Thereโs a broad range of expressions youโll get used to seeing on your feedeeโs face as they progress along their gaining journey. I know firsthand; Iโve gone through several. I enjoy the variety but, more than anything, I enjoy seeing how they change over time as each gainer makes their peace with the fast-approaching inevitable.
Pleasure always comes first โ the flushed exhilaration of a new fatty, finally getting to live their long-cherished and often deeply hidden dream of letting go, eating whatever they want, and getting as fat as they possibly can. The look of pure satisfaction as they grasp a rounded belly packed with food, feeling themself getting fuller and bigger โ feeling, after a while, a flabby paunch starting to come in, the belly staying round and prominent even when they havenโt eaten a full meal. Bliss.
It isnโt usually too long after the initial high that another expression becomes more common: desire. That look of animalistic possessiveness whenever something delicious and fattening comes into view โ pizza, mac โn cheese, burgers, barbecue, pasta, cake, ice cream, you name it. They canโt help themselves; they have to have it. They go for their quarry with a singular focus, their pudgy hands and arms reaching out for whatever it is they want to stuff into their waiting gullet. Over time, desire turns to greed, their double chin and bingo wings jiggling as they add yet another plate of food to their out-of-control bulk.
Then relaxation gets added into the mix. Having indulged themself to the point of having a few hundred extra pounds now, the natural inclination is to take it easy โ itโs hard work being this fat, they think. Hands folded across the now enormous belly spilling well into their lap, legs with rolls of fat the size of a beer belly perched on a footstool, side rolls filling and overflowing their easy chair, they sit back with plenty of snacks and plenty to watch on tv. Itโs just as well they should be allowed their dozing stupor; the fewer calories they burn, the quicker they can pack more fat onto their frame.
Perhaps not surprisingly, exhaustion tends to follow โ the tired look of someone who has to haul the equivalent weight of three people around every single time they move. Who has trouble getting a decent nightโs sleep or a deep breath even with their CPAP on hand. Who would like to slow down and take it easy for a while, but feels bad at seeing all the food youโre cooking and snacks youโre making go to waste. It may be hard work being as fat as they are, but itโs even harder work getting fatter as fat as they are.
At about this point, frustration becomes the dominant expression. Anyone would be frustrated, Iโm sure, having to negotiate moving around a near half-ton body all day, every day. Trying to sit up, trying to roll over, using every bit of strength to stand up, plodding pathetically from one room to another, trying to set the uncontrollable cascade of fat covering their body down in something resembling gracefulness, and only partially succeeding โ this is their reality, every day. Theyโre confronted repeatedly with all the things theyโre too fat and heavy to do anymore, like drive a car, fit in a car, walk out to the car, fit into clothes, fit through doorways; those kinds of things. At the same time, theyโre driven by a continual, gnawing hunger โ a need for that next meal or plate or snack like theyโve never felt before. They want to put down the fork, try to get back into control again, master that hunger getting them plumper by the day. But they never seem to manage.
Which leads to the next expression: fear, with maybe a little indignation mixed in for good measure. They realize whatโs happening to them, how out of control they are and how their last remnants of autonomy over their body are slipping away with each click of the rising scale. They realize that once they canโt walk, canโt move, canโt do anything but lay back and take in more food, theyโre into the last act of this dietary misadventure. Never mind that they doomed themself to this a long time ago and confirmed their fate with bite after fattening bite; it was never real to them until the pile of lard their body has become has them pinned to where they last happened to sit or lay down, there to remain until some kind soul helps them struggle to their bloated feet.
Inevitably, panic follows sooner or later. It may be from the claustrophobia of having over a thousand pounds of dense, weighty, expanding fat crushing their frame and organs. It may be from noticing that no matter how much slop gets forced down their gullet, theyโre never satisfied, never close to full, will never be able to stop the tremendous hunger theyโve created no matter how fat they get trying. It may be from realizing, now that you can finally drop your mask, how this was the plan all along, getting them fatter than any human has any business being, and getting off on seeing how much further they can go. It never gets old, seeing them wallow around, trying to move as if their body werenโt a living waterbed, flapping their massive flab-encased arms and engorged legs in some pathetic attempt to get up and get away. It doesnโt take long before they grow red-faced and exhausted from the effort, of course; and I can never resist fucking their fat rolls at this, their moment of ultimate dread and horror at the overfed disaster theyโve become.
But the expression that is invariably my favorite is resignation. That distant, frowning, vacant look that peers out from an overinflated face sitting atop a mountain of soft, wobbling flesh. The expression of someone who understands that this is all there is, and all there ever will be again: eating, fucking, growing. A slow drowning amidst the rising tide of lard, the relentless storm surge of pound after pound packing into their floundering body, and the tsunami of theโฆ well, the inevitable conclusion they will soon experience, as have all their predecessors. But for now, they suck down their gainer shake dispassionately, letting their belly flow over their bloated ankles to press harder and harder against their feet, absently rubbing the topmost bank of side rolls at the far extreme of their reach, and heaving their blobby distended chest in and out in an effort to stay somewhat lucid for a few more minutes. Resigned to that fact that, in rather a shorter time than they might wish, their body will be so filled with goo and choked with fat that theyโll be left with no expression at all.
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