I don’t want to get a little softer. I want to get massively fat.
I want every trace of definition drowned beneath layer after layer of heavy, wobbling fat. I want my belly spilling over my lap, my chest hanging soft and full, my thighs spreading wider every time I sit down. I want to outgrow clothes so fast they barely have time to become mine… buttons straining, waistbands disappearing under rolls, shirts riding up over a gut that refuses to stay contained.
I want other gainers to look at me and see that I’ve gone far beyond “thick.” I want them to see someone completely devoted to growing: greedier, softer, heavier, and more excessive every month. I want every old photo to look like a different man… smaller, harder, almost unrecognizable beneath everything I’ve added.
I want grease on my lips, slick fingers resting on a belly already stuffed tight, and another plate waiting because being full isn’t the end… it’s the moment I decide I still want more.
Praise every pound. Worship every new roll. Tell me I’m getting enormous, then tell me I’m nowhere near big enough.
I don’t want to stop when my clothes surrender.
I want to keep going until my entire body is buried in fat and then get fatter still.
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