I remember someone saying “when I die, plant catnip on my grave. I want to be visited by lots and lots of cats” and that changes the way I see my own future death entirely

oozey mess
Not today Justin
trying on a metaphor
ojovivo
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
NASA
taylor price

No title available

tannertan36

Origami Around

No title available

if i look back, i am lost
occasionally subtle
Sweet Seals For You, Always
hello vonnie
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
we're not kids anymore.
Sade Olutola
AnasAbdin

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye

seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States

seen from Ukraine
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from India
seen from Oman
seen from Singapore
seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia
seen from Armenia
@bewhale3
I remember someone saying “when I die, plant catnip on my grave. I want to be visited by lots and lots of cats” and that changes the way I see my own future death entirely
I’m presently driving up to 200 kg/440 lbs. Pictures/videos will follow once I’m north of the line.
For an Australian who doesn’t use pounds except for online, 200 kg/440 lbs is a BIG threshold to cross. 🐷
The weight seems to be going to my belly and thighs. Just standing still with my legs together squeezes my prostate. 😵💫🥵
Oh no, my towel seems to have shrunk. Thats unfortunate.
Tasteful maybe. Idk.
Northern Hog Badger (Arctonyx albogularis), family Mustelidae, Kaziranga Tiger Reserve, Assam, India
Once considered to be a subspecies of the Greater Hog Badger, A. collaris, which has now been split into 3 species.
photograph by Soumyajit Nandy
2026-06-22
How do you manage to wash your privates in the shower? Seems like it would be hard to do with the fat pad and huge gut in the way
You gotta soap it up and take your hand and go deep in the fatpad. I gotta lift my belly up to wash underneath it too. It takes energy and effort. I manage most of time. That’s why I don’t shower too often. Plus I work outside so what’s the point in getting clean if I’m just gonna get dirty all over again.
what is some advice would you give to someone wanting to make lewd androphile content like yourself?
I’ve been wanting to for a while and I’ve wanted some insight on how some guys do it so confidently.
I admire your country bubba attitude and sexy gut so I figured I’d ask you.
A couple things to keep in mind:
Be confident in yourself and know what you want. It’s perfectly fine to be who you want to be, just own it.
Don’t be afraid to be a man. Being a man is doing what you want, when you want, however you want. We make our own path in life. I lift up and inspire others because that to me is what a man does.
Have a vice! Drink, smoke, dip, goon, eat whatever it is and enjoy it! And never justify it! Someone doesn’t like it, that’s on them, not on you.
Lastly, show that body off! Muscles to flab! Who cares. Someone out there will like it! And that person should be YOU!
Can we see a picture of you trying to hold up your gut and move it around?
Of course! I love showing off.
I spent the day with Granddad today. Ever since I was a kid, I had always spent a lot of time with him after school while my parents were working late. Some of my earliest memories are of riding around town in his old car, the seats creaking beneath him as he laughed at his own stories and searched for somewhere to eat. We rarely cooked at home when I stayed with him. Instead, we made a routine out of visiting local buffets where the staff knew him by name and would jokingly point him toward the fresh trays coming out of the kitchen. As a kid, I thought it was the greatest thing in the world — endless food, endless desserts, and hours spent sitting together talking between plates.
One summer, when I was around ten years old, I stayed with him nearly every day. Looking back, that summer changed both of us in different ways. Granddad already weighed close to 300 pounds back then, and his appetite seemed almost legendary to me. He encouraged me to eat just as much as he did, always telling me that a growing boy needed “real meals.” Every afternoon became another trip to a diner, buffet, or barbecue place, followed by evenings snacking in front of the television. By the end of the summer, I had gained almost thirty pounds myself. At the time, neither of us thought much of it. To Granddad, gaining weight was almost a sign of comfort and happiness.
As the years passed, Granddad continued getting bigger. By the time I graduated high school, he was well over 500 pounds, moving slower than he once had and needing extra effort just to get around the house. Despite that, he never lost his sense of humor. After I finished college, he proudly dug through old storage bins and handed me some clothes from what he called his “thinner days.” I remember holding up enormous shirts and pants while he laughed, claiming that one day I would probably outgrow them too. To him, it was almost a family tradition being passed down.
Today, he introduced me to a few of his longtime friends. They were all big men themselves, gathered around the table telling stories while finishing off takeout containers and joking with each other nonstop. The moment Granddad mentioned how much weight I had put on since college, they all started teasing me. One of them laughed and said that within a few years I would probably join their “club of fat men” once I crossed the 300-pound threshold. Everyone burst out laughing, including Granddad, who seemed strangely proud at the idea.
