[Story] The Diet
Prologue: December
Dan, my best (straight) friend, doesn’t get around too often. He was starting his last semester soon, and I was happy to be paying off the last of my school debt. It was a few days after Christmas when Dan, clearly distracted, came to the store near the end of my shift.
We exchanged pleasantries before I asked, “Anything I can find for you?”
“Yeah, do you guys carry flex jeans in size 36x30?”
“We sure do,” I said automatically. Of course, as a gay man, I was completely aware that Dan had put on weight during college. His cheeks had lost their lean contours, and he had developed a slight gut, but he wasn’t any taller than me, so I wouldn’t have guessed his size was six inches bigger than mine. But I politely feigned ignorance: “I thought you were a size 32.”
As if on cue, Dan shed his jacket. His gut was a bit bigger than I remembered.
“Food is too good, man.” He gave his belly a pat and smiled. Even with the extra padding, he was adorable—perhaps even more than before, somehow. “Like I tried to eat less this holiday season, but that didn’t happen. Too little time to think about dieting.”
“There’s always time for dieting.” I observed.
“Dude, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve always starved yourself to stay thin.”
Well, maybe not starved, but it wasn’t easy. “Give yourself one month on my diet,” I said, “and I guarantee you’ll see results.”
Dan folded a pair of jeans over his arm. “Only if you try my diet.” His head was cocked slightly to one side, and he smiled and raised his brow as if waiting for my response. His short, thick beard disguised some of his weight, but it was still obvious his dimples had grown round, and his chin was a few meals away from doubling. His torso was starkly defined in the snug blue sweater he was wearing, and his thick legs filled out his jeans which, now that I looked more closely, were obviously much too tight.
“What diet?” I finally asked.
“Funny you should ask, Jesse.” He laughed. “It’s the celebrated ‘eat as much as you want all the time’ diet.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“I’m serious, man. I might actually stick to a diet if I know at least you are enjoying yourself. If you eat what you want for a month and you don’t think it’s awesome, I’ll give you $50 for helping me get on a diet myself.”
“And if I do think it’s awesome?”
“Buy me dinner, and tell me I was right.”
I felt my reasoning clouded in mist. How delightful it must be to eat whatever you wanted: eating dessert, going out to eat more than once a week, having seconds—hell, even thirds… Intellectually, I knew a bet like this was foolish. But emotionally, and maybe even spiritually, I wanted nothing else but to temporarily scrap my dry, tedious diet.
“Oh, what the hell.” I found myself saying. “It’s only one month, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the spirit!”
We bumped fists.
“You can just email me your diet and exercise stuff, right?”
I assured him I could. “And what about your diet?”
“That’s easy.” Dan said. “If you think about eating, eat.”
I laughed and ushered Dan to a dressing room. Outside, my mind was on fire. This was a terrible idea. I couldn’t give up my diet—but God, it would feel so good. I breathed for a moment until I felt calmer. I’d just work out four days a week instead of three, and then, when the month was over, I’d just get back on my diet. Boom, easy.
On my way home, I thought about ice cream. This wasn’t unusual—it was one of my favorite desserts—but now that I realized I could actually buy some, it occurred to me just how much I missed eating dessert. I stopped at the 24-hour grocery store near home, bought a pint of ice cream and some toppings. It felt so bad, but so good.
When I got home, it was less than a minute before I had the ice cream open and into a bowl. God, this was delicious. Guilt and pleasure melded into this sugary mess of a feeling that I hadn’t experienced since I banned myself from cheat days to get below 150 pounds. Before I realized it, half the pint was gone. Ashamed, I shoved the remainder in the freezer, washed my hands, and got ready for bed. But of course I thought about the ice cream again. And by Dan’s rules, my duty was clear. I ate half of the remaining ice cream and went to bed, my stomach aching but satisfied in a way which I had nearly forgotten.
I. January
Acclimating to this new diet was not as difficult as I would have hoped it to be. After merely a week, I was cooking meals that would have made me blush weeks earlier. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying everything about it. I was a competent enough cook that previous boyfriends had made it a point to end up at my place over their own when possible. Exercising my powers for my own benefit was something I had never been comfortable doing while dieting, but now I could revel in a kind of blissful selfishness.
The first two weeks were unadulterated bliss. Yes, even with the guilt, it was bliss. Something about that guilt felt electric to me—I couldn’t explain it at the time, but I felt my senses go afire when I stuffed myself to the point of discomfort. At the end of the first two weeks, I reacquainted myself with an old enemy, whose presence in my bathroom I could no longer ignore. The scale had once mocked me for the Freshman 15, but as I mentioned, I had gotten myself just below 150 lbs—right on the money for a guy who’s 5’10” like me. Today of course, I held my breath for less exciting news.
The numbers ticked up: 158 lbs. I groaned. I had already committed myself to shedding 10 pounds after this month of indulgence, but I was only halfway through and almost 10 pounds up? But my frustration didn’t last, as my stomach growled to be fed.
And the rules were clear.
A casual reader may find himself unsettled that a fit, conventionally attractive guy like me let this happen. But I ask anyone reading to hear me out. Every story deserves to be heard, they say.
I weighed in at 165 lbs at the end of that glorious month. As horrified as I was, I also felt an incredible freedom in that moment that I was then powerless to express. I looked at myself in the mirror the last night of my January diet. My abs, almost visible before, were veiled by a small layer of fat thick enough to pinch. It would take a few months to get back to where I was, but the gym and my diet didn’t seem as appealing as they once had.
II. February
The next morning, I dragged myself to the gym. I ran into Graham, one of the those Gym Gays who always exercised but remained thin as a cell phone because of a diet of lattes and air. He greeted me coyly.
“Been skipping the gym a bit lately, are we?” He pointed limp-wristedly to my stomach, which was clearly visible in my workout tank top.
“A little. A friend bet me I couldn’t eat what I wanted for a month and enjoy it.”
“What kind of friend would do that?” His face wrinkled with disgust. “At least you’re getting back to it, fatty.”
“Hey now.”
He laughed. “I’m joking. Well, I have some squats calling my name. Catch you later.”
Without trepidation, I began my old workout routine. With trepidation, I realized I couldn’t keep up with myself. I couldn’t be out of shape already, could I? I set down the free weights and puffed in and out for a moment. I decided to do half my normal routine, but even that was a struggle. The five minute walk back to my apartment, normally a great way to wind down, was agonizing. God, this sucked.
After my shower, I sat on the couch and breathed deeply. I could go for a burger or two. Exercise certainly worked up an appetite. I looked at the calorie count for two burgers. Damn, that was too much. (This should have come as no surprise. I had not been counting calories during the month of indulgence, but I later estimated what I had been eating 3,000 to 4,000 calories a day—a far cry from my old 1,800 calorie diet.)
Frustrated, I paced around the kitchen for a minute. I was so hungry, but my old go-to of a ham salad seemed impossibly small. Maybe it was unwise to quit my old diet cold turkey. Hunger pains, though no stranger in the past, seemed worse than the painful walk home from the gym. Finally convinced, I got in my car and made the trip. Two delicious burgers later, and I was again satisfied. Tomorrow I would eat less, and things would return to normal.
I failed that tomorrow, and the next one, and the one after that. I couldn’t lie to myself: I didn’t want to get back on my old diet, not merely because it was hard, but because eating as much as I wanted was amazing. Dan was right. And 168 lbs wasn’t that bad. Perhaps I merely needed to find a diet which, if less strict than my old one, at least had boundaries.
I looked at the small bulge I had put on. In the mirror, it didn’t seem so bad. I removed my shirt. Something about the softness of my torso seemed strangely familiar to me. I ran my hand over my belly, bloated from dinner. At least that felt good. Maybe a little too good. I stared at my pants—why the hell was I aroused? God, I needed to snap myself out of this. I went into my room and put on my tight clubbing outfit. I hadn’t used it in a while, so wearing it after gaining 20 lbs would surely put me in a more sensible mood. I struggled with the size 30 skinny jeans, which felt uncomfortably tight around my thighs. The button barely met the buttonhole, and by the time I finally latched everything together, I observed my belly fat poke out over the tight waistband ever so slightly. The shirt, an XS, was always tight, but now I looked like a stuffed sausage.
This display of excess didn’t snap me out of it. The electricity of feeling I had once been unable to identify while eating ice cream now reached an intensity that left me in no doubt. Something about not fitting into these clothes was turning me on. Fascinated and horrified, I walked into the bathroom and beheld myself. Why was this happening to me? I couldn’t be turned on by this. I changed back into my 32s and made myself a second dinner.
III. March
By mid-March those 32s, despite being of a flexible fabric, had grown too tight. I arrived half an hour early to open the clothing store. I quietly entered a changing room with a pair of 34 jeans. The immense relief I felt was incredible—these pants felt amazing. I knew I shouldn’t buy them. I should go back to the gym. But the pleasure I felt at pants that fit was too much for me. My employee discount didn’t help either. With clothing expenses and a doubled food bill, the financial part of my brain tried to think of what I could cut. The conclusion seemed inevitable: I should cancel my gym membership. My voice trembled a little when I called to cancel, but they didn’t ask any questions—they didn’t know what was happening to me.
The food kept coming. That guilt I felt every time I loaded my cart with whole milk, ice cream, or pasta somehow spurred me on to eat the items as quickly as possible—as if somehow getting rid of them would erase the rush of embarrassment I felt at my changing eating habits.
IV. April
The shame faded, but my weight did not. By April, I was 185 pounds. At the time, I was paranoid about other people mocking my change in lifestyle, even though no one other than Graham had uttered a word about my weight. I clearly remember when that changed.
One of my coworkers poked me in the stomach and said, “You been bulking up?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my flushed face betraying the insincerity of my confusion.
“You’ve been filling out lately.”
“Yeah, I guess a little bit.” I had no idea what to say—should I tell the truth, should I downplay my weight gain? My mind rushed and my breath was short.
“As long as you’re doing okay.”
“Believe me, I’m doing great.”
For a moment, I believed that. But as I walked away from my coworker, I felt a strange instability, as if the softness of my stomach was leaving me weak and revealed—as if at any moment, someone would bring me to my knees and shout at me for my diet infidelity. I felt dizzy, and promised I would return to my diet. But as soon as I was in front of food, my compunctions melted like the butter I smeared on anything I liked.
