Little King Terry

Synopsis: Some goal weights are meant to be passed. Some are not - but they’ll get passed anyway…

When people ask what it’s like, being my size, being so big? I always tell them the truth:

I’m too fat to get to my bedroom now.

There’s other problems, sure, but that’s the one that really makes people’s eyes bug.

And I don’t mean that getting fat got me lazy, or that I get too tired climbing the stairs to the second floor of my home. I don’t mean that I have to waddle sideways to get through the door. I don’t mean that my bedroom’s too small to be comfortable moving around in it.

I mean that I can’t lift my super-sized legs high enough off the ground to use the stairs.

It’s not a chore to get to the second floor of my own damn home - it’s physically impossible. There aren’t that many people who can say that. “Yeah - I’ve effectively trapped myself in my own living room because I got too fat to lift my feet three inches off the ground.” That’s no one’s life but mine.

And yeah, you heard me right - trapped in the living room. There’s a bit of a raised lip to get to the kitchen, and if I don’t focus and push myself to actually lift my feet, I’ll 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 “technically” leave the house - but the front door has a step. I’d be stuck outside if I ever did. Plus, I’d probably be arrested for public indecency because I don’t 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 friends’ jokes and comments about my fat body as I grew to be larger than every one of them, as I grew to be ‘the fat friend’.

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 friends’ 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.

But not too fat.

I didn’t 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 “real” fat people problems. But it felt too good. I didn’t 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 I’d 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 didn’t live in buildings with elevators. Wasn’t trying for 400, but ended up getting closer to that then 350, so I said, fuck it, might as well.

Overshot that too.

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 they’re 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 couldn’t fucking do it. And then, I broke my desk chair at my new job and had to get a bigger one.

And I was still.

Fucking.

Hungry.

I wasn’t 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 you’ve 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 weren’t 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 you’ve 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 didn’t get hard stuffing myself. Or if I hadn’t 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, weren’t getting me hard like the vibrator I had started using after I couldn’t reach it with my hands anymore.

You know, if I hadn’t 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, let’s 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 don’t 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, they’re 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 I’ve kept getting fatter and can’t always stand up or take care of myself anymore. I wouldn’t 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 weren’t in the house with me when I, shall we say, “failed”, to go upstairs for the first time, things could have been bad.

And that’s 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 don’t 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 I’ve outgrown my shower. There’s 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 couldn’t let myself enjoy it because of my desire for more. Before I got too fat.

It's a good term.

And it describes my sexuality perfectly.

I used to define myself as asexual, with the one exception being extremely obese men.

As I got older, I thought, "there has to be a term for this... no interest in sexuality unless it involves morbid obesity..."

And "fatsexual" covers it.

I'm sure many others know exactly what I'm talking about. The feeling of not being sexual unless it involves obesity.

And I think the term should be used more. Fatsexual is a good umbrella term. I'll use tags like #feedism , even when it's not really something directly related to it. I only use it since it refers to the community. But not everyone is a feeder or feedee. Some of us just love fat or enjoy hedonism where fat is a consequence.

It’s not about the destination.

Oh, you. I’m so jealous of you because you get to experience yourself growing fat from being ‘normal.' 

I’ve always been a bit chubby, but you used to be just like everyone else. Everyone can fucking tell you got fat, and keep getting fatter. For me? It’s not a big deal for a fat guy to keep growing. But you used to be 'regular,’ even 'thin.’ Everyone who knew you will always look at you as 'that guy I knew who fucking pigged out and got massive.' 

They’ll see pictures of you when you were younger and ask 'remember when you could see your toes?’ And they’ll laugh at what a fatboy you’ve gorged and created. 

But they won’t even understand how much you want it. How much you want to make the biggest body you can fatten yourself into. 

I wonder if you can notice the difference, of people who knew your thin, conventionally attractive body and think you might one day starve yourself back into it, and people who only knew you when you were a fatass, and believe that’s all you ever were. (After all, someone as fat and out of shape as you had to have started early.) 