By the end of the visit, even the short walk from the car to the front door left Granddad winded. I helped steady him as we slowly made our way back inside the house. His breathing grew heavier with every few steps, and once we reached the living room, he carefully lowered himself onto the couch with a deep sigh of relief. He sat there catching his breath, one hand resting on his huge stomach while the television played softly in the background. Even seeing how much age and weight had slowed him down, there was still something comforting about being there with him, just like when I was a kid spending afternoons at his side.
Coach Daniels thought it was a harmless joke when he made the bet at the beginning of the football season.
Standing in front of the team during summer practice, he announced that for every game the team won, he would gain five pounds. Then, trying to motivate them in the classroom as well, he added another condition: for every class in which a player earned an A, he would add another five pounds. The players laughed, assuming there was no way either goal would make much difference. Coach himself was already a big man, broad-shouldered and carrying a noticeable belly from years of enjoying team dinners and post-game celebrations. He figured the challenge might cost him ten or fifteen pounds by the end of the season.
He was wrong.
The team started winning.
Then they kept winning.
At the same time, grades across the roster began improving dramatically. Players who had never cared much about academics suddenly spent their free periods studying. Tutors were booked solid. The library became crowded with football players reviewing notes and helping each other prepare for tests. Whenever a player earned an A, the news spread through the locker room faster than game results.
"That's another five pounds for Coach!"
The chant became a tradition.
Every Friday, the players would gather around a whiteboard in the locker room where someone kept track of the total. As the victories and report cards piled up, the number climbed higher and higher. Coach tried laughing it off at first, but the players took the challenge seriously. Some joked that they weren't just competing for championships anymore—they were competing to make Coach as big as possible.
By midseason, the changes were becoming obvious.
Coach's polo shirts stretched tighter across his middle. His belt needed new holes. During practice, he found himself sitting more often instead of pacing the sidelines. The players noticed every pound and celebrated each one.
"Coach, that shirt fit a lot better in August."
"Need help getting through the doorway, Coach?"
"Just wait until report cards come out!"
Coach would roll his eyes and pretend to be annoyed, but secretly he admired their dedication. For the first time in years, the entire team was excelling both on the field and in the classroom.
The season reached its climax with the team entering the playoffs undefeated. By then, Coach had gained far more weight than he ever expected. Team banquets, victory dinners, and the terms of his own bet had all contributed to his expanding waistline. The whiteboard calculation had become almost unbelievable.
Every win.
Every A.
Every achievement.
Five more pounds.
When championship day finally arrived, the stadium crowd noticed the difference immediately.
Coach Daniels emerged from the tunnel, breathing heavily as he made his way toward the field. His players watched with grins as he adjusted his whistle and slowly crossed the sideline. The walk that once took seconds now left him huffing and puffing. His face was flushed from the effort, and his shirt strained noticeably as he inhaled deeply.
The players erupted into applause.
"That's our coach!"
Coach shook his head and laughed despite being out of breath.
"You boys better win this game," he called out. "Because if you do, I'm going to need an even bigger wardrobe."
The team roared with laughter.
As they ran onto the field, they knew the season had become about more than football. The strange bet had united the team in a way nobody expected. Players pushed each other to succeed in class. Teammates helped struggling students after practice. Victories were celebrated not only because of the scoreboard, but because they represented everyone's effort.
And standing on the sideline, catching his breath while watching his team prepare for the biggest game of the year, Coach Daniels couldn't help smiling. He might have lost the bet spectacularly, but seeing his players succeed made every pound worth it.
Facebook Sightings
When someone mentioned the super bowl, I would always laugh. I had neither the time, nor the interest, to waste over three or four hours watching a bunch of big muscle brutes tackle each other over some stupid game that had no real repercussions. To me, the people that watch the Superbowl were just fat, middle-aged people who had nothing better do with their time - and as a young wealthy businessman on the West Coast, I had nothing to do with those kinds of losers.