For some reason, I thought this was the end of comments on my weight, but why should I have expected that? I worked at a clothing store. I was wearing a medium shirt, but my belly was still visible. I tried to suck it in, but my vigilance frequently lapsed, and as I returned with ice cream, my coworker asked, “Should you be having dessert?”
“Why not? A little dessert never hurt anyone.”
“Well, uh… You’ve been moving up a few sizes lately?”
“I wear smalls and mediums both, depending on the day, you know.”
“Dude, I’ll give you five bucks if you still fit into smalls.” He disappeared from the break room, returning with a size small t-shirt. He was gay too, but there was an unspoken agreement between us that we were not each other’s types—gay brothers more than gay friends.
“Come on, you in?”
“I’m not giving you five bucks.”
“Put it on.”
I rolled my eyes, but inwardly I only hoped he didn’t notice how aroused I was. I pulled off my shirt and slid into the small. It gripped my belly tightly, leaving the outline of my navel clearly visible in the fabric.
“I can wear small if I want to.”
My coworker laughed at me. “You’re getting fat, man. Better watch how much ice cream you eat.”
My cheeks burned as I returned to my medium shirt. He resumed work, and I went back to my ice cream.
V. May
Some time in April, I stopped weighing myself. For some reason, I thought I’d lose weight before Dan returned—or perhaps I thought if I didn’t know my weight, it would seem like I hadn’t gained that much. I was simultaneously excited and terrified for him to see me. My size mediums were wrapped comfortably around my round belly, which was getting disturbingly obvious. I tried to put on a size small again, but it barely covered my protruding gut. I poked myself and watched my finger sink into the fat that had accumulated around my waistline. What had I done to myself? Nobody gained weight like this. But here I was. I sucked in my gut. I almost looked fit again doing that, but no amount of abdominal contortion would change the layer of fat around my middle. I rubbed it slowly. It was soft and comforting in the face of Dan’s impending return.
Dan looked much the same as the last time I had seen him. My diet definitely hadn’t had as much success on him as his diet had had on me. I sucked in my belly. Maybe it wouldn’t be that noticeable that way. He accepted my welcoming embrace, but it was obvious his attention was on something else. We exchanged a few pleasantries, but his gaze kept returning to my belly—even though I had it sucked in.
“You were right about eating as much as you want.” I said. “May have put on a couple pounds though.”
“That diet tends to do that. Getting back to the gym is the hard part.”
I felt huge and exposed. “Yeah, I should probably do that.”
“You’re not going to the gym?” He paused, sizing me up. “How much weight have you gained?”
“I don’t know off hand.” My head spun—I had a scale, I just had to mention it. After an awkward pause, I finally spit it out: “I have a scale in the bathroom, let me check real quick.”
I adjusted my sweater as I stood on the scale: 201 pounds. Well, crap.
“Well, I was 150 pounds back in December.” I said.
Dan raised an eyebrow. “And now?”
I wanted to lie to him and say I was 175 pounds—I wanted him to be naive enough to believe that.
The proof, however, was too obvious. I was so chubby, I could barely suck my gut in. So, I told the truth: “About 200.”
“Holy shit, you gained 50 pounds?”
“I guess so.”
“You don’t look that big.”
I blushed. Defeated, I let out my belly, which I had been sucking in to the point of discomfort.
“Woah. You feeling okay, Jesse?”
I wanted to tell him everything—how ecstatic I felt when I was stuffing my face and outgrowing my clothes, how confused I was, and how I knew I should lose weight, but nothing seemed to be able to stop me from overeating. Nor did I want it to. These thoughts were making me sweat, so I removed my sweater, but in doing so my gut spilled out of the tight medium t-shirt that barely reached my belt. Dan was fast as lightning. He grabbed my gut and gave it a shake.
“Dude, you got a belly.” He recoiled. “I’m sorry—this is my fault.”
Me feeling bad about my weight I could tolerate, but not a friend feeling bad about it.
“Don’t say that. This is completely my fault. I—I love eating what I want.”
“I can tell.” He playfully patted my belly. “But maybe you should ask your doctor if there’s another reason you’ve put on weight.”
I breathed out and laughed. “No, there’s no other reason. I’ve been eating enormously since January. Like, I’ve been surprising myself.”
“Well, you surprised me. I didn’t recognize you for a split second, your face filled out too.”
I blushed. “Yeah, it has.”
“Now that I’m back, you wanna go on runs in the morning like we used to?”
Oh God, we had done that during school. The mere thought of running left me breathless and hungry. I should accept. Say yes, I told myself. But instead I said, “Or how about we go out for breakfast instead?”
Dan’s expression softened. “You got me, that sounds way better.”
“Who needs abs when you have food?” I asked. Dan eyed me strangely, as if he knew instinctively I had changed, and all throughout our time hanging out, I caught him sneaking looks at my gut as it bulged out of my clothes whenever I stretched.
VI. June
My eating habits didn’t change. There was a feverish momentum to my diet that kept me going. I watched with a consuming curiosity as my waistline continued to expand. I replaced my medium shirts with larges. Now and then I’d accidentally wear the wrong one and I’d be pulling my shirt down to hide my belly for the rest of the day. Well, maybe it wasn’t much of an accident.
My gay coworker came to hold a juvenile reverence for my expanding size. He’d pat my gut and ask how the food baby was going, or prod my (bigger) ass with a coat hanger and give me a joking “hubba hubba.” At first, I was annoyed by these comments, but before long I looked forward to his next creative joke. He was never mean, just frivolous, as the stereotype might prescribe. It was the middle of June before he finally proffered a genuine word about my weight.
“So, Jesse, how much weight have you gained recently?” He began bluntly.
“Like fifty pounds.” I sounded more confident than I was.
“Oh.” Even he was surprised. “And you’re okay with that?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged. “Why?”
“What do you mean why? We’ve probably both dated guys who would freak out about gaining ten pounds. You were always the ‘bring a salad to work’ type, and now you’re the ‘bring half a cake to work’ type.” (I had actually done that after my birthday.) “I’m not trying to judge, but…I’m curious what changed, you know?”
I was rapidly drafting different responses in my head, but none of them—even the truth—sounded correct.
“I just got sick of dieting.” I scratched my beard pensively. “That’s not even it, entirely. Everyone’s like, you gotta be ripped to be happy, but that wasn’t true for me. I started eating whatever I want, and that was pretty great.” (He waited hungrily for me to reveal more.) “I’m getting a bit chubby, but honestly, it’s not that bad.”
“So your weight doesn’t bother you at all?”
“I mean, it bothers me that it doesn’t bother me, if that makes sense. Like I should be upset, but I’m pretty comfortable with what’s happening to me.”
“Well then. You do you, man.” He said, and our conversation ended.
Toward the end of the month, I was invited to a pool party at a college friend’s place. It was an hour away, but he was a generous person, and I knew other college buddies would be present. My first thought upon receiving the invitation was my weight, naturally, but I convinced myself it was stupid to hide from the truth. Surely, I wasn’t the only one who had thickened up in the past year.
The first problem was my bathing suit. I knew it wouldn’t fit, but I put it on anyway. I felt like I had a noose around my waistline. Last time I wore these, I had visible abs. My body was made of subtle contours from my defined pectorals to my lean legs. Since January, my abs had vanished, replaced by a gut that protruded over the skin-tight waistband by a couple inches. My pecs, once somewhat defined, had gone soft. And my face was filling out too. This phenomenon had been difficult to accept, but when I smiled at myself, it was impossible to ignore how much fuller my cheeks were, and that my chin doubled slightly if I yawned. I should have been horrified, but it was kind of cute, somehow.
So I bought new swim trunks and headed out. Greeting my college buddies was jubilant—many familiar and happy faces. But it was only seconds before the first comment about my weight dropped.
“Hey, sup Jesse, go easy on those burgers, eh? Just kidding, good to see you.” Or, “Damn, you got big, man.” And the polite, “Are you bulking up?”
This was just a primer. When we started to slip into the pool, the shirts came off. To my dismay, none of my friends had gotten much fatter, and it was with a deep breath that I removed my t-shirt. The friend sitting next to me spoke reflexively: “Woah there, someone’s been eating well.” Another chimed in: “Yeah, Jesse, what happened to your abs?”
I breathed out and laughed. “I’m just enjoying life.”
The friend next to me chuckled and gave my side a poke, “Yeah, you are.”
The comments tapered off, but I soaked in incredulous stares that I played back in my mind for weeks. There was something delicious about it—a strange hybrid of admiration and horror. If Jesse could get fat, could it happen to me? And why did he seem so happy about it? I imagined these thoughts, and my round face beamed.
Perhaps the greatest discovery came shortly thereafter. During volleyball I noticed an incredible sensation which fully distracted me from my breathlessness: I was jiggling. Sure, I gave my belly a little shake now and then, but as I jumped around the volleyball pit, I felt my entire torso and my ass shake and quaver without control in a way I had not experienced before. Again, it was like electricity coursing through my senses. I wanted to feel this sensation forever—it was incredible. The feeling of my fat snapping back into place was indescribable.
After the game, I sat down and tried not to appear too winded. Still, a buddy noticed, “Looks like you’ve been skipping the gym for the buffet line.”
“Yeah, a little bit.”
“Never thought you’d be the one to get fat.” He said bluntly.
My cheeks went red. I couldn’t think of the right response.
“When are you getting back to the routine? Can’t get guys looking like this.” He grabbed one of my pecs and pinched it firmly.
“I—I actually canceled my gym membership.”
He looked at me in disgust. “You kidding me? How do you expect to shed weight if you don’t go to the gym?”
“I’m just kind of going with the flow, you know?”
“That’s a terrible idea.” He said flatly. “You know where that lands you? Fucking obese, single, alone.”
“Not necessarily.”
“That’s exactly the attitude that enables that.” He pointed at my belly. “My uncle was like that. Just let himself go after he quit softball. You know what happened to him? He blew up like a fucking balloon. He used to be thin, then next thing you know he’s 300 pounds. It’s disgusting. I bet his wife wanted to leave him.”
“Did she say that?”
“Bro, nobody wants a fat partner. Nobody. This is serious. Take care of yourself, man.”
I studied his features. He was genuinely disgusted. I couldn’t think of what to say than, “I will.” And he left, his stride confident in his victory against the obesity epidemic.