Then again, even the people that knew you as that thin person start to lose hope when they see how much of a glutton you’re becoming. 

You sure you want to do this, tubby? Give yourself to a life of chubby chasers, because no one else will want to fuck an ass as fat as yours? Love handles so wide that only the most dedicated of fat lovers will want to grab? A fat, chubby face, the handsome features rounded and blurred in an excess of chins, cheeks, everything. 

You really don't like the acidic feel that the cream leaves in your throat and belly. And it's very hard to just chug it like that. You decide to mix it with melted ice cream in your favourite flavour.

Now, that's completely different. It's actually quite delicious. You don't realize when you finish the cup. 800 calories of cream, plus about 200 of ice cream. A drink of a thousand calories. It takes its time to land heavily in your stomach, bloat it, and leave you feeling lethargic.

Well, that's that, you think. At least I know how it feels.

2 weeks later

Heavy cream catches your eye when you go grocery shopping. The tantalizing 35% of fat hypnotizes you. You remember your experience from 2 weeks ago. What if I did it just one more time, you think.

Somehow, this time the cup is gone even faster.

4 weeks later

Fridays. After a whole week of work, Friday evenings come heavy and drowsy like the full cup of heavy cream you chug just before bed. It actually helps you sleep. It gives you a nice little reprieve after a stressful week. A dreamless, heavy sleep.

Next Friday, repeat.

2 months later

Your pants don't fit like they used to. You find yourself brushing your hands over your belly, which feels creamy like the beverage of your choice. A size up it is. You start craving the Friday feeling of fullness. What if you also did it on Saturdays? After all, what's better than a restful weekend?

3 months later

Fuck, stairs seem to have gotten steeper. Even though you live on the 2nd floor, you stop taking them, opting for the elevator. You take a dislike to jeans in general; the fabric doesn't seem to be stretchy enough. Sweatpants are a far better choice.

You slowly trot back to your apartment. Inside, you unpack your bag. 3 litres of heavy cream. Hopefully, it will last over the weekend.

4 months later

Why do you feel sweaty all the time? It must be the weather. You cut down on almost all walks. You catch yourself on wishing streets had moving sidewalks, like on airports. That would be dreamy...

What's not dreamy, is the fact that your favourite clothing store doesn't have your size, apparently. What bullshit. They must have changed their charts - no way you are 2XL.

You shake your head, then proceed to chug down your daily cup of heavy cream.

6 months later

2 cheeseburgers, and you're still peckish. Even the triple thick milkshake doesn't seem to fill you quite as well as your favourite cream. You know what else is triple thick? Your chin. You keep tugging at the hem of your t-shirt, only to realize that it's your own fat that's squeezing your neck. You look in the mirror, blinking. Is that really you...? You keep recalling words that you've recently heard in reference to yourself. Plus size. Obese. Fatass.

You shake your head. A thought was forming there, but you cast it aside. With a deep grunt, you get up from the chair and waddle to the fridge. The cream is waiting for you.

1 year later

"Can you - huff - slow down a little?"

Your friend stops in the middle of the store isle. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, just - oof - need to - get something - huff - from here."

You can feel your face must be red hot. At the same time, a breeze touches your underbelly. Your belly hang escaped your 4XL shirt again. It's probably time to go up a size, but you like this shirt. You'll retire it when you rip it open.

You rest your fat-laden arms on a trolley. Not for the first time, you think about those clever mobility scooters. Oh, how you wish you had one. Maybe then, your trunk thighs wouldn't rub themselves raw.

You faintly point to the fridge, where the cartons of heavy cream are waiting for you. Your friend reaches there for you hesitantly, taking one carton.

"Huff - more."

Your friend's eyes widen, but they add another one to your basket.

"More."

"How many of these do you drink?"

You shake your head, feeling your cheeks wobble. "Just - huff - I'll tell you when to stop."

One, two, three... ten cartons land in your cart.

"Okay, enough."