Well, that was true, at least before I ended up moving to NoWheresVille, Iowa. My company was starting up a new location and they wanted me to be the head of the new office. I reluctantly agreed, realizing that it could be a stepping stone to a much better position in a much more suitable location.
So I moved to a nice home in a typical Midwestern suburban neighborhood. The neighbors were all typical - pushing their late 40’s, all with kids who had moved on and wives that had divorced them. I thought it strange that nobody in the neighborhood was still married, but I figured it was a product of the times - I had never held onto a woman myself, although that was more my choice than theirs. The guys seemed nice enough, but I always declined their invitation to barbecues, cookouts, and other neighborhood-wide activities they would host. I was an established businessman - I didn’t want to hang out with all the overweight, middle-aged rednecks that lived around me, nice or not.
As the weeks progressed, however, I realized finding friends that shared my values would be harder and harder. I was forced to work over Christmas, and with the colder winter months came a crippling loneliness. I became more and more desperate through the new year. Then, one day, I noticed a note in my mailbox:
To my fellow Lakeside Community Members:
I’ll be hosting a Superbowl party this Sunday, and I’d love if you all could make it. Bob and I will provide the snacks, you guys supply the booze. See ya there, fellas.
-Tom
I decided that I had nothing better to do that day, and it was apparent I wasn’t going to make any other friends. So I showed up on game day half an hour before the game, with an expensive bottle of wine in hand. After a quick knock on the door, it was thrown open, a big, gruff man in jeans answering the door, sporting what I assumed to be a sports jersey of one of the teams.
“Hi there, my name is Howard, I live at the end of Sycamore Street in the green house and - ”
“Say no more buddy! I’m Tom.” I extended my hand to introduce myself, but the big guy, who I now know was Tom, pulled me into his stomach in a tight hug. I was a little appalled - I barely knew the man’s name, and he had a slight scent of body odor emanating from his armpits, which, upon inspection, had small sweat stains creeping over his puffy chest. He released me after a moment, grabbed the wine, and then boomed: “Good of ya to join us - many of us were wonderin’ if you were just some hermit! The boys are inside shootin’ shit and watchin’ the pre-game show, go take a seat ‘n introduce yourself.”
I nodded, and headed straight to what I assumed was the living room. Inside were a handful of men about the size of Tom - tall, middle-aged, and with a good size gut. Some looked older, some stockier, but they all seemed like typical, blue-collar workers. They were dressed the same as Tom, and supporting their favorite team, by the looks of their jerseys they had on. I suddenly felt a little stiffer in my casual business dress wear - I stuck out like a sore thumb in my dark khakis and dress shirt. Still, the boys paid it no mind, and introduced themselves one by one. There was Ben, who worked on a nearby farm as a farmhand, Bob, who helped co-host the party and seemed to be Tom’s roommate, and Jerry, the owner of a mechanic’s shop off of downtown. Lastly there was Stew, who apparently worked as one of the city’s trash men. He was massive – well over 6 and a half feet, and weighing probably upwards of 400 pounds, with very little of it muscle. He also seemed dumb as a sack of potatoes – I almost pitied him. The rest of the guys seemed okay though, and within a few minutes, they were all hootin’ and hollerin, and treating me like a brother. When it came time to sit down on Their huge sofa, I was unfortunately stuck between Jerry and Stew (who had an unusual scent emanating off of him), their bellies pooled slightly onto my lap, and their love handles providing an arm rest which I awkwardly used, not sure where else to place them.
“So, can I grab ya a beer, bud?” Bob offered.
I politely declined. “Nah, I’m not much a beer drinker. Thanks though.”
“Nonsense!” Tom shouted from the kitchen, bringing up a 6-pack for us all to share. “Let’s all chug one to commemorate Howie comin’ out and watchin’ the big game with us!” I quietly refuted that my name was Howard, not Howie, but nobody heard my over the loud laughs and cheers from the rest of the boys as they each caught their beer and popped it open. I followed their lead and sucked the foam out of the top, coughing slightly - the stuff was bitter, more bitter than I can remember any beer ever being.
“To our new friend!” All the boys raised their can, and I followed suit, then brought it to my lips, tipped back, and chugged. I felt like I had something to prove to these gruff gentleman, so I took it like a man, feeling the cold drink burn as it went down my throat. It wasn’t until I finished the entire can that I felt a wave of nausea come over me. I stood up, sputtered, then bent over and coughed, my eyes watering. Tom came up and patted my back. “Atta boy, Howie. Sorry, we tend to stick to our stronger beers - hope you won’t mind.” He gave me a wink and a nudge. I nodded, feeling a bit better, and wiped my eyes. I didn’t even notice my heart flutter from the wink the big man gave me, or the twitch of my cock as he rubbed my back a bit longer than most new friends would.