The rest of the evening was clouded by this interaction. He meant well, I tried to tell myself, but I still felt like garbage. I announced my departure first out of anyone. One guy I had studied with a lot said he also had to leave.
We engaged in small talk. When we reached his car, he mentioned the guy who had chewed me out.
“Don’t let him get to you. He can be a hard ass.”
“Thanks, man, kind of took the wind out of my sails.”
“A simple, ‘I’m here for you, hope you’re taking care of yourself,’ would have sufficed, but he’s gotta spread his family problems.”
Even this well-intentioned apology for our mutual friend was enough to put me over the edge.
“Just because I’ve put on weight doesn’t mean I’m not taking care of myself. I’m putting on weight because I’m really enjoying eating whatever I want, which is nobody’s damn business but mine. If he thinks I’m going to die alone that’s his problem. If every gay guy is too shallow to like me with a belly, why the hell would I want to be with them if I was thin? It’s just—I don’t know. Sorry, I’m not mad at you.”
“No worries, man. I know standards are different for gay guys sometimes, and that sucks. I hope it works out for you.”
“Thanks. Me too.”
That week was the one of the few times I ate to cope with my feelings. But that speech kept playing back in my head, and I gorged to forget it. I broke 210 pounds by the end of June.
VII. July
A couple weeks into July, I was fiddling with my phone’s settings. On a whim, I turned on notifications for the various dating apps I had on my phone, which had laid silent for months. Soon, I was chatting with an attractive guy named Ben about this and that. We hit if off and he suggested we meet. I agreed.
And that was when I opened my profile. It would have looked fine to other users, but there was one flaw with it: all of the photos were from last year. I had put on over 60 pounds since then. I walked into the bathroom and looked into the mirror, then back at my phone. Damn, my face was so much fatter than on my dating profile. My fingers shook as I tried to think of what to say to this guy who thought of me as a 150 lbs athletic jock.
“This is embarrassing, but I just realized all my photos are from when I first downloaded this app, and I’ve put on some weight since then.”
“No worries, it happens. How much weight, if it’s not rude to ask?”
“A decent bit—been enjoying eating what I want lately, haha. This is me today: [flattering chest-up photo].”
There was a pause of almost five minutes, but he did respond: “I can definitely tell the difference, but you’re just as handsome.”
“I’m happier now than when I was thinner, to be honest, and I totally understand if that’s not what you’re looking for in a guy.”
“I’d love to hear more about your feelings over coffee.”
My face was beet red. I couldn’t make out if he was being serious or polite or what. But we ended up arranging a time to meet.
I arrived just as Ben was walking into the coffee shop. He noticed me coming toward him. I tried to detect some reaction, but there was nothing. We shook hands, an awkward heterosexual habit that somehow snuck its way into gay dating. Once we were parked at a table over coffee, we sparred at small talk for a few minutes before he indirectly brought up my weight.
“So, you’ve been away from dating apps for a while?” Ben asked.
“I am so sorry about that. I really wasn’t trying to be deceitful. I’ve been focused on things besides dating lately.”
“What kind of things?”
“Work, hobbies, and, uh, food obviously.” I felt my cheeks light up.
“It’s hard to stay away from.”
“That it is.” I let out a broken chuckle. “It definitely beats dieting.”
“You feel good about where you’re at?”
Ben’s face was stern but pleasant. I wanted to tell him everything, but this was a first date.
“Yeah, I do. I’m really comfortable with myself now.”
“That’s what matters.”
“Thanks—a lot of guys would be jerks about something it.”
Ben smiled. He was a handsome guy, though he seemed too thin—like he had been waiting too long for a meal. The conversation shifted to other matters, and we left on a positive note.
VIII. August
There was something almost clinical about the regularity with which Ben and I went out. We were at my apartment the first time we really cuddled. He slipped his arms around me and exclaimed, “You’re so cuddly!” He caught himself immediately. “It’s so nice you’re not all skin and bones.”
He slipped his hand under my shirt and gave my belly a short rub. I felt my pants get tight—he had to notice, right? We watched a few TV shows and chatted about Hollywood’s writing standards. When he left, Ben grabbed my freshly blossoming love handles and kissed me.
“Goodnight, handsome.”
“Likewise, handsome.” I said.
It was remarkable that things were going so well between us. Or was it? I stepped on the scale: 223 pounds. Would any good guy whose personality fit with mine really discard me purely because of my weight? I contemplated these matters over a slice of pie.
A week or two later, he asked if I wanted to meet his high school friend Abby, as they were planning on getting coffee that weekend. I made sure he actually wanted me there, and didn’t want his friend time tinged by the presence of a third party. He sensed my uncertainty and insisted I come along.
Abby was a bookish with energetic eyes.
“This is Jesse.” Ben said.
She looked surprised. “Oh, uh, good to meet you, Jesse.”
I smiled and said it was also good, but our entire conversation was colored by that initial surprise. Did she think a boyfriend of Ben’s shouldn’t be overweight? That I wasn’t the right type for him? I wanted to ask her—to pull her aside and ask what rubric she had put in place for her friend’s love life. But these doubts stayed bottled up until Ben was driving me home.
“Did she like me?” I asked coyly.
“Oh, definitely. Abby’s really easy to get along with, and she knows I have perfect taste.”
“You don’t think she thought it was weird that I’m…quite a bit bigger than you?”
“What? Why would she think that was weird?”
“She just seemed surprised that I was your boyfriend.” I thought this fair.
“Come on, Jesse, be fair.”
Ben seemed annoyed at my judgment, but I continued. “And you don’t think we look weird together, do you?”
“What, why would I think that?”
“Because of my size, you know, people might look strangely at us.”
“And not because we’re gay?”
Ben’s voice had grown agitated. I thought of what else I could ask, but nothing seemed to be of use, so I dropped it.
IX. September
My gut had grown soft and protruding, hanging over my pants far more than any outfit could conceal. By now, feeling myself jiggle was a part of everything I did: putting on socks, going up the stairs, driving down bumpy roads. It was incredible. I wanted to tell people this miraculous feeling, but I was happy enough that people seemed to be getting used to my size, candid glances at my bulging middle notwithstanding.
Toward the middle of fall, I received a text from Graham the Gym Gay. The conversation unfolded thus:
G: Hey, how have you been? Haven’t seen you around the gym.
Me: Been exercising at home. I’ve been great! You?
G: Doing good. Hope you worked off that winter weight.
Me: Ha, quite the opposite. I just keep getting fatter.
G: Uh oh! Have a photo of the damage?
Me: [Photo of my torso at 230 pounds]
G: Very funny. Real photo.
Me: [Another photo of me, this time with my face]
G: What the fuck, what happened to you?
Me: I just eat what I want.
G: Geez. Like I don’t even know what to say. I hope you’re on a diet now.
Me: Not really. I’m happy with where I’m at.
G: Dude, not cool. You’re fat as fuck. You need to lose that weight.
Me: To each his own, bro.
G: I’m serious, that’s not healthy.
Me: I’ll see what the doctor says next time I’m in. I can always lose weight later.
G: Really sorry to see this happen to you. Fix this while you can.
As disgusted as I was, at least he wished me well in his own asinine way. I thought this interaction would be our last for the foreseeable future, but the next day, a old workout buddy I had gone on a few dates with texted me asking if I wanted to work out with him again. I knew exactly what was going on. Graham had set him up to this to embarrass me—or help me—or both, most likely.
Me: Thanks for the offer, but I’m more keen on casual exercise these days. If you want to have coffee some time, I’d love for you to meet my boyfriend.
X: Yeah, that would be cool to do sometime. What do you mean casual exercise though?
Me: Going on walks and the like.
X: That working for keeping you fit?
Me: Define fit.
X: You know, like when we worked out together.
Me: Then no. But I feel great.
X: No? What happened?
Me: Food happened. ;)
X: Like you gained some weight?
Me: Oh man, I just keep piling it on, it’s crazy.
X: :O You okay?
Me: Never better, never bigger.
X: Lol. How much weight are you talking?
Me: Guess. [Photo of me at 230 lbs.]
X: Holy shit, I barely recognize you.
Me: You didn’t guess my weight.
X: 200 lbs?
Me: 230 lbs. Surprised?
X: Uh, yeah I am. How are you planning on losing it?
Me: I’m not planning on losing it.
X: Why the fuck not???
Me: I like being chubby.
X: What? Like more than being thin? WTF?
Me: I feel hotter now than I did at 150 lbs.
X: That’s some fucked up shit.
I felt dizzy after this conversation, but a little private time in the bathroom sorted that problem well enough.
X. October
On the whole, I had gotten used to being bigger—more often than not, I wasn’t surprised by it. But there were moments when I’d look at myself and do a double-take. My wider face especially would make me stop and emote at the mirror to see my round cheeks dimple. My beard barely concealed the change. My gay coworker also reminded me of my weight regularly, calling me “Big Jesse” or “Beef Boy.” Once I got used to it, I started to subtly egg him on. I’d wear tight clothes, or jiggle my gut while I complained about how hungry I was. It was an inside joke between us that I came to enjoy.
Once, I offered him a slice of pie, joking that he was “wasting away.”
“No, you need it more.” He said.
“I sure do. I’m practically skin and bones.”
I rubbed my belly and we shared a laugh. It felt good to enjoy my transformation in a fairly innocent
context.
I didn’t stop putting on weight when I met Ben, so it was only a matter of time before he noticed I was still growing fatter. He had carefully figured out my clothes sizes soon after we met, which wasn’t a problem until October. He bought me a t-shirt for my 211 lbs self, but when I joyfully donned his gift it was obvious my 237 lbs self was too much for it to handle.
“Sorry, I bought the wrong size.” He said. “I’ll exchange it.”
“It’s not your fault. This was my size when we met.”
He looked confused for a second, as if unwilling to acknowledge my implicit assertion.
“You haven’t noticed I’ve put on like 25 pounds since we’ve met?”
Ben blushed. “I mean…”
“You don’t have to be tactful with me.”
“You’re definitely bigger than when we met.”
I grinned. “You like it?”
He nodded, and I kissed him.
But my doubts still haunted me. Perhaps he was only saying that to be polite—he was so kind—and he just didn’t want to hurt my feelings, and he really wished I would go back to 211 pounds. Maybe he thought 237 lbs was as big as I’d ever get. I grabbed a handful of my belly. That seemed unlikely.
