chapter 3 - shame

I woke up the next morning sprawled in a heap on the couch, the cushion covered in drool. I rubbed my eyes, yawned, stopped instantly when I felt the resistance around my neck. I looked down and groaned when I saw the endless expanse of pale dome. Still fat. Not just fat, really fat; so fat I couldn't even see my belly button if I tried, and even flat on my back it jutted up at least a foot towards the ceiling.

I realised I was still naked from last night. In my post-sleep stretching and rubbing, I realised that I was still really dirty, too. My face, chest and upper belly were covered in dried-in ice cream, sauce and crumbs, and when I reached under my belly (the grunting was unreal) I realised I hadn't cleaned away the cum - twice. I could feel my cheeks burning. Is this what my life was going to be? Alone in my home, getting embarrassed just my seeing myself? Feeling how monstrously big I am, how pathetic?

I plodded to the shower and got straight in, instantly getting wedged in the now-tiny cubicle. Awestruck and winded, I struggled to move around, my fatty flesh sticking to and dragging on the walls. I hate this, I thought, tears brimming and getting lost in the shower water. How did this happen? Everything is so humiliating.

I stayed still and tried to clean myself where I stood. It was the longest shower I ever took because there was just so MUCH of me to clean, so many folds, so much... mass. With much effort I pushed myself out of the shower and picked up a towel to dry myself. I wrapped it around my waist and blanched when it wouldn't reach around me, where I could just yesterday wrap it around my bony hips twice. It didn't even come close. I slowly dried all the parts of my I could reach, again taking forever, again having to leave some parts that I couldn't summon the effort to reach.

This is how I realised I had to leave the apartment. Everywhere I looked felt like I was stuck in a film reel of horror, my worst moments on display in my own private hell. Plus, there was no food in the house. My stomach sank when I realised I was hungry. I wondered how much food I would need to fill this gut, and I realised that when I was skinny it would've taken little to fill me. If I'd wanted to get fat, all I had to do was push myself a little bit, eat a bit more, watch my stomach bloat out a bit, wait until it turns into a tiny bit of fat, a slightly stretched stomach, fill that bigger space and push even more.

I'd skipped that stage when the Devil just magicked a huge body onto me, with a huge stomach to match. I thought about my huge, flabby gut, slowly wobbling and jutting out, and thought about filling it, how much food it would take, how quadrupling my food intake would barely leave me satisfied and make my gut look no different, because it's what it needs, what it's used to...

I jerked off then and there thinking about all this, belly bouncing, face jiggling with each pump, and when I came on my underbelly again the shame washed over me. I had a body that naturally made me extremely horny, but having it made me the most upset I'd ever been. Imagine what it'd be like when I left the house, my huge body so visible to everyone!

I then realised, mouth falling open, that there was nothing in my place that was close to fitting me.

I'd ripped out of my clothes during the transformation, and that was only at 300 pounds. There was no way any of my clothes would even squeeze onto me. Would I have to wrap myself in a bedsheet?? Jesus, I couldn't leave the house naked! Then I remembered the t-shirt.

A year or two ago I'd furtively bought an XXXL t-shirt - just one - so that I could stuff it with cushions and pretend I'm fat, to get off, before I stopped being able to get off to mere fantasy. I had to laugh.

I went (read: waddled) to the wardrobe and rummaged around until I found it; a giant, shapeless sheet of a thing in the most dour greyish blue I'd ever seen. At the time it had been exciting to try it on, pretend I was growing big enough to fit it, giggle and blush and stroke myself gently until I blissfully came, and then put all the cushions back and throw the t-shirt into the back of my wardrobe to go about my day.

Now t-shirts like this were all I had. I never thought how limited my choices would be in a world where the most effort fashion designers out into plus-size clothes is to make the clothes they have for skinny people bigger. Not tailored to fit different shapes; just bigger in size. I've since learned that the hard way. I never dressed particularly well as a skinny boy, but now? I don't have a choice. It's frumpy and badly-fitting or nothing. Big bodies don't deserve to look good. They deserve to be naked because they are shameful and gross and fabric is a privilege that shouldn't be wasted trying to cover your excessive bulk.

