**Am I the Asshole?**
I can't even blame my ex-roommate anymore. I did this all to myself.
You see, Marcus wasāisāa genius. A muscled god standing 6'4" with the kind of physique that made Greek sculptors weep. When we lived together, I was a thoroughly average man: 5'8", 180 pounds, the kind of guy who blended into wallpaper at parties. But I wanted what he had. I wanted to *be* him.
So I started stealing his protein powder.
Every morning while he was at the lab, I'd help myself to two scoops instead of one. Then three. The shakes were vanilla flavored, creamy, almost addictive in their richness. I told myself I was just accelerating my gains, that I'd catch up to him eventually.
After three months, I noticed my clothes fitting tighter. After four, I had to buy new pants. By month five, I'd blown past 300 pounds, then 400, my body expanding like dough left in the sun. I kept drinking, kept telling myself the muscle would show up any day now.
Marcus realized what was happening around month twoāthe expense of replacing that powder weekly instead of monthly finally tipped him off. But he didn't confront me. Not then.
See, Marcus's research into human physiology had led him to a synthetic compound, something experimental that he'd been developing for tissue regeneration. He added it to his personal supply, thinking I'd quit after a month of expensive habits. He thought I'd tap out at 300 pounds, maybe become what he called "a respectable bear."
But I didn't quit. I kept going.
At 500 poundsāsix months into my theftāhe finally sat me down. I remember the couch creaking beneath me, my belly spilling onto my knees, my breathing labored even at rest.
"I tried to warn you," he said, sliding a chair across from me. "The compound binds to adipose tissue. It restructures skeletal density, reinforces cardiovascular systems. You're not going to stop at 500. You'll stabilize around 900 pounds."
I stared at him, my heart hammering against ribs that suddenly felt too small. "I'll be immobile. Bedridden."
"You won't," he said quietly. "Your skeletal structure will increase to support the weight. Your heart, your lungsāeverything scales. You'll be perfectly healthy. Better than healthy, actually. You'll probably live past 150."
Most people would find that heaven. Eternal health, functional immortality.
But I was terrified. I was already struggling to fit through doorways, already dealing with the stares, the whispered comments. 900 pounds sounded like a nightmare of flesh and isolation.
Then he told me the rest.
"The compound doesn't discriminate," he said, not meeting my eyes. "It enhances all tissue. Your genitalia will scale proportionally. You'll have a foot of length, even accounting for the fat pad. Girth like my forearm. Balls the size of basketballs."
I laughed. It sounded hysterical, even to me.
It wasn't funny six months later when I hit 700 pounds and discovered he was right.
Dating became a circus of rejection. Most women took one look at meāmy massive frame spilling over restaurant chairs, my triple chin, my wheezing breathāand politely declined. The few who made it to the bedroom took one look at what I was packing and made their excuses. I was too much. Too big, too heavy, too *everything*.
Gay men were different. Black men, specifically, had the equipment to handle me. They were the ones who weren't afraid of my size, who saw my body as something to explore rather than flee from. I became a regular at a local gay bar, eventually working there as a bouncerāan ironic position for a man who could barely fit through the door, but my sheer mass commanded respect.
The men who wanted to ride me were brave souls. They'd climb aboard, struggle to accommodate me, and inevitably be changed forever. Once you've taken something that massive, normal anatomy doesn't satisfy anymore. Their own equipment stopped responding to ordinary stimulation. They became size queens by necessity, chasing that fullness I'd introduced them to.
A few made it to completion. When I came, my ballsānow genuinely enormousāemptied volumes into them. They'd leave bloated, bellies distended like they were carrying triplets. The swelling lasted days. They'd text me photos, amazed, horrified, addicted.
Now I work a menial desk job during the weekāremote, obviouslyāand bounce at the bar on weekends. The guys bring me food constantly. Plates of nachos, burgers, entire pizzas. They want to see how much the 850-pound man can consume. They feed me while telling me how massive I'm getting, how I'll hit that 900-pound mark soon, how I'll be the biggest thing they've ever seen.
Marcus moved out two years ago. We still talk occasionally. He apologized once, said he never meant for it to go this far. I told him not to worry. I made my choice every morning when I stole that powder. I made it every day when I kept drinking.
Am I the asshole? Maybe. I stole from him. I ignored every warning sign my body gave me. I transformed myself into something that terrifies most people and fascinates a select few.
But I'm also healthy. My heart beats strong. My bones are dense as granite. I'll outlive everyone I know, growing larger every year, becoming more monument than man.
And somewhere, deep beneath the hundreds of pounds of flesh, beneath the basketballs between my legs and the foot of flesh that scares away the curious, I'm still that 180-pound average guy who just wanted to look like his roommate.
I got what I wanted, I suppose. Just not the way I wanted it.
So yeah. I'm the asshole. But at least I'm an asshole who'll live to see 150.