XI. November
Sure, I was 245 pounds by the time I visited my family for Thanksgiving, but that doesn’t excuse the harassment and prodding I experienced. A jocular uncle cannot undo the passive-aggressive criticism of concerned parents. I tried to tell myself they meant well, but that didn’t explain why they fit my weight into the conversation at every turn. I wanted to shout, “How dare I live my life the way I wanted to? How dare I feel comfortable in a body you work hard to avoid?”
To calm my nerves, I told myself the shame of this visit was unique, and it would be easier in the future when they came to perceived me in my current form. After all, I had in essence sauntered up and said, “Hi Mom and Dad, I gained 100 pounds while I was gone, no biggie.” But the biting comments of people who refused to relinquish their precious image of me stung, and I felt powerless to change the situation.
I visited two high school friends I still cared about. One had grown nearly as fat as I, and the other was on his way. Greeting them in my new body felt strangely right.
“I didn’t even recognize you,” one of them said. “You’re all grown up.”
“Is that what you call it?” I jiggled my belly. “I thought it was just me getting fat.”
“I know the feeling,” the fatter friend said.
I lifted my shirt up. “It’s all muscle, right?” They followed suit and we laughed. They really seemed to accept me the way I was, just like when I came out to them years before.
The first night with my family, my brother seemed fixated on my weight. Unlike my parents, who averted their eyes and suggested healthy recipes to me, my brother seemed to always be staring at me in disbelief. As he had always been heavier than me, I expected him to good-naturedly rip on me as I had done to him before. But he just stared at me like a stranger. After dinner, he suggested we play a game on his computer.
“You okay?” He asked when we were alone.
“Yeah, I’ve never been better.” (I prepared myself for the worst.) “Why do you ask?”
He put his hand on my belly and shook it. “I’ll give you one guess.”
“Is there anyone that doesn’t want to criticize my weight?” I sighed. “What do you want to know?”
“Uh, what made my dieting, gym-going brother get so fat I didn’t even recognize him at first?”
“Well, I ate more calories than I burned—”
“No, I mean why. Mom’s losing her shit, and since she and Dad can’t communicate directly, it’s up to me. You know I’ll stick up for you, but you gotta be honest with me. I can barely believe this is you. You look like a totally different guy.”
We had often talked about how Mom and Dad’s passivity pissed us off, but to see him implement our agreement in such a forward way made me incredibly happy, his obvious frustration with me aside. Still, I felt great apprehension.
“It’s just a few pounds.” I scratched my gut.
“No it isn’t. If you don’t want to talk, fine. But…”
I couldn’t let this go. “I do. Sorry, it’s just hard when everyone else is so obnoxious about it.” I breathed deeply and told him about the bet. “After January ended, I thought I’d just stop and go back to my old diet, but I realized I didn’t want to. I had to work so hard to maintain a flat stomach, but I didn’t even want that so much as I wanted people to think I had it together, or to tell me I should model. They haven’t told me that recently.” We shared a chuckle. “After a few months, I started to get a bit of a belly, and I thought ‘Oh, I need to lose weight.’ But then I asked myself why. I felt great, and I loved eating what I wanted.”
“This is more than a bit of a belly.” He observed.
“It’s definitely a legit belly now.” I jiggled it. “But if I didn’t want it, I’d go on a diet.”
He squinted. “So…you actually like being bigger?”
“Yeah.” I paused and thought carefully about what I wanted to say. “I’ve never felt as attractive in my own skin than I do now. I know it seems crazy, but I actually like being fat.”
“Uh, okay.” He shook his head. “You’re being serious?”
“Yup. Can’t really believe I’m saying all this out loud, but it’s true.”
His consternation faded. “That’s actually a relief.”
It was my turn to be confused. “How so?”
“Bro, I thought some real shit was going down in your life. Like you could be depressed, or have an eating disorder, or have a fucked up thyroid, or you just gave up on yourself. You making yourself fat on purpose is kind of the best case scenario…strangely enough.”
“You calling me fat?” I pulled up pulled up my shirt and gave my gut a hearty shake.
“Holy shit, you’re so fat.” He poked my belly and laughed. “I never thought I’d be thinner than you—definitely not like this.”
“You didn’t expect me to gain like 100 pounds randomly?” I said sarcastically.
“Damn, have you actually gained that much weight?”
I admitted I was just short of that.
“It’s going to take some getting used to, but you seem so…I don’t know…”
“This is the real me.”
“Okay, cool.”
I gave him a hug. That was the best moment of my vacation.
Despite gorging myself more than I ever had during Thanksgiving, I still ate an incredible amount of food my first week back home. It was a kind of middle finger to my parents, I admit, but it felt so good. It paid off too: by the end of November, I weighed 251 pounds.
XII. December
I had seen Dr. Brooks since I started college, but not since my weight ballooned. He was a jovial, fast-talking kind of doctor who only fielded questions for a split second before moving on to the next patient. He had always been pleased with my health, and finished with something like “Keep up the good work, champ” before moving on to the next impatient college youth. I was bracing myself for what he had to say this time, however. My athletic 150 pound figure was now buried in soft, jiggling fat.
The nurse had actually weighed me twice, as if she couldn’t believe I was 259 pounds. I sat on the examination table and stared at my gut, which spilled out into my lap. My heart beat faster. Why had I let this happen? Why had I gained this much weight? What would Dr. Brooks—
But at that moment, a knock came at the door. As enthusiastically as he greeted me, I could see the twinge of incredulity on Dr. Brook’s face as he looked at me.
“How are you doing, Jesse?”
“I’m doing great.”
“Glad to hear that.” He set down his papers and rolled his chair toward me.
“So it looks like you’ve experienced some weight gain since your last visit. You were 149 pounds last December and today…” He glanced back at his papers as if he didn’t trust himself to recite the truth without confirmation. “You weigh 259 pounds. That is an alarming difference, so we’re going to make sure we get to the bottom of this, and make sure there’s nothing wrong. Sound okay?”
I nodded sheepishly.
“Any major lifestyle changes?”
I told him I was exercising less and eating more.
“So your change in weight hasn’t been shocking or unexpected?”
I shook my head. “No, it makes sense.”
“Well, we’re going to take a look at things, then I’m going to send you to the lab to get some bloodwork done. That way, we can check for anything that might be off, like thyroid or testosterone. Sound good?”
I nodded.
He asked me to remove my shirt. He concealed his shock at my fat torso almost perfectly—almost. His gloved fingers felt cool and relaxed as they sank into my fat. I was surprised how fat my next felt when he checked my nodes, though I certainly shouldn’t have been.
“Well, you can count yourself lucky. Despite your change in weight, you seem perfectly healthy. That said, I’m going to recommend you start by losing 20 or 30 lbs. It can make a huge difference in how you feel, and it’ll affect your health positively in the long run.”
I nodded dumbly. I wanted to tell him I felt fine—that I loved my new body, and I’d probably be even fatter the next time he saw me. But I said nothing.
Dr. Brooks’ tone suddenly changed from its clinical cheer to a tone I hadn’t heard before: personal concern. “Jesse, I remember how fit you were. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t get back to that.”
I felt my tongue suddenly loosed: “Have you seen a guy my age gain this much weight in a year?”
Dr. Brooks paused. “I—don’t think that I have.”
“That explains why everyone’s so surprised about how big I’ve gotten.”
“Yeah, I’m a bit surprised myself.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll work harder to control my weight.”
“Cutting back on portions and exercise—you’ve got this.” His sense of routine clicked back into place. “Great seeing you again.”
“You too.”
He gave me the paperwork for the lab and rushed away. They took longer than I remember taking my blood, I presume because of how fat my arms had grown. I smiled inside as they stuck me with the needle.
For the rest of the week, I worried what my bloodwork would reveal. I knew I was feeling fine, but what if something had been ruined this year? I ate a lot less that week, but still far more than I would have eaten a year ago. When the results finally arrived, I ripped open the envelope and examined the numbers. Normal…normal…normal… Everything was normal. My jaw dropped: I was completely healthy. I sat down and breathed for a minute. I gave my gut a jiggle. Against all odds, everything was fine.
I told Ben of my results.
“That’s wonderful!”
“It’s such a relief. But…” I pushed the question again: “Ben, do you wish I was thin?”
Ben said nothing for a moment. “Why would I wish that? I thought you liked your size.”
“I do. But what would you prefer, everything else being equal?”
“I prefer your happiness. You can’t help what’s attractive to you. I mean, that’s kind of what being gay is all about. I’d love you if you were thin. But from what I understand, you’re happier and more confident now. And I wouldn’t undo that for anybody.”
I hugged him, and teared up a little. His chilly hands instinctively gripped my love handles, and he pressed his fingers into my bulging sides.
Epilogue. January
After the holidays were over, I was 265 pounds, 115 pounds more than when I bought that first pint of ice cream. I barely recognized myself, but not in the mirror—in old pictures. That narrow-faced man was a stranger to me now, some forgotten specter of the past. It was the mirror that showed who I was. My belly hung over my pants, and the slightest motion caused it to visibly jiggle. I smiled widely. My cheeks had become fat, and my chin doubled. My love handles spilled out of my pants. My legs, once lean and defined, had expanded like long water balloons. And I still bumped into things with my protruding butt, where once there was next to nothing.
Dan and I hung out at a coffee shop a few days into the New Year. My belly was pressed against the table. I smiled and felt the now familiar sensation of my fat shifting with my face muscles. I was wearing a button-down, but it was unbuttoned since I had recently grown too fat for it. Underneath was a snug t-shirt that clearly displayed my soft chest and gelatinous midriff. Whenever I shifted in my chair, the shirt would ride up, allowing my gut to pop out for anyone to see. I cherished the stares now. I loved to tell people I used to be thin, but that my appetite had taken over, and I had ballooned. Maybe I’d even jiggle my gut for good effect.
“You know what,” I said. “That bet I took from you was the best thing I’ve done in a while.”
“Really? Why?”
“I got to enjoy a lot of great food, first of all. But more so, I finally feel comfortable in my own skin.” I rubbed my belly. “I don’t miss being thin one bit.”
Dan seemed embarrassed by my candor. “Glad I could help.”