I sat back in my spot between Jerry and Stew, not caring quite as much about how confined I felt between the two mountains of men. It was almost comfy to lean into the two of them and their huge bellies, comforting to feel them pool over my lap like a blanket. And the two of them payed it no mind, either. Tom brought us all another handful of beers, placing two in front of me - just in case I wanted to keep drinking. I decided to crack one open, and sip on it slightly, listening to the men argue about their favorite team’s stats and who was going to win the game. The discussion was getting pretty heated (by the tone of their voices), but I was too entranced by the way their bellies jiggled to notice really what they’re talking about, or really take part in their conversation.
“Ahem, Howie, I’ll ask you again, what’s yer favorite team?” Jerry nudged me, getting my attention.
“Oh, Uh…. I don’t know…. San Francisco? The 69ers?” I was from San Fran, so it felt like the most obvious choice.
The boys let out a guffaw. “That’s the 49ers, numb nuts.” Tom gave me a wink. “Why ain’tcha wearin’ their jersey, then?”
I just shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t own one, honestly….” I blushed, feeling a little ashamed.
“Well there ain’t no shame in that, I think Ben’s got a spare in his room, n’ he wouldn’t mind sharin’, would you Ben?” Ben said that he certainly wouldn’t, and took off down the hall, coming back with a crimson red jersey with the number 40 in pearly white (save for a stain or two), although it certainly it was too big for my measely frame. “Take yer stiffneck shirt off and put this on, I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable.” I did as I was told, not even concerned that all the men could see my chiseled young body as I switched shirts. The jersey hung limply off my frame, but I felt better - more accepted by the fellas.
Finally kickoff had started, and the hootin’ and hollerin’ kept going. I drank more and more of my beer as the game progressed, eventually surpassing the two I was given and moving on to a third, then a fourth. I got drunk enough that I tried to eventually join in on the conversation, but everytime I tried to contribute the boys laughed. “God Howie, you sure are thick ain’tcha? Maybe you should just sit back and let the intelligent guys talk.” They would say. I felt a little ashamed, and a little angry - I knew more important things, like how to manage a staff team or read a graph and do somethin’ with… products, or somethin’. It was getting harder to think, my senses were getting duller. I sunk further and further into the couch, spreading out and relaxing between the two men. I notice they were touching more of me - their bellies now touched my own stomach, I could feel. Their arms came to rest on my sides now, their ham like appendages covering my thighs.
By halftime, I was pretty damned buzzed, and feeling good. The fellas weren’t really paying much attention to the show - and, even though the halftime used to be my favorite part, neither did I. Instead, they all went to the kitchen. I tried to follow their lead, but after being pinned down by Jerry and Stew, it was pretty hard to stand up. Tom offered to help me up. But it ended up taking him and Ben both tugging at my big ol’ arms to get my lazy ass off the couch.
As I stood up, I felt something pretty unusual. My weight shifted downward, and I felt a soft tug at my chest, stomach, and ass. I looked down, and patted my stomach, which jutted forward and rested over my belt line. Man, I must be gassy - I let out a large burp, hoping my belly would sink a little bit, bit not overly surprised when all it did was jiggle.
“Damn son, nice one!” Tom followed up with his own thunderous burp, right in my face - I could smell the beer and cheese dip on his breath. I felt the pressure on my waistline increase, as my cock stiffened against my dress pants. “Hey, those look a little tight, let me help you with that.” Tom offered. I silently prayed that he didn’t feel my rock hard cock as he fumbled with my belt, and unbuttoned my shorts. “There, much better.” My dress pants dropped to the floor, revealing my briefs underneath – or what you could see underneath the huge crimson-red jersey which barely contained my gut. “Now then, how’sa ‘bout you join me ‘n the boys for a few drinkin’ games?” I felt a small pressure on my cock, Tom’s thick arm still extended out underneath my belly and groping my raging hard on.
If I wasn’t interested, I was far too embarrassed to say so. I just nodded dumbly, following Tommy to the kitchen where the boys had already cracked open another ice cold brew for us.
