitting all the fast food joints in a ten mile radius on a regular basis. At this point, I knew I was giving in to being fat. I was going to get larger, and I didn’t really care too much.

Sure, I didn’t want to replace my wardrobe again nor did I want to develop any health issues. So I tried to suppress my penchant for fast food with some home cooked recipes that curbed my cravings. I started to become a pretty good cook once I realized the key to a good dish was usually half a stick of butter or cream. What could I say? I was a big guy, and once you develop a certain palette it’s hard to quit.

At 240 pounds I was struggling to fit into my clothes once again. My gray sweatpants were finally giving out too. The elastic had snapped but my ass was fat enough that they didn’t fall down. I finally threw them away once they developed a hole in the crotch. This was becoming a trend across all my pants and underwear regardless of the material. My thighs were simply too robust.

It was getting more difficult to bend over too. I got my shoes on with a grunt each morning while holding my breath for a second. I loathed dropping something in the office and having to struggle to bend over in work clothes and pick it up. Gone were the days of folding up like a pretzel on the couch or sitting cross legged on the ground. I had to let my rolls breathe, I had to let my chub spread out. My body demanded as much space as it did food.

At 250 pounds the doctor prescribed a weight loss plan. He didn’t even ask if I was still hitting the gym; it was obvious I wasn’t. His advice went in one ear and out the other, and a few days later I met a twink who had a kink for big guys like myself. He showed me all about the world of gaining and encouraging which seemed silly and perverse at first. Although, it was what I had been doing inadvertently all this time so I supposed it wasn’t all that strange. The twink suggested I shoot for 270 and I figured it couldn’t hurt. It did seem like a lot of weight, 20 more pounds, but the truth was I’d probably get there on my own anyway.

At 260 pounds I was in full glutton mode. The twink had me pounding these gainer shakes and just constantly eating. I barely felt the ten extra pounds that snuck up on me in less than a month. What I did feel was my stomach stretching at all times. My desk was stocked with snacks and I was eating throughout the workday. I stuffed myself on my lunch break and even more when I got home. I was always eating and it felt like I was in a constant food coma.

At 270 pounds the weight was beginning to catch up with me. Stairs became my enemy. Short walks left me breathing heavily. I also noticed that my gait had evolved. I walked slower, nearly waddling, with my shoulders back and my belly forward. I moved like a fat guy. I chafed in new places and sweated too easily.

The twink was delighted by my growth but I was beginning to have second thoughts. Being fat was hard! Standard seating was getting snug and clothes had to be purchased from big and tall stores. Not to mention the amount of money it took to keep me satiated, let alone growing. I wasn’t sure if I could keep it up, but the twink felt otherwise.

At 280 pounds I became that fat guy on the street with my gut hanging out of my T-shirt. On more than one occasion I found myself wobbling to the market for some late night cake and ice cream in an old tattered shirt while people stared at my gut the whole time. At first, I just assumed they were staring because I’m fat. Then a breeze would brush over the hairs of my underbelly and I would realize I was exposed yet again. This would even happen with my shirts that “fit.” If the fabric got caught in the slightest my overhang was on full display.

I was a regular at all the local grocery stores and fast food spots. On the weekends the local bakery anticipated my arrival. I was happiest when they had doughnuts. I was an eating machine. At some point in the last 50 pounds my mind had been reprogrammed to constantly think about food and where my next meal or snack was coming from. It was no longer a conscious effort. The twink was transforming me into an absolute pig. Overeating was simply my lifestyle now.

At 290 pounds I was struggling to get in and out of my tiny Prius. My belly rested softly against the steering wheel as I drove with snacks in the passenger seat. Exiting the vehicle required a hard push as I maneuvered my bloated form onto my feet. Even getting up from my desk chair required that I steady myself against the desk.

Standing in general was getting hard. My ankles struggled to support the weight and I altogether preferred to be lying down, preferably naked. Clothes had become a nuisance, even ones that fit. Most everything felt constricting unless I was lying in bed nude with the feeder feeding me. And that was exactly what I dreamed of all day: arriving home to be pampered and stuffed silly.

At 300 pounds I was the fat guy in the office. I developed a reputation for polishing off any group snacks that would otherwise be thrown away. My office chair groaned beneath my weight as surely everyone around, myself included, waited for the day it gave out completely. My belly piled atop my lap, keeping me from ever getting too close to my desk.

My belly had now become the center point of my entire physicality. Not only did it drive my bottomless hunger, but it controlled nearly every aspect of my life. I walked with a waddle so that it didn’t throw me off balance. I made sure it didn’t get wet when I was washing my hands. I had to be conscious not to bump into my colleagues in the hallway. I tried my best to keep it fully clothed despite the pace with which it grew. I could no longer see the ground so I had to be extra careful when I was walking or going down stairs. I’d lost sight of my cock and relied on the twink to push the chub out of the way while he serviced me. Everything in my life revolved around my tank and its endless growth, and I suspected that wouldn’t be changing any time soon.