I put it over my head and tugged it down with a lot of effort, cheeks burning when it got caught under my moobs first, then the rolls on my sides, then stopped just short of covering my belly. My jiggly apron- who am I kidding, big wobbly apron - was hanging out way past the hem. I used to drown in this t-shirt, now it stretched across me like too little butter scraped across too much bread. I looked in the mirror and if I felt fat before, that was the first time I felt like a Fat Man. There was no sense of fantasy and fetishisation. All I could think about was those men who hunched over Big Macs with their jeans slowly riding down their giant buttocks so everyone could see their crack, or those people on weight loss shows at the start when they were absolutely miserable and desperate. That's not what I found sexy. I never found that sexy. The realities are so different to fantasy, what's in my head doesn't reflect in the outside world. Oh God, the outside world. I had to go outside. I let out a whine and tears filled my eyes again.

With the t-shirt on I found a pair of my baggiest cargo shorts and huffed and panted until I'd successfully squeezed them on and there were sweat patches under my arms already and I had to sit down for a bit to recover. They were skin-tight and made my love handles bulge, firm to the touch, and I had to sit with the button and zip undone while I caught my breath, looking down at how my belly covered most of the shorts and how my thighs burst out of the leg holes.

After a while I found my wallet, having to hold it because there was no way it would fit in my pocket, and I paced up and down the hallway until I'd worked up the courage to finally open the door.

The fresh air hit my face and I immediately relaxed, breathing deeply, feeling the sunlight on my face. This isn't so bad, I thought. I'm outside and it's the same as it's always been, the birds chirping and trees rustling and cars moving slowly down the cul de sac. I'm outside and it's fine. There's no Devil out here, no traps or Hell, just... outside.

Then I felt the cool air caressing my exposed underbelly and I stiffened and remembered why I'd left the house. It was time to go clothes shopping. God help me.

I walked down the road, extremely conscious of each hefty stomp and how I had to walk with my legs apart because of my thick thighs and how I was out of breath after a few metres and especially how every single part of my body jiggled and wobbled with each step. I reached the main street and couldn't help but stop and look around, paranoid, waiting for people to point and laugh. They didn't. This isn't a nightmare, I told myself over and over. This is real life. No one knew what had happened, no one knew that in a few seconds I'd put on an about of weight that it took committed gainers four years to effortfully pack on.

It was a few more metres down the street when I started to notice. The stares. Staring may not seem that bad, but when you're hyper-visible in all the wrong ways you realise how many meanings stares can have. There's pure disgust; Jesus, how did he let himself get like that? Does he have any self control? Better bless myself and wrap my shawl tighter around myself to prevent the unholiness from infecting me.

There's fear; that could be me if I'm not careful. That *used* to be me, and it reminds me how I have to fight every day to stay slim. This is the death knell of humankind, what has society come to when people can be that big?

There's sympathy, or rather, condescension; poor guy. What an awful life he must have. I hope he finds the strength to forge a better path.

The worst of the loaded stares, however, are the ones that aren't that loaded, the ones that aren't thinking anything, just take you in in your totality and automatically grimace, frown, smirk. That's the ridiculing stare; look at the big fat guy, haha! Him just existing is hilarious to me! I hope he slips on a banana peel, that'd make my day! Big stupid fatty.

My brain was overloaded when I reached the shop and I wanted to cry with the weight of everyone's stares sitting smugly on my shoulders and making me hunch as I tried to shrink myself as much as I could. There's no escape, I thought. No relief. This is it, forever.

One of the employees wandered over to me - why are they all so skinny and pretty? - and asked me if I needed help with an unreadable smile. I mumbled a panicked "no", but after staring at the endless racks with mounting despair I called him back. He was helpful, in fairness, even though his goal was simply to find clothes big enough to cover me. That was fine, though. That's all I need. That's all I deserve.

I walked out with a bag filled with t-shirts, underwear, shorts, jeans, a shirt or two and slacks. I'd only tried on a couple of things to find out my size and bought the rest after barely looking at it. I got home and quickly shut the door after myself, sighing with relief, and my belly suddenly and painfully rumbled. I looked down at it with fear.

What now?