When someone mentioned the super bowl, I would always laugh. I had neither the time, nor the interest, to waste over three or four hours watching a bunch of big muscle brutes tackle each other over some stupid game that had no real repercussions. To me, the people that watch the Superbowl were just fat, middle-aged people who had nothing better do with their time - and as a young wealthy businessman on the West Coast, I had nothing to do with those kinds of losers.
Well, that was true, at least before I ended up moving to NoWheresVille, Iowa. My company was starting up a new location and they wanted me to be the head of the new office. I reluctantly agreed, realizing that it could be a stepping stone to a much better position in a much more suitable location.
So I moved to a nice home in a typical Midwestern suburban neighborhood. The neighbors were all typical - pushing their late 40’s, all with kids who had moved on and wives that had divorced them. I thought it strange that nobody in the neighborhood was still married, but I figured it was a product of the times - I had never held onto a woman myself, although that was more my choice than theirs. The guys seemed nice enough, but I always declined their invitation to barbecues, cookouts, and other neighborhood-wide activities they would host. I was an established businessman - I didn’t want to hang out with all the overweight, middle-aged rednecks that lived around me, nice or not.
As the weeks progressed, however, I realized finding friends that shared my values would be harder and harder. I was forced to work over Christmas, and with the colder winter months came a crippling loneliness. I became more and more desperate through the new year. Then, one day, I noticed a note in my mailbox:
To my fellow Lakeside Community Members:
I’ll be hosting a Superbowl party this Sunday, and I’d love if you all could make it. Bob and I will provide the snacks, you guys supply the booze. See ya there, fellas.
I decided that I had nothing better to do that day, and it was apparent I wasn’t going to make any other friends. So I showed up on game day half an hour before the game, with an expensive bottle of wine in hand. After a quick knock on the door, it was thrown open, a big, gruff man in jeans answering the door, sporting what I assumed to be a sports jersey of one of the teams.
“Hi there, my name is Howard, I live at the end of Sycamore Street in the green house and - ”
“Say no more buddy! I’m Tom.” I extended my hand to introduce myself, but the big guy, who I now know was Tom, pulled me into his stomach in a tight hug. I was a little appalled - I barely knew the man’s name, and he had a slight scent of body odor emanating from his armpits, which, upon inspection, had small sweat stains creeping over his puffy chest. He released me after a moment, grabbed the wine, and then boomed: “Good of ya to join us - many of us were wonderin’ if you were just some hermit! The boys are inside shootin’ shit and watchin’ the pre-game show, go take a seat ‘n introduce yourself.”
I nodded, and headed straight to what I assumed was the living room. Inside were a handful of men about the size of Tom - tall, middle-aged, and with a good size gut. Some looked older, some stockier, but they all seemed like typical, blue-collar workers. They were dressed the same as Tom, and supporting their favorite team, by the looks of their jerseys they had on. I suddenly felt a little stiffer in my casual business dress wear - I stuck out like a sore thumb in my dark khakis and dress shirt. Still, the boys paid it no mind, and introduced themselves one by one. There was Ben, who worked on a nearby farm as a farmhand, Bob, who helped co-host the party and seemed to be Tom’s roommate, and Jerry, the owner of a mechanic’s shop off of downtown. Lastly there was Stew, who apparently worked as one of the city’s trash men. He was massive – well over 6 and a half feet, and weighing probably upwards of 400 pounds, with very little of it muscle. He also seemed dumb as a sack of potatoes – I almost pitied him. The rest of the guys seemed okay though, and within a few minutes, they were all hootin’ and hollerin, and treating me like a brother. When it came time to sit down on Their huge sofa, I was unfortunately stuck between Jerry and Stew (who had an unusual scent emanating off of him), their bellies pooled slightly onto my lap, and their love handles providing an arm rest which I awkwardly used, not sure where else to place them.
“So, can I grab ya a beer, bud?” Bob offered.
I politely declined. “Nah, I’m not much a beer drinker. Thanks though.”
“Nonsense!” Tom shouted from the kitchen, bringing up a 6-pack for us all to share. “Let’s all chug one to commemorate Howie comin’ out and watchin’ the big game with us!” I quietly refuted that my name was Howard, not Howie, but nobody heard my over the loud laughs and cheers from the rest of the boys as they each caught their beer and popped it open. I followed their lead and sucked the foam out of the top, coughing slightly - the stuff was bitter, more bitter than I can remember any beer ever being.
