Synopsis: Some goal weights are meant to be passed. Some are not - but theyāll get passed anywayā¦
When people ask what itās like, being my size, being so big? I always tell them the truth:
Iām too fat to get to my bedroom now.
Thereās other problems, sure, but thatās the one that really makes peopleās eyes bug.
And I donāt mean that getting fat got me lazy, or that I get too tired climbing the stairs to the second floor of my home. I donāt mean that I have to waddle sideways to get through the door. I donāt mean that my bedroomās too small to be comfortable moving around in it.
I mean that I canāt lift my super-sized legs high enough off the ground to use the stairs.
Itās not a chore to get to the second floor of my own damn home - itās physically impossible. There arenāt that many people who can say that. āYeah - Iāve effectively trapped myself in my own living room because I got too fat to lift my feet three inches off the ground.ā Thatās no oneās life but mine.
And yeah, you heard me right - trapped in the living room. Thereās a bit of a raised lip to get to the kitchen, and if I donāt focus and push myself to actually lift my feet, Iāll trip on it and be stuck on the ground until a few of my friends can come over to help me up. Thankfully the bathroom is level with the living room.
Sure, I can also ātechnicallyā leave the house - but the front door has a step. Iād be stuck outside if I ever did. Plus, Iād probably be arrested for public indecency because I donāt have any fucking clothes that fit.
You know 300 was my goal weight? My first one anyway. I was 160 when I graduated high school, real lean, but just a bit of softness around the middle for my height. Gained 25 pounds during undergrad, lost it, gained it back, plus an extra 15. Plateaued for a few years. Long enough to start to see 200 as my base weight instead of 160. Realized I liked the weight. Like, really liked it. Figured I could gain some more. Just to see. 300 is 100 pounds heavier than 200, so it seemed like a good enough number as any.
And fuck, getting to that number was fantastic. I denied myself nothing. Drive-thru visits every day, finishing all my friends' leftovers. Feeling myself get softer, jiggling my gut in the mirror, stressing out all of my jeans. Hearing my friendsā jokes and comments about my fat body as I grew to be larger than every one of them, as I grew to be āthe fat friendā.
And I could feel it tax my body. More than two flights of stairs got me winded, and I needed a break climbing the steps to my friendsā apartments. I sold my bike after a year when I realized my ass had outgrown the seat. I had just gotten fat enough where my thick thighs were starting to modify my walk into something resembling a waddle. Spending anything more than an hour on my feet made them sore when it used to take most of the day. I was constantly hungry when I used to be able to go hours without eating before. And it was hot, feeling all of these changes, feeling myself turn into something different. Feeling fat.
I didnāt want to stop. That was my real problem back then. I hit a weight that I was comfortable with. I was fat - often, but not usually the fattest at any store or restaurant, but not fat enough to have ārealā fat people problems. But it felt too good. I didnāt want to stop eating. I probably could have at that point, but it felt too good to stop.
Plus, 320 pounds was so close, and then Iād have doubled my starting weight. Might as well, right? And I did. Overshot it by about 15 pounds (Foreshadowing for later, I guess). Figured, I was close enough to 350, might as well go for it. Overshot that goal too, and gained a few worried glances from my friends when I started breathing heavy just trying to keep up with their skinny asses. Started avoiding my friends who didnāt live in buildings with elevators. Wasnāt trying for 400, but ended up getting closer to that then 350, so I said, fuck it, might as well.
By that point, being fat was really starting to impact my life. I was relegated to big and tall stores, and their limited styles. Started wearing slip-on shoes because my fat feet were outgrowing sneakers, my fat legs were too heavy to bring my fat feet up to my fat lap to tie shoes, and my fat gut was blocking my fat arms from reaching my fat feet when theyāre still on the ground. I had to fucking change careers, for god sake, because I needed to stand up for hours at a time, and I couldnāt fucking do it. And then, I broke my desk chair at my new job and had to get a bigger one.