“Me too, Dan. Me too.”
Dan, my best (straight) friend, doesn’t get around too often. He was starting his last semester soon, and I was happy to be paying off the last of my school debt. It was a few days after Christmas when Dan, clearly distracted, came to the store near the end of my shift.
We exchanged pleasantries before I asked, “Anything I can find for you?”
“Yeah, do you guys carry flex jeans in size 36x30?”
“We sure do,” I said automatically. Of course, as a gay man, I was completely aware that Dan had put on weight during college. His cheeks had lost their lean contours, and he had developed a slight gut, but he wasn’t any taller than me, so I wouldn’t have guessed his size was six inches bigger than mine. But I politely feigned ignorance: “I thought you were a size 32.”
As if on cue, Dan shed his jacket. His gut was a bit bigger than I remembered.
“Food is too good, man.” He gave his belly a pat and smiled. Even with the extra padding, he was adorable—perhaps even more than before, somehow. “Like I tried to eat less this holiday season, but that didn’t happen. Too little time to think about dieting.”
“There’s always time for dieting.” I observed.
“Dude, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve always starved yourself to stay thin.”
Well, maybe not starved, but it wasn’t easy. “Give yourself one month on my diet,” I said, “and I guarantee you’ll see results.”
Dan folded a pair of jeans over his arm. “Only if you try my diet.” His head was cocked slightly to one side, and he smiled and raised his brow as if waiting for my response. His short, thick beard disguised some of his weight, but it was still obvious his dimples had grown round, and his chin was a few meals away from doubling. His torso was starkly defined in the snug blue sweater he was wearing, and his thick legs filled out his jeans which, now that I looked more closely, were obviously much too tight.
“What diet?” I finally asked.
“Funny you should ask, Jesse.” He laughed. “It’s the celebrated ‘eat as much as you want all the time’ diet.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“I’m serious, man. I might actually stick to a diet if I know at least you are enjoying yourself. If you eat what you want for a month and you don’t think it’s awesome, I’ll give you $50 for helping me get on a diet myself.”
“And if I do think it’s awesome?”
“Buy me dinner, and tell me I was right.”
I felt my reasoning clouded in mist. How delightful it must be to eat whatever you wanted: eating dessert, going out to eat more than once a week, having seconds—hell, even thirds… Intellectually, I knew a bet like this was foolish. But emotionally, and maybe even spiritually, I wanted nothing else but to temporarily scrap my dry, tedious diet.
“Oh, what the hell.” I found myself saying. “It’s only one month, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the spirit!”
We bumped fists.
“You can just email me your diet and exercise stuff, right?”
I assured him I could. “And what about your diet?”
“That’s easy.” Dan said. “If you think about eating, eat.”
I laughed and ushered Dan to a dressing room. Outside, my mind was on fire. This was a terrible idea. I couldn’t give up my diet—but God, it would feel so good. I breathed for a moment until I felt calmer. I’d just work out four days a week instead of three, and then, when the month was over, I’d just get back on my diet. Boom, easy.
On my way home, I thought about ice cream. This wasn’t unusual—it was one of my favorite desserts—but now that I realized I could actually buy some, it occurred to me just how much I missed eating dessert. I stopped at the 24-hour grocery store near home, bought a pint of ice cream and some toppings. It felt so bad, but so good.
When I got home, it was less than a minute before I had the ice cream open and into a bowl. God, this was delicious. Guilt and pleasure melded into this sugary mess of a feeling that I hadn’t experienced since I banned myself from cheat days to get below 150 pounds. Before I realized it, half the pint was gone. Ashamed, I shoved the remainder in the freezer, washed my hands, and got ready for bed. But of course I thought about the ice cream again. And by Dan’s rules, my duty was clear. I ate half of the remaining ice cream and went to bed, my stomach aching but satisfied in a way which I had nearly forgotten.
I. January
Acclimating to this new diet was not as difficult as I would have hoped it to be. After merely a week, I was cooking meals that would have made me blush weeks earlier. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying everything about it. I was a competent enough cook that previous boyfriends had made it a point to end up at my place over their own when possible. Exercising my powers for my own benefit was something I had never been comfortable doing while dieting, but now I could revel in a kind of blissful selfishness.
The first two weeks were unadulterated bliss. Yes, even with the guilt, it was bliss. Something about that guilt felt electric to me—I couldn’t explain it at the time, but I felt my senses go afire when I stuffed myself to the point of discomfort. At the end of the first two weeks, I reacquainted myself with an old enemy, whose presence in my bathroom I could no longer ignore. The scale had once mocked me for the Freshman 15, but as I mentioned, I had gotten myself just below 150 lbs—right on the money for a guy who’s 5’10” like me. Today of course, I held my breath for less exciting news.
The numbers ticked up: 158 lbs. I groaned. I had already committed myself to shedding 10 pounds after this month of indulgence, but I was only halfway through and almost 10 pounds up? But my frustration didn’t last, as my stomach growled to be fed.
And the rules were clear.
A casual reader may find himself unsettled that a fit, conventionally attractive guy like me let this happen. But I ask anyone reading to hear me out. Every story deserves to be heard, they say.
I weighed in at 165 lbs at the end of that glorious month. As horrified as I was, I also felt an incredible freedom in that moment that I was then powerless to express. I looked at myself in the mirror the last night of my January diet. My abs, almost visible before, were veiled by a small layer of fat thick enough to pinch. It would take a few months to get back to where I was, but the gym and my diet didn’t seem as appealing as they once had.
II. February
The next morning, I dragged myself to the gym. I ran into Graham, one of the those Gym Gays who always exercised but remained thin as a cell phone because of a diet of lattes and air. He greeted me coyly.
“Been skipping the gym a bit lately, are we?” He pointed limp-wristedly to my stomach, which was clearly visible in my workout tank top.
“A little. A friend bet me I couldn’t eat what I wanted for a month and enjoy it.”
“What kind of friend would do that?” His face wrinkled with disgust. “At least you’re getting back to it, fatty.”
“Hey now.”
He laughed. “I’m joking. Well, I have some squats calling my name. Catch you later.”
Without trepidation, I began my old workout routine. With trepidation, I realized I couldn’t keep up with myself. I couldn’t be out of shape already, could I? I set down the free weights and puffed in and out for a moment. I decided to do half my normal routine, but even that was a struggle. The five minute walk back to my apartment, normally a great way to wind down, was agonizing. God, this sucked.
After my shower, I sat on the couch and breathed deeply. I could go for a burger or two. Exercise certainly worked up an appetite. I looked at the calorie count for two burgers. Damn, that was too much. (This should have come as no surprise. I had not been counting calories during the month of indulgence, but I later estimated what I had been eating 3,000 to 4,000 calories a day—a far cry from my old 1,800 calorie diet.)
Frustrated, I paced around the kitchen for a minute. I was so hungry, but my old go-to of a ham salad seemed impossibly small. Maybe it was unwise to quit my old diet cold turkey. Hunger pains, though no stranger in the past, seemed worse than the painful walk home from the gym. Finally convinced, I got in my car and made the trip. Two delicious burgers later, and I was again satisfied. Tomorrow I would eat less, and things would return to normal.
I failed that tomorrow, and the next one, and the one after that. I couldn’t lie to myself: I didn’t want to get back on my old diet, not merely because it was hard, but because eating as much as I wanted was amazing. Dan was right. And 168 lbs wasn’t that bad. Perhaps I merely needed to find a diet which, if less strict than my old one, at least had boundaries.
I looked at the small bulge I had put on. In the mirror, it didn’t seem so bad. I removed my shirt. Something about the softness of my torso seemed strangely familiar to me. I ran my hand over my belly, bloated from dinner. At least that felt good. Maybe a little too good. I stared at my pants—why the hell was I aroused? God, I needed to snap myself out of this. I went into my room and put on my tight clubbing outfit. I hadn’t used it in a while, so wearing it after gaining 20 lbs would surely put me in a more sensible mood. I struggled with the size 30 skinny jeans, which felt uncomfortably tight around my thighs. The button barely met the buttonhole, and by the time I finally latched everything together, I observed my belly fat poke out over the tight waistband ever so slightly. The shirt, an XS, was always tight, but now I looked like a stuffed sausage.
This display of excess didn’t snap me out of it. The electricity of feeling I had once been unable to identify while eating ice cream now reached an intensity that left me in no doubt. Something about not fitting into these clothes was turning me on. Fascinated and horrified, I walked into the bathroom and beheld myself. Why was this happening to me? I couldn’t be turned on by this. I changed back into my 32s and made myself a second dinner.
III. March
By mid-March those 32s, despite being of a flexible fabric, had grown too tight. I arrived half an hour early to open the clothing store. I quietly entered a changing room with a pair of 34 jeans. The immense relief I felt was incredible—these pants felt amazing. I knew I shouldn’t buy them. I should go back to the gym. But the pleasure I felt at pants that fit was too much for me. My employee discount didn’t help either. With clothing expenses and a doubled food bill, the financial part of my brain tried to think of what I could cut. The conclusion seemed inevitable: I should cancel my gym membership. My voice trembled a little when I called to cancel, but they didn’t ask any questions—they didn’t know what was happening to me.
The food kept coming. That guilt I felt every time I loaded my cart with whole milk, ice cream, or pasta somehow spurred me on to eat the items as quickly as possible—as if somehow getting rid of them would erase the rush of embarrassment I felt at my changing eating habits.
IV. April
The shame faded, but my weight did not. By April, I was 185 pounds. At the time, I was paranoid about other people mocking my change in lifestyle, even though no one other than Graham had uttered a word about my weight. I clearly remember when that changed.
One of my coworkers poked me in the stomach and said, “You been bulking up?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, my flushed face betraying the insincerity of my confusion.
“You’ve been filling out lately.”
“Yeah, I guess a little bit.” I had no idea what to say—should I tell the truth, should I downplay my weight gain? My mind rushed and my breath was short.
“As long as you’re doing okay.”
“Believe me, I’m doing great.”
For a moment, I believed that. But as I walked away from my coworker, I felt a strange instability, as if the softness of my stomach was leaving me weak and revealed—as if at any moment, someone would bring me to my knees and shout at me for my diet infidelity. I felt dizzy, and promised I would return to my diet. But as soon as I was in front of food, my compunctions melted like the butter I smeared on anything I liked.