“To our new friend!” All the boys raised their can, and I followed suit, then brought it to my lips, tipped back, and chugged. I felt like I had something to prove to these gruff gentleman, so I took it like a man, feeling the cold drink burn as it went down my throat. It wasn’t until I finished the entire can that I felt a wave of nausea come over me. I stood up, sputtered, then bent over and coughed, my eyes watering. Tom came up and patted my back. “Atta boy, Howie. Sorry, we tend to stick to our stronger beers - hope you won’t mind.” He gave me a wink and a nudge. I nodded, feeling a bit better, and wiped my eyes. I didn’t even notice my heart flutter from the wink the big man gave me, or the twitch of my cock as he rubbed my back a bit longer than most new friends would.
I sat back in my spot between Jerry and Stew, not caring quite as much about how confined I felt between the two mountains of men. It was almost comfy to lean into the two of them and their huge bellies, comforting to feel them pool over my lap like a blanket. And the two of them payed it no mind, either. Tom brought us all another handful of beers, placing two in front of me - just in case I wanted to keep drinking. I decided to crack one open, and sip on it slightly, listening to the men argue about their favorite team’s stats and who was going to win the game. The discussion was getting pretty heated (by the tone of their voices), but I was too entranced by the way their bellies jiggled to notice really what they’re talking about, or really take part in their conversation.
“Ahem, Howie, I’ll ask you again, what’s yer favorite team?” Jerry nudged me, getting my attention.
“Oh, Uh…. I don’t know…. San Francisco? The 69ers?” I was from San Fran, so it felt like the most obvious choice.
The boys let out a guffaw. “That’s the 49ers, numb nuts.” Tom gave me a wink. “Why ain’tcha wearin’ their jersey, then?”
I just shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t own one, honestly….” I blushed, feeling a little ashamed.
“Well there ain’t no shame in that, I think Ben’s got a spare in his room, n’ he wouldn’t mind sharin’, would you Ben?” Ben said that he certainly wouldn’t, and took off down the hall, coming back with a crimson red jersey with the number 40 in pearly white (save for a stain or two), although it certainly it was too big for my measely frame. “Take yer stiffneck shirt off and put this on, I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable.” I did as I was told, not even concerned that all the men could see my chiseled young body as I switched shirts. The jersey hung limply off my frame, but I felt better - more accepted by the fellas.
Finally kickoff had started, and the hootin’ and hollerin’ kept going. I drank more and more of my beer as the game progressed, eventually surpassing the two I was given and moving on to a third, then a fourth. I got drunk enough that I tried to eventually join in on the conversation, but everytime I tried to contribute the boys laughed. “God Howie, you sure are thick ain’tcha? Maybe you should just sit back and let the intelligent guys talk.” They would say. I felt a little ashamed, and a little angry - I knew more important things, like how to manage a staff team or read a graph and do somethin’ with… products, or somethin’. It was getting harder to think, my senses were getting duller. I sunk further and further into the couch, spreading out and relaxing between the two men. I notice they were touching more of me - their bellies now touched my own stomach, I could feel. Their arms came to rest on my sides now, their ham like appendages covering my thighs.
By halftime, I was pretty damned buzzed, and feeling good. The fellas weren’t really paying much attention to the show - and, even though the halftime used to be my favorite part, neither did I. Instead, they all went to the kitchen. I tried to follow their lead, but after being pinned down by Jerry and Stew, it was pretty hard to stand up. Tom offered to help me up. But it ended up taking him and Ben both tugging at my big ol’ arms to get my lazy ass off the couch.
As I stood up, I felt something pretty unusual. My weight shifted downward, and I felt a soft tug at my chest, stomach, and ass. I looked down, and patted my stomach, which jutted forward and rested over my belt line. Man, I must be gassy - I let out a large burp, hoping my belly would sink a little bit, bit not overly surprised when all it did was jiggle.
“Damn son, nice one!” Tom followed up with his own thunderous burp, right in my face - I could smell the beer and cheese dip on his breath. I felt the pressure on my waistline increase, as my cock stiffened against my dress pants. “Hey, those look a little tight, let me help you with that.” Tom offered. I silently prayed that he didn’t feel my rock hard cock as he fumbled with my belt, and unbuttoned my shorts. “There, much better.” My dress pants dropped to the floor, revealing my briefs underneath – or what you could see underneath the huge crimson-red jersey which barely contained my gut. “Now then, how’sa ‘bout you join me ‘n the boys for a few drinkin’ games?” I felt a small pressure on my cock, Tom’s thick arm still extended out underneath my belly and groping my raging hard on.
If I wasn’t interested, I was far too embarrassed to say so. I just nodded dumbly, following Tommy to the kitchen where the boys had already cracked open another ice cold brew for us.