15 Minutes and a few beers later, I was approaching a pretty good buzz. Me ‘n Ben were sitting off chatting – well, he was talking, I was mostly listening. “Dig the hair, man. We all have to go bald sometime, but it’s so much better to be a man about it, and embrace it, then continue to live a lie, y’know?” I looked at him quizzically – I always had a gorgeous full head of hair, one that I payed my barber good money to keep looking good. Sure, maybe I hadn’t seen a barber in a while, but no way was I going bald, and I told him so. But he only laughed. “Oh is that so? Lookin’ pretty bald to me, buddy.” He rubbed his hand across my scalp, and to my surprise I felt, well, nothing. His rough hand graced over the shavings on the side of my head and rested on my smooth dome. “Looks good though, eh? And I like your tattoos too. I got a couple in my younger years as well – is that a bear?” Again, I had no idea what he was talking about, and looked at him stupidly. “God Howie, you sure are slow, ain’tcha?” He tugged up my right sleeve and I looked down at my ham-like appendage. I had a barbwire, like I remember getting for my 18th birthday – it was the “in” thing to do at my high school, and after that I was too embarrassed to get any more. Above that though, was something that, even in my inebriated state, I thought was unusual. I had never gotten a bear tattoo, have I?
“No worries man, I’m in the same club.” He hiked up his shorts to exhibit a bear claw in brown, white, and black stripes, although it was fairly faded. “We consider ourselves pretty open here, and more than a ‘lil accommodating, if you catch my drift.” He gave me a wink, but before I could ask what exactly he meant, and why I felt so off, Tom had called us all to the center table. “Alrighty boys, one last game before we watch the next half – and Howie, buckle up, ‘cuz this one’s a doosie. We’re gonna see who can chug the most of these fuckers before bitchin’ out. If you don’t wan’ ter play, I understand….”
Tommy looked at me, and I squinted my eyes, trying to comprehend what he was saying - it seemed like he was going so fast, faster than I could handle. I felt sluggish – more so then I usually am when I drink, both in body, and mind. Once I finally comprehended what he was saying, though, I heavily refuted. “No! No, I’m good….” I stammered out, a bit surprised at how deep my voice was, with an almost southern accent. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to upset Tommy. Consequently, his face lit up, and explained the rules, which he then explained in a way that I could understand: drink as much as I could without stopping. Finally, something I was good at!
After each of us had ten beers by our side (Ben helped me count mine – for whatever reason, I couldn’t get passed 6), we all popped our tops off, and Tommy began the countdown. On Go, me ‘n the fellas three our beers back, and chugged. The first one went down easy for all of us, then began the second. I was a close second behind Stew, who was happily chugging along. I felt a warmth build up in my belly, and felt the fabric shift up my gut on the third one. I didn’t want to stop though, so I kept tugging my shirt down, and then eventually pinned it to my side, trying not to give the guys a flash full of belly. By the fifth beer, it was too much – I felt my shirt stretch as wide as it would go, and my belly flopped onto my lap audibly. I was a tad embarrassed – but too competitive to stop now, so I moved onto my 6th. I felt the golden liquid drip down my mustache and onto my second chin, glistening the fu-man-chu I had spent several years trimming to perfect. I had long since closed my eyes, but if I wouldn’t have, I would’ve noticed all the guys, who had stopped drinking at around the third beer, instead watching my transformation.
By the time I reached my 9th beer, I had lost all cares in the world – about my tattoos, my bald head, my mustache, or my huge belly. In fact, I was damn proud to show my brothers who I was – a real man, a man’s man – even, in some ways a pig. Yeah, that’s what I was, a big ol’ pig. I began to rub my gut, feeling my jersey ride higher, now more of a bra for my sagging tits than anything. I was their pig, their big ol’ slob of a pig friend.
Finally, the last beer passed down my mouth and down my gullet with ease. I opened my eyes to my new friends, who were cheering and hollerin’ at my achievement. “Wow, 10 beers in under 3 minutes – that’s a new record, boys!” To my surprise, I didn’t feel sick. I just felt, well, slow, and lethargic. But that wasn’t anything new – I’ve always been such a big lazy slob, and a fuckin’ dunce, too. I grinned stupidly at them my tiny cock rock hard underneath my big ol’ gut.
“Well boys, how’sa ‘bout we head back to the couch, then feed our new piggy his prize?” Tom leered at me, an almost sinister look in his eyes – a look that made my heart, under all that saggy fat, flutter like a schoolgirl. Yeah, we all returned to watch the game – and I was hootin’ and hollerin’ just as loud as my boys, even if I am dumber’n a sack of bricks. The real treats were during the commercial breaks, though, when I used my dumb pig mouth and expert cock-sucking skills to get each of ‘em to cum, several times over.
God, I was so blessed. Good food, good beer, ‘n good company – the best things in the world. Oh, and football, too.
I love your blog, your massive gut and country style are an inspiration. Did you always know you wanted to be a fat redneck dilf? What were you like in your 20’s?
Yup i was born n raised in the country. PA born, GA is my home, TX is where I live now. I was a skinny ass nerd growing up. My whole family was big. So I knew I could be too. I had a lot of inspiration to pull from and the genes to do it.
What size shirts and pants do you wear? What is your weight and height?
I’m 47yr old 5’9” 365lbs (2026).
52x29 pant size
4xlt shirt (5xlt on some brands).
Most of my shirts fit really snug (I love that fit)