For some reason, I thought this was the end of comments on my weight, but why should I have expected that? I worked at a clothing store. I was wearing a medium shirt, but my belly was still visible. I tried to suck it in, but my vigilance frequently lapsed, and as I returned with ice cream, my coworker asked, “Should you be having dessert?”
“Why not? A little dessert never hurt anyone.”
“Well, uh… You’ve been moving up a few sizes lately?”
“I wear smalls and mediums both, depending on the day, you know.”
“Dude, I’ll give you five bucks if you still fit into smalls.” He disappeared from the break room, returning with a size small t-shirt. He was gay too, but there was an unspoken agreement between us that we were not each other’s types—gay brothers more than gay friends.
“Come on, you in?”
“I’m not giving you five bucks.”
“Put it on.”
I rolled my eyes, but inwardly I only hoped he didn’t notice how aroused I was. I pulled off my shirt and slid into the small. It gripped my belly tightly, leaving the outline of my navel clearly visible in the fabric.
“I can wear small if I want to.”
My coworker laughed at me. “You’re getting fat, man. Better watch how much ice cream you eat.”
My cheeks burned as I returned to my medium shirt. He resumed work, and I went back to my ice cream.
V. May
Some time in April, I stopped weighing myself. For some reason, I thought I’d lose weight before Dan returned—or perhaps I thought if I didn’t know my weight, it would seem like I hadn’t gained that much. I was simultaneously excited and terrified for him to see me. My size mediums were wrapped comfortably around my round belly, which was getting disturbingly obvious. I tried to put on a size small again, but it barely covered my protruding gut. I poked myself and watched my finger sink into the fat that had accumulated around my waistline. What had I done to myself? Nobody gained weight like this. But here I was. I sucked in my gut. I almost looked fit again doing that, but no amount of abdominal contortion would change the layer of fat around my middle. I rubbed it slowly. It was soft and comforting in the face of Dan’s impending return.
Dan looked much the same as the last time I had seen him. My diet definitely hadn’t had as much success on him as his diet had had on me. I sucked in my belly. Maybe it wouldn’t be that noticeable that way. He accepted my welcoming embrace, but it was obvious his attention was on something else. We exchanged a few pleasantries, but his gaze kept returning to my belly—even though I had it sucked in.
“You were right about eating as much as you want.” I said. “May have put on a couple pounds though.”
“That diet tends to do that. Getting back to the gym is the hard part.”
I felt huge and exposed. “Yeah, I should probably do that.”
“You’re not going to the gym?” He paused, sizing me up. “How much weight have you gained?”
“I don’t know off hand.” My head spun—I had a scale, I just had to mention it. After an awkward pause, I finally spit it out: “I have a scale in the bathroom, let me check real quick.”
I adjusted my sweater as I stood on the scale: 201 pounds. Well, crap.
“Well, I was 150 pounds back in December.” I said.
Dan raised an eyebrow. “And now?”
I wanted to lie to him and say I was 175 pounds—I wanted him to be naive enough to believe that.
The proof, however, was too obvious. I was so chubby, I could barely suck my gut in. So, I told the truth: “About 200.”
“Holy shit, you gained 50 pounds?”
“I guess so.”
“You don’t look that big.”
I blushed. Defeated, I let out my belly, which I had been sucking in to the point of discomfort.
“Woah. You feeling okay, Jesse?”
I wanted to tell him everything—how ecstatic I felt when I was stuffing my face and outgrowing my clothes, how confused I was, and how I knew I should lose weight, but nothing seemed to be able to stop me from overeating. Nor did I want it to. These thoughts were making me sweat, so I removed my sweater, but in doing so my gut spilled out of the tight medium t-shirt that barely reached my belt. Dan was fast as lightning. He grabbed my gut and gave it a shake.
“Dude, you got a belly.” He recoiled. “I’m sorry—this is my fault.”
Me feeling bad about my weight I could tolerate, but not a friend feeling bad about it.
“Don’t say that. This is completely my fault. I—I love eating what I want.”
“I can tell.” He playfully patted my belly. “But maybe you should ask your doctor if there’s another reason you’ve put on weight.”
I breathed out and laughed. “No, there’s no other reason. I’ve been eating enormously since January. Like, I’ve been surprising myself.”
“Well, you surprised me. I didn’t recognize you for a split second, your face filled out too.”
I blushed. “Yeah, it has.”
“Now that I’m back, you wanna go on runs in the morning like we used to?”
Oh God, we had done that during school. The mere thought of running left me breathless and hungry. I should accept. Say yes, I told myself. But instead I said, “Or how about we go out for breakfast instead?”
Dan’s expression softened. “You got me, that sounds way better.”
“Who needs abs when you have food?” I asked. Dan eyed me strangely, as if he knew instinctively I had changed, and all throughout our time hanging out, I caught him sneaking looks at my gut as it bulged out of my clothes whenever I stretched.
VI. June
My eating habits didn’t change. There was a feverish momentum to my diet that kept me going. I watched with a consuming curiosity as my waistline continued to expand. I replaced my medium shirts with larges. Now and then I’d accidentally wear the wrong one and I’d be pulling my shirt down to hide my belly for the rest of the day. Well, maybe it wasn’t much of an accident.
My gay coworker came to hold a juvenile reverence for my expanding size. He’d pat my gut and ask how the food baby was going, or prod my (bigger) ass with a coat hanger and give me a joking “hubba hubba.” At first, I was annoyed by these comments, but before long I looked forward to his next creative joke. He was never mean, just frivolous, as the stereotype might prescribe. It was the middle of June before he finally proffered a genuine word about my weight.
“So, Jesse, how much weight have you gained recently?” He began bluntly.
“Like fifty pounds.” I sounded more confident than I was.
“Oh.” Even he was surprised. “And you’re okay with that?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged. “Why?”
“What do you mean why? We’ve probably both dated guys who would freak out about gaining ten pounds. You were always the ‘bring a salad to work’ type, and now you’re the ‘bring half a cake to work’ type.” (I had actually done that after my birthday.) “I’m not trying to judge, but…I’m curious what changed, you know?”
I was rapidly drafting different responses in my head, but none of them—even the truth—sounded correct.
“I just got sick of dieting.” I scratched my beard pensively. “That’s not even it, entirely. Everyone’s like, you gotta be ripped to be happy, but that wasn’t true for me. I started eating whatever I want, and that was pretty great.” (He waited hungrily for me to reveal more.) “I’m getting a bit chubby, but honestly, it’s not that bad.”
“So your weight doesn’t bother you at all?”
“I mean, it bothers me that it doesn’t bother me, if that makes sense. Like I should be upset, but I’m pretty comfortable with what’s happening to me.”
“Well then. You do you, man.” He said, and our conversation ended.
Toward the end of the month, I was invited to a pool party at a college friend’s place. It was an hour away, but he was a generous person, and I knew other college buddies would be present. My first thought upon receiving the invitation was my weight, naturally, but I convinced myself it was stupid to hide from the truth. Surely, I wasn’t the only one who had thickened up in the past year.
The first problem was my bathing suit. I knew it wouldn’t fit, but I put it on anyway. I felt like I had a noose around my waistline. Last time I wore these, I had visible abs. My body was made of subtle contours from my defined pectorals to my lean legs. Since January, my abs had vanished, replaced by a gut that protruded over the skin-tight waistband by a couple inches. My pecs, once somewhat defined, had gone soft. And my face was filling out too. This phenomenon had been difficult to accept, but when I smiled at myself, it was impossible to ignore how much fuller my cheeks were, and that my chin doubled slightly if I yawned. I should have been horrified, but it was kind of cute, somehow.
So I bought new swim trunks and headed out. Greeting my college buddies was jubilant—many familiar and happy faces. But it was only seconds before the first comment about my weight dropped.
“Hey, sup Jesse, go easy on those burgers, eh? Just kidding, good to see you.” Or, “Damn, you got big, man.” And the polite, “Are you bulking up?”
This was just a primer. When we started to slip into the pool, the shirts came off. To my dismay, none of my friends had gotten much fatter, and it was with a deep breath that I removed my t-shirt. The friend sitting next to me spoke reflexively: “Woah there, someone’s been eating well.” Another chimed in: “Yeah, Jesse, what happened to your abs?”
I breathed out and laughed. “I’m just enjoying life.”
The friend next to me chuckled and gave my side a poke, “Yeah, you are.”
The comments tapered off, but I soaked in incredulous stares that I played back in my mind for weeks. There was something delicious about it—a strange hybrid of admiration and horror. If Jesse could get fat, could it happen to me? And why did he seem so happy about it? I imagined these thoughts, and my round face beamed.
Perhaps the greatest discovery came shortly thereafter. During volleyball I noticed an incredible sensation which fully distracted me from my breathlessness: I was jiggling. Sure, I gave my belly a little shake now and then, but as I jumped around the volleyball pit, I felt my entire torso and my ass shake and quaver without control in a way I had not experienced before. Again, it was like electricity coursing through my senses. I wanted to feel this sensation forever—it was incredible. The feeling of my fat snapping back into place was indescribable.
After the game, I sat down and tried not to appear too winded. Still, a buddy noticed, “Looks like you’ve been skipping the gym for the buffet line.”
“Yeah, a little bit.”
“Never thought you’d be the one to get fat.” He said bluntly.
My cheeks went red. I couldn’t think of the right response.
“When are you getting back to the routine? Can’t get guys looking like this.” He grabbed one of my pecs and pinched it firmly.
“I—I actually canceled my gym membership.”
He looked at me in disgust. “You kidding me? How do you expect to shed weight if you don’t go to the gym?”
“I’m just kind of going with the flow, you know?”
“That’s a terrible idea.” He said flatly. “You know where that lands you? Fucking obese, single, alone.”
“Not necessarily.”
“That’s exactly the attitude that enables that.” He pointed at my belly. “My uncle was like that. Just let himself go after he quit softball. You know what happened to him? He blew up like a fucking balloon. He used to be thin, then next thing you know he’s 300 pounds. It’s disgusting. I bet his wife wanted to leave him.”
“Did she say that?”
“Bro, nobody wants a fat partner. Nobody. This is serious. Take care of yourself, man.”
I studied his features. He was genuinely disgusted. I couldn’t think of what to say than, “I will.” And he left, his stride confident in his victory against the obesity epidemic.