I wasnāt even trying to hit 500 pounds when I blew past that. Seeing an error message on a plus size scale sent me spiraling. You know youāve gone too far when shit for fat people stops fitting you anymore. And that was when big and tall stores still carried clothes in my size!
Of course, I have a good group of friends, and they wanted to help me out. None of us were athletes or gym people, but we made a commitment to help work some of this weight off. They joked about needing to lose some pounds themselves, but we all knew that hanging out with my fat ass is why most of them were over 250 pounds now. I was grateful to have such good friends. Shame none of us new jack shit about weight loss.
None of us had a gym membership before, and it was only after getting us all set up with one that we realized that treadmills have weight limits. So does the stairmaster. And the rowing machine. I could have probably fit in the squat rack, but none of us knew how to weightlift, so we werenāt doing any of that either. Walks in the park seemed like a good alternative, except for the strategically placed benches, all of the food vendors along the way, the nearby pubs and restaurants, and my alarming inability to avoid stopping at each of them.
It turns out that losing weight is actually pretty difficult when youāve purposefully destroyed your metabolism, ruined your tastebuds with grease and salt, and gotten yourself addicted to sugar and chocolate. Who knew? Because the truth is, I probably could have dropped some weight, or at the very least kept myself below 600 pounds, if I didnāt get hard stuffing myself. Or if I hadnāt been jerking off to how fast my gut was growing for years. Or if all of the fat rolls that had covered up my cock, jiggling violently with every pitiful workup attempt, werenāt getting me hard like the vibrator I had started using after I couldnāt reach it with my hands anymore.
You know, if I hadnāt already made myself too fat.
After every activity we tried that someone half my size could do without thinking, let alone struggle with to the point of exhaustion, I gorged myself on take-out afterwards. After another failed attempt to touch my toes, or, letās be honest, touch my belly button, my gut would rumble with hunger.
And my friends, god bless them, tried to get me to eat healthier. Starve me to death is more like it. Offering me slim-fasts and watery smoothies instead of soda and beer, replacing our usual bar hangouts with trendy health-food shops and trying to do more things that donāt revolve around food, no matter how hangry I got.
It was almost a blessing when I found out that most of them were stopping off at the usual drive-thrus afterwards. Turns out even they were sick of arugula and spinach and low-fat yogurt. Of course, I found out when we all ended up trying to go to the same one, meaning they knew I was stuffing myself despite their efforts. Well, theyāre hypocrites if they bring it up, and it ended up really deflating their efforts to keep me fit enough to participate in society. Oops.
We all still hang out. All the time actually, especially since Iāve kept getting fatter and canāt always stand up or take care of myself anymore. I wouldnāt have been able to set up my living room with a bed, or move all of the stuff I needed from upstairs. Hell, If they werenāt in the house with me when I, shall we say, āfailedā, to go upstairs for the first time, things could have been bad.
And thatās my life. Basically an invalid in my own home. My friends transformed into my caretakers, even as they hang out with movies and games, joining me in feeding their own fat bodies, as well as mine. I donāt go outside, my world becoming increasingly centered on my bed, wrapping a too-small blanket around myself to preserve my modesty from people who need to set up an inflatable pool for me because Iāve outgrown my shower. Thereās nothing I do to fill my day other than eat and wait for more food to eat.
There was a point where I could have had both. A fat body to play with. Thick thighs and back rolls to explore. The feeling of a straining, stuffed gut full of food. But also hanging out with friends at a bar. Going out for walks in the park. Probably would have done some more dating, too. Back before I tipped the proverbial scale too far in one direction. Before I couldnāt let myself enjoy it because of my desire for more. Before I got too fat.
And honestly, as I lay on my bed, recovering from my failed attempt at standing, coming to the realization that itās been a few weeks since Iāve left my bed without someone helping me, which means I wonāt be able to grab a toy to relieve my hard, straining cock, I can a feel a part of me that still wants more.
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