15 Minutes and a few beers later, I was approaching a pretty good buzz. Me ‘n Ben were sitting off chatting – well, he was talking, I was mostly listening. “Dig the hair, man. We all have to go bald sometime, but it’s so much better to be a man about it, and embrace it, then continue to live a lie, y’know?” I looked at him quizzically – I always had a gorgeous full head of hair, one that I payed my barber good money to keep looking good. Sure, maybe I hadn’t seen a barber in a while, but no way was I going bald, and I told him so. But he only laughed. “Oh is that so? Lookin’ pretty bald to me, buddy.” He rubbed his hand across my scalp, and to my surprise I felt, well, nothing. His rough hand graced over the shavings on the side of my head and rested on my smooth dome. “Looks good though, eh? And I like your tattoos too. I got a couple in my younger years as well – is that a bear?” Again, I had no idea what he was talking about, and looked at him stupidly. “God Howie, you sure are slow, ain’tcha?” He tugged up my right sleeve and I looked down at my ham-like appendage. I had a barbwire, like I remember getting for my 18th birthday – it was the “in” thing to do at my high school, and after that I was too embarrassed to get any more. Above that though, was something that, even in my inebriated state, I thought was unusual. I had never gotten a bear tattoo, have I?
“No worries man, I’m in the same club.” He hiked up his shorts to exhibit a bear claw in brown, white, and black stripes, although it was fairly faded. “We consider ourselves pretty open here, and more than a ‘lil accommodating, if you catch my drift.” He gave me a wink, but before I could ask what exactly he meant, and why I felt so off, Tom had called us all to the center table. “Alrighty boys, one last game before we watch the next half – and Howie, buckle up, ‘cuz this one’s a doosie. We’re gonna see who can chug the most of these fuckers before bitchin’ out. If you don’t wan’ ter play, I understand….”
Tommy looked at me, and I squinted my eyes, trying to comprehend what he was saying - it seemed like he was going so fast, faster than I could handle. I felt sluggish – more so then I usually am when I drink, both in body, and mind. Once I finally comprehended what he was saying, though, I heavily refuted. “No! No, I’m good….” I stammered out, a bit surprised at how deep my voice was, with an almost southern accent. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to upset Tommy. Consequently, his face lit up, and explained the rules, which he then explained in a way that I could understand: drink as much as I could without stopping. Finally, something I was good at!
After each of us had ten beers by our side (Ben helped me count mine – for whatever reason, I couldn’t get passed 6), we all popped our tops off, and Tommy began the countdown. On Go, me ‘n the fellas three our beers back, and chugged. The first one went down easy for all of us, then began the second. I was a close second behind Stew, who was happily chugging along. I felt a warmth build up in my belly, and felt the fabric shift up my gut on the third one. I didn’t want to stop though, so I kept tugging my shirt down, and then eventually pinned it to my side, trying not to give the guys a flash full of belly. By the fifth beer, it was too much – I felt my shirt stretch as wide as it would go, and my belly flopped onto my lap audibly. I was a tad embarrassed – but too competitive to stop now, so I moved onto my 6th. I felt the golden liquid drip down my mustache and onto my second chin, glistening the fu-man-chu I had spent several years trimming to perfect. I had long since closed my eyes, but if I wouldn’t have, I would’ve noticed all the guys, who had stopped drinking at around the third beer, instead watching my transformation.
By the time I reached my 9th beer, I had lost all cares in the world – about my tattoos, my bald head, my mustache, or my huge belly. In fact, I was damn proud to show my brothers who I was – a real man, a man’s man – even, in some ways a pig. Yeah, that’s what I was, a big ol’ pig. I began to rub my gut, feeling my jersey ride higher, now more of a bra for my sagging tits than anything. I was their pig, their big ol’ slob of a pig friend.
Finally, the last beer passed down my mouth and down my gullet with ease. I opened my eyes to my new friends, who were cheering and hollerin’ at my achievement. “Wow, 10 beers in under 3 minutes – that’s a new record, boys!” To my surprise, I didn’t feel sick. I just felt, well, slow, and lethargic. But that wasn’t anything new – I’ve always been such a big lazy slob, and a fuckin’ dunce, too. I grinned stupidly at them my tiny cock rock hard underneath my big ol’ gut.
“Well boys, how’sa ‘bout we head back to the couch, then feed our new piggy his prize?” Tom leered at me, an almost sinister look in his eyes – a look that made my heart, under all that saggy fat, flutter like a schoolgirl. Yeah, we all returned to watch the game – and I was hootin’ and hollerin’ just as loud as my boys, even if I am dumber’n a sack of bricks. The real treats were during the commercial breaks, though, when I used my dumb pig mouth and expert cock-sucking skills to get each of ‘em to cum, several times over.
God, I was so blessed. Good food, good beer, ‘n good company – the best things in the world. Oh, and football, too.
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