The rest of the evening was clouded by this interaction. He meant well, I tried to tell myself, but I still felt like garbage. I announced my departure first out of anyone. One guy I had studied with a lot said he also had to leave.
We engaged in small talk. When we reached his car, he mentioned the guy who had chewed me out.
“Don’t let him get to you. He can be a hard ass.”
“Thanks, man, kind of took the wind out of my sails.”
“A simple, ‘I’m here for you, hope you’re taking care of yourself,’ would have sufficed, but he’s gotta spread his family problems.”
Even this well-intentioned apology for our mutual friend was enough to put me over the edge.
“Just because I’ve put on weight doesn’t mean I’m not taking care of myself. I’m putting on weight because I’m really enjoying eating whatever I want, which is nobody’s damn business but mine. If he thinks I’m going to die alone that’s his problem. If every gay guy is too shallow to like me with a belly, why the hell would I want to be with them if I was thin? It’s just—I don’t know. Sorry, I’m not mad at you.”
“No worries, man. I know standards are different for gay guys sometimes, and that sucks. I hope it works out for you.”
“Thanks. Me too.”
That week was the one of the few times I ate to cope with my feelings. But that speech kept playing back in my head, and I gorged to forget it. I broke 210 pounds by the end of June.
VII. July
A couple weeks into July, I was fiddling with my phone’s settings. On a whim, I turned on notifications for the various dating apps I had on my phone, which had laid silent for months. Soon, I was chatting with an attractive guy named Ben about this and that. We hit if off and he suggested we meet. I agreed.
And that was when I opened my profile. It would have looked fine to other users, but there was one flaw with it: all of the photos were from last year. I had put on over 60 pounds since then. I walked into the bathroom and looked into the mirror, then back at my phone. Damn, my face was so much fatter than on my dating profile. My fingers shook as I tried to think of what to say to this guy who thought of me as a 150 lbs athletic jock.
“This is embarrassing, but I just realized all my photos are from when I first downloaded this app, and I’ve put on some weight since then.”
“No worries, it happens. How much weight, if it’s not rude to ask?”
“A decent bit—been enjoying eating what I want lately, haha. This is me today: [flattering chest-up photo].”
There was a pause of almost five minutes, but he did respond: “I can definitely tell the difference, but you’re just as handsome.”
“I’m happier now than when I was thinner, to be honest, and I totally understand if that’s not what you’re looking for in a guy.”
“I’d love to hear more about your feelings over coffee.”
My face was beet red. I couldn’t make out if he was being serious or polite or what. But we ended up arranging a time to meet.
I arrived just as Ben was walking into the coffee shop. He noticed me coming toward him. I tried to detect some reaction, but there was nothing. We shook hands, an awkward heterosexual habit that somehow snuck its way into gay dating. Once we were parked at a table over coffee, we sparred at small talk for a few minutes before he indirectly brought up my weight.
“So, you’ve been away from dating apps for a while?” Ben asked.
“I am so sorry about that. I really wasn’t trying to be deceitful. I’ve been focused on things besides dating lately.”
“What kind of things?”
“Work, hobbies, and, uh, food obviously.” I felt my cheeks light up.
“It’s hard to stay away from.”
“That it is.” I let out a broken chuckle. “It definitely beats dieting.”
“You feel good about where you’re at?”
Ben’s face was stern but pleasant. I wanted to tell him everything, but this was a first date.
“Yeah, I do. I’m really comfortable with myself now.”
“That’s what matters.”
“Thanks—a lot of guys would be jerks about something it.”
Ben smiled. He was a handsome guy, though he seemed too thin—like he had been waiting too long for a meal. The conversation shifted to other matters, and we left on a positive note.
VIII. August
There was something almost clinical about the regularity with which Ben and I went out. We were at my apartment the first time we really cuddled. He slipped his arms around me and exclaimed, “You’re so cuddly!” He caught himself immediately. “It’s so nice you’re not all skin and bones.”
He slipped his hand under my shirt and gave my belly a short rub. I felt my pants get tight—he had to notice, right? We watched a few TV shows and chatted about Hollywood’s writing standards. When he left, Ben grabbed my freshly blossoming love handles and kissed me.
“Goodnight, handsome.”
“Likewise, handsome.” I said.
It was remarkable that things were going so well between us. Or was it? I stepped on the scale: 223 pounds. Would any good guy whose personality fit with mine really discard me purely because of my weight? I contemplated these matters over a slice of pie.
A week or two later, he asked if I wanted to meet his high school friend Abby, as they were planning on getting coffee that weekend. I made sure he actually wanted me there, and didn’t want his friend time tinged by the presence of a third party. He sensed my uncertainty and insisted I come along.
Abby was a bookish with energetic eyes.
“This is Jesse.” Ben said.
She looked surprised. “Oh, uh, good to meet you, Jesse.”
I smiled and said it was also good, but our entire conversation was colored by that initial surprise. Did she think a boyfriend of Ben’s shouldn’t be overweight? That I wasn’t the right type for him? I wanted to ask her—to pull her aside and ask what rubric she had put in place for her friend’s love life. But these doubts stayed bottled up until Ben was driving me home.
“Did she like me?” I asked coyly.
“Oh, definitely. Abby’s really easy to get along with, and she knows I have perfect taste.”
“You don’t think she thought it was weird that I’m…quite a bit bigger than you?”
“What? Why would she think that was weird?”
“She just seemed surprised that I was your boyfriend.” I thought this fair.
“Come on, Jesse, be fair.”
Ben seemed annoyed at my judgment, but I continued. “And you don’t think we look weird together, do you?”
“What, why would I think that?”
“Because of my size, you know, people might look strangely at us.”
“And not because we’re gay?”
Ben’s voice had grown agitated. I thought of what else I could ask, but nothing seemed to be of use, so I dropped it.
IX. September
My gut had grown soft and protruding, hanging over my pants far more than any outfit could conceal. By now, feeling myself jiggle was a part of everything I did: putting on socks, going up the stairs, driving down bumpy roads. It was incredible. I wanted to tell people this miraculous feeling, but I was happy enough that people seemed to be getting used to my size, candid glances at my bulging middle notwithstanding.
Toward the middle of fall, I received a text from Graham the Gym Gay. The conversation unfolded thus:
G: Hey, how have you been? Haven’t seen you around the gym.
Me: Been exercising at home. I’ve been great! You?
G: Doing good. Hope you worked off that winter weight.
Me: Ha, quite the opposite. I just keep getting fatter.
G: Uh oh! Have a photo of the damage?
Me: [Photo of my torso at 230 pounds]
G: Very funny. Real photo.
Me: [Another photo of me, this time with my face]
G: What the fuck, what happened to you?
Me: I just eat what I want.
G: Geez. Like I don’t even know what to say. I hope you’re on a diet now.
Me: Not really. I’m happy with where I’m at.
G: Dude, not cool. You’re fat as fuck. You need to lose that weight.
Me: To each his own, bro.
G: I’m serious, that’s not healthy.
Me: I’ll see what the doctor says next time I’m in. I can always lose weight later.
G: Really sorry to see this happen to you. Fix this while you can.
As disgusted as I was, at least he wished me well in his own asinine way. I thought this interaction would be our last for the foreseeable future, but the next day, a old workout buddy I had gone on a few dates with texted me asking if I wanted to work out with him again. I knew exactly what was going on. Graham had set him up to this to embarrass me—or help me—or both, most likely.
Me: Thanks for the offer, but I’m more keen on casual exercise these days. If you want to have coffee some time, I’d love for you to meet my boyfriend.
X: Yeah, that would be cool to do sometime. What do you mean casual exercise though?
Me: Going on walks and the like.
X: That working for keeping you fit?
Me: Define fit.
X: You know, like when we worked out together.
Me: Then no. But I feel great.
X: No? What happened?
Me: Food happened. ;)
X: Like you gained some weight?
Me: Oh man, I just keep piling it on, it’s crazy.
X: :O You okay?
Me: Never better, never bigger.
X: Lol. How much weight are you talking?
Me: Guess. [Photo of me at 230 lbs.]
X: Holy shit, I barely recognize you.
Me: You didn’t guess my weight.
X: 200 lbs?
Me: 230 lbs. Surprised?
X: Uh, yeah I am. How are you planning on losing it?
Me: I’m not planning on losing it.
X: Why the fuck not???
Me: I like being chubby.
X: What? Like more than being thin? WTF?
Me: I feel hotter now than I did at 150 lbs.
X: That’s some fucked up shit.
I felt dizzy after this conversation, but a little private time in the bathroom sorted that problem well enough.
X. October
On the whole, I had gotten used to being bigger—more often than not, I wasn’t surprised by it. But there were moments when I’d look at myself and do a double-take. My wider face especially would make me stop and emote at the mirror to see my round cheeks dimple. My beard barely concealed the change. My gay coworker also reminded me of my weight regularly, calling me “Big Jesse” or “Beef Boy.” Once I got used to it, I started to subtly egg him on. I’d wear tight clothes, or jiggle my gut while I complained about how hungry I was. It was an inside joke between us that I came to enjoy.
Once, I offered him a slice of pie, joking that he was “wasting away.”
“No, you need it more.” He said.
“I sure do. I’m practically skin and bones.”
I rubbed my belly and we shared a laugh. It felt good to enjoy my transformation in a fairly innocent
context.
I didn’t stop putting on weight when I met Ben, so it was only a matter of time before he noticed I was still growing fatter. He had carefully figured out my clothes sizes soon after we met, which wasn’t a problem until October. He bought me a t-shirt for my 211 lbs self, but when I joyfully donned his gift it was obvious my 237 lbs self was too much for it to handle.
“Sorry, I bought the wrong size.” He said. “I’ll exchange it.”
“It’s not your fault. This was my size when we met.”
He looked confused for a second, as if unwilling to acknowledge my implicit assertion.
“You haven’t noticed I’ve put on like 25 pounds since we’ve met?”
Ben blushed. “I mean…”
“You don’t have to be tactful with me.”
“You’re definitely bigger than when we met.”
I grinned. “You like it?”
He nodded, and I kissed him.
But my doubts still haunted me. Perhaps he was only saying that to be polite—he was so kind—and he just didn’t want to hurt my feelings, and he really wished I would go back to 211 pounds. Maybe he thought 237 lbs was as big as I’d ever get. I grabbed a handful of my belly. That seemed unlikely.
XI. November
Sure, I was 245 pounds by the time I visited my family for Thanksgiving, but that doesn’t excuse the harassment and prodding I experienced. A jocular uncle cannot undo the passive-aggressive criticism of concerned parents. I tried to tell myself they meant well, but that didn’t explain why they fit my weight into the conversation at every turn. I wanted to shout, “How dare I live my life the way I wanted to? How dare I feel comfortable in a body you work hard to avoid?”
To calm my nerves, I told myself the shame of this visit was unique, and it would be easier in the future when they came to perceived me in my current form. After all, I had in essence sauntered up and said, “Hi Mom and Dad, I gained 100 pounds while I was gone, no biggie.” But the biting comments of people who refused to relinquish their precious image of me stung, and I felt powerless to change the situation.
I visited two high school friends I still cared about. One had grown nearly as fat as I, and the other was on his way. Greeting them in my new body felt strangely right.
“I didn’t even recognize you,” one of them said. “You’re all grown up.”
“Is that what you call it?” I jiggled my belly. “I thought it was just me getting fat.”
“I know the feeling,” the fatter friend said.
I lifted my shirt up. “It’s all muscle, right?” They followed suit and we laughed. They really seemed to accept me the way I was, just like when I came out to them years before.
The first night with my family, my brother seemed fixated on my weight. Unlike my parents, who averted their eyes and suggested healthy recipes to me, my brother seemed to always be staring at me in disbelief. As he had always been heavier than me, I expected him to good-naturedly rip on me as I had done to him before. But he just stared at me like a stranger. After dinner, he suggested we play a game on his computer.
“You okay?” He asked when we were alone.
“Yeah, I’ve never been better.” (I prepared myself for the worst.) “Why do you ask?”
He put his hand on my belly and shook it. “I’ll give you one guess.”
“Is there anyone that doesn’t want to criticize my weight?” I sighed. “What do you want to know?”
“Uh, what made my dieting, gym-going brother get so fat I didn’t even recognize him at first?”
“Well, I ate more calories than I burned—”
“No, I mean why. Mom’s losing her shit, and since she and Dad can’t communicate directly, it’s up to me. You know I’ll stick up for you, but you gotta be honest with me. I can barely believe this is you. You look like a totally different guy.”
We had often talked about how Mom and Dad’s passivity pissed us off, but to see him implement our agreement in such a forward way made me incredibly happy, his obvious frustration with me aside. Still, I felt great apprehension.
“It’s just a few pounds.” I scratched my gut.
“No it isn’t. If you don’t want to talk, fine. But…”
I couldn’t let this go. “I do. Sorry, it’s just hard when everyone else is so obnoxious about it.” I breathed deeply and told him about the bet. “After January ended, I thought I’d just stop and go back to my old diet, but I realized I didn’t want to. I had to work so hard to maintain a flat stomach, but I didn’t even want that so much as I wanted people to think I had it together, or to tell me I should model. They haven’t told me that recently.” We shared a chuckle. “After a few months, I started to get a bit of a belly, and I thought ‘Oh, I need to lose weight.’ But then I asked myself why. I felt great, and I loved eating what I wanted.”
“This is more than a bit of a belly.” He observed.
“It’s definitely a legit belly now.” I jiggled it. “But if I didn’t want it, I’d go on a diet.”
He squinted. “So…you actually like being bigger?”
“Yeah.” I paused and thought carefully about what I wanted to say. “I’ve never felt as attractive in my own skin than I do now. I know it seems crazy, but I actually like being fat.”
“Uh, okay.” He shook his head. “You’re being serious?”
“Yup. Can’t really believe I’m saying all this out loud, but it’s true.”
His consternation faded. “That’s actually a relief.”
It was my turn to be confused. “How so?”
“Bro, I thought some real shit was going down in your life. Like you could be depressed, or have an eating disorder, or have a fucked up thyroid, or you just gave up on yourself. You making yourself fat on purpose is kind of the best case scenario…strangely enough.”
“You calling me fat?” I pulled up pulled up my shirt and gave my gut a hearty shake.
“Holy shit, you’re so fat.” He poked my belly and laughed. “I never thought I’d be thinner than you—definitely not like this.”
“You didn’t expect me to gain like 100 pounds randomly?” I said sarcastically.
“Damn, have you actually gained that much weight?”
I admitted I was just short of that.
“It’s going to take some getting used to, but you seem so…I don’t know…”
“This is the real me.”
“Okay, cool.”
I gave him a hug. That was the best moment of my vacation.
Despite gorging myself more than I ever had during Thanksgiving, I still ate an incredible amount of food my first week back home. It was a kind of middle finger to my parents, I admit, but it felt so good. It paid off too: by the end of November, I weighed 251 pounds.
XII. December
I had seen Dr. Brooks since I started college, but not since my weight ballooned. He was a jovial, fast-talking kind of doctor who only fielded questions for a split second before moving on to the next patient. He had always been pleased with my health, and finished with something like “Keep up the good work, champ” before moving on to the next impatient college youth. I was bracing myself for what he had to say this time, however. My athletic 150 pound figure was now buried in soft, jiggling fat.
The nurse had actually weighed me twice, as if she couldn’t believe I was 259 pounds. I sat on the examination table and stared at my gut, which spilled out into my lap. My heart beat faster. Why had I let this happen? Why had I gained this much weight? What would Dr. Brooks—
But at that moment, a knock came at the door. As enthusiastically as he greeted me, I could see the twinge of incredulity on Dr. Brook’s face as he looked at me.
“How are you doing, Jesse?”
“I’m doing great.”
“Glad to hear that.” He set down his papers and rolled his chair toward me.
“So it looks like you’ve experienced some weight gain since your last visit. You were 149 pounds last December and today…” He glanced back at his papers as if he didn’t trust himself to recite the truth without confirmation. “You weigh 259 pounds. That is an alarming difference, so we’re going to make sure we get to the bottom of this, and make sure there’s nothing wrong. Sound okay?”
I nodded sheepishly.
“Any major lifestyle changes?”
I told him I was exercising less and eating more.
“So your change in weight hasn’t been shocking or unexpected?”
I shook my head. “No, it makes sense.”
“Well, we’re going to take a look at things, then I’m going to send you to the lab to get some bloodwork done. That way, we can check for anything that might be off, like thyroid or testosterone. Sound good?”
I nodded.
He asked me to remove my shirt. He concealed his shock at my fat torso almost perfectly—almost. His gloved fingers felt cool and relaxed as they sank into my fat. I was surprised how fat my next felt when he checked my nodes, though I certainly shouldn’t have been.
“Well, you can count yourself lucky. Despite your change in weight, you seem perfectly healthy. That said, I’m going to recommend you start by losing 20 or 30 lbs. It can make a huge difference in how you feel, and it’ll affect your health positively in the long run.”
I nodded dumbly. I wanted to tell him I felt fine—that I loved my new body, and I’d probably be even fatter the next time he saw me. But I said nothing.
Dr. Brooks’ tone suddenly changed from its clinical cheer to a tone I hadn’t heard before: personal concern. “Jesse, I remember how fit you were. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t get back to that.”
I felt my tongue suddenly loosed: “Have you seen a guy my age gain this much weight in a year?”
Dr. Brooks paused. “I—don’t think that I have.”
“That explains why everyone’s so surprised about how big I’ve gotten.”
“Yeah, I’m a bit surprised myself.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll work harder to control my weight.”
“Cutting back on portions and exercise—you’ve got this.” His sense of routine clicked back into place. “Great seeing you again.”
“You too.”
He gave me the paperwork for the lab and rushed away. They took longer than I remember taking my blood, I presume because of how fat my arms had grown. I smiled inside as they stuck me with the needle.
For the rest of the week, I worried what my bloodwork would reveal. I knew I was feeling fine, but what if something had been ruined this year? I ate a lot less that week, but still far more than I would have eaten a year ago. When the results finally arrived, I ripped open the envelope and examined the numbers. Normal…normal…normal… Everything was normal. My jaw dropped: I was completely healthy. I sat down and breathed for a minute. I gave my gut a jiggle. Against all odds, everything was fine.
I told Ben of my results.
“That’s wonderful!”
“It’s such a relief. But…” I pushed the question again: “Ben, do you wish I was thin?”
Ben said nothing for a moment. “Why would I wish that? I thought you liked your size.”
“I do. But what would you prefer, everything else being equal?”
“I prefer your happiness. You can’t help what’s attractive to you. I mean, that’s kind of what being gay is all about. I’d love you if you were thin. But from what I understand, you’re happier and more confident now. And I wouldn’t undo that for anybody.”
I hugged him, and teared up a little. His chilly hands instinctively gripped my love handles, and he pressed his fingers into my bulging sides.
Epilogue. January
After the holidays were over, I was 265 pounds, 115 pounds more than when I bought that first pint of ice cream. I barely recognized myself, but not in the mirror—in old pictures. That narrow-faced man was a stranger to me now, some forgotten specter of the past. It was the mirror that showed who I was. My belly hung over my pants, and the slightest motion caused it to visibly jiggle. I smiled widely. My cheeks had become fat, and my chin doubled. My love handles spilled out of my pants. My legs, once lean and defined, had expanded like long water balloons. And I still bumped into things with my protruding butt, where once there was next to nothing.
Dan and I hung out at a coffee shop a few days into the New Year. My belly was pressed against the table. I smiled and felt the now familiar sensation of my fat shifting with my face muscles. I was wearing a button-down, but it was unbuttoned since I had recently grown too fat for it. Underneath was a snug t-shirt that clearly displayed my soft chest and gelatinous midriff. Whenever I shifted in my chair, the shirt would ride up, allowing my gut to pop out for anyone to see. I cherished the stares now. I loved to tell people I used to be thin, but that my appetite had taken over, and I had ballooned. Maybe I’d even jiggle my gut for good effect.
“You know what,” I said. “That bet I took from you was the best thing I’ve done in a while.”
“Really? Why?”
“I got to enjoy a lot of great food, first of all. But more so, I finally feel comfortable in my own skin.” I rubbed my belly. “I don’t miss being thin one bit.”
Dan seemed embarrassed by my candor. “Glad I could help.”
“Me too, Dan. Me too.”
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