Bionic babes: business binge

Chapter 1 - meet john

The world of data and technology sure has changed since I first entered the field, but then again, so have I.

I was hired on as an intern at Mybrid, Inc. longer ago than I care to recall, straight out of Harvard. Back then, the idea of a social network was new. This was before Twitter, before InstaGlam...hell, I still had a flip phone at the time. Not that there weren't already more advanced alternatives on the market. I had just never cared much for fancy gadgets, unless they pointed me in the direction of great food and hot broads. (The advent of InstaGlam and GrubNow were what finally incentivized me to later upgrade to the UPhone.)

My degree was in finance. I could have gone to work for any bank in the state, but instead, I was attracted to Mybrid for the uniqueness of its concept: a social network that allowed you to see how anyone you knew was doing at all times, and not just status updates: vital signs, financial details, mental state. With this ingenious application, you could send an ambulance to your ailing mother on the opposite coast, flowers to your online crush overseas, and gourmet takeout from across the city to your office, all within minutes, with only a few keystrokes. At least, that was the idea. Remember, this was before the invention of the SmartWatch. But other than the integration of biometric data, the product was built, released, and quickly gaining traction with the public.

And with my financial acumen, I was ready to fly through Mybrid's ranks and take the company all the way to the top.

I'd only been running coffee and taking down meeting minutes for a week before I discovered the big boss was a total ***.

Leo Caprisky never had a shortage of complaints to scream at me about my performance, and, given my promptness and efficiency in all aspects of my work, I had it easier than most. The other employees suffered under his iron fist. Not even Gemma, his hot sister who worked in research and development--or was she his daughter? It was hard to guess the ages of these over-botoxed new-age aristocrats--was spared no amount of rod. He demeaned her constantly, and more than once I caught her sniffling in the breakroom after he'd dismissed her latest idea for a feature as stupid, useless, or impossible to implement.

It was while I worked there that I decided to get as fat as I possibly could.

It makes sense, I promise.

Mr. Caprisky prided himself on his ability to maintain a ripped and chiseled physique on top of the demands of running a fast-growing tech sector C-Corp. He was always doling out unsolicited diet advice to anyone who would listen to him talk, and a lot of people who would clearly rather not, and expecting us to drink up his generously offered wisdom like Reign Energy in the middle of an all-nighter. Here was a man who sincerely believed that having huge muscles that had to be the result of steroids and almost no body fat made him morally superior to the rest of us foolish common slobs.

With my rapid expansion, I planned to knock him off his high horse. In time, he'd realize he was the one who depended on me, not the other way around, and by the time he did, he'd be forced to swallow the dissonant truth that he was at the financial mercy of the fattest man he'd ever employed.

***

If you've ever tried to pile a massive quantity of fat onto your naturally lean, muscular frame with an epicurean's standards on an entry-level salary, then you know how miserable an experience it can be, especially without any guidance. The first month was the worst. Now that I had to think about budgeting my calories to get the biggest, most fattening bang for my buck, I found myself trading occasional elegant dinners out at the city's trendiest steakhouses and sushi bars for nights in watching socialite dramas on FlickStream, stuffing my face with cheap, greasy bags of Burger Queen, discount variety packs from Donut Hole, and calorie- and carb-laden, but sloppily over-sauced, footlong sandwiches on dry, starchy bread from ClubWay. Each night, I'd push myself a little harder, stuff myself a little more, stretch my stomach capacity that extra millimeter so I'd wake up even hungrier and better equipped to do it all over again, all the while missing the higher-caliber, but less calorie-dense, cuisine I truly craved, and even then, I barely gained twenty pounds. Twenty pounds! The added weight distributed evenly across my body like a gentle sprinkle of snow, softening my jawline somewhat, giving my pecs some extra softness but not near enough to push them truly into moob territory, rounding out my ass just enough to strain the seat of my pants, and sticking a grabbable, but too-small handful of fat to my lower belly that my button-downs still, frustratingly, managed to conceal. Career-wise, I had already advanced into a position within the accounting department, but I was unsatisfied that no one at the office had yet noticed my bloat. It was time to hit the books.

In a world obsessed with weight loss, it's no easy task trying to find a one-stop instructional manual on how to fatten yourself up, even with the worldwide web at your fingertips, but in my hours of internet research, I stumbled upon information I could use: insulin triggers used by bodybuilders while they were on a dirty bulk, appetite stimulants prescribed to anorexics, weight loss 'hacks' I could employ in reverse. For example, did you know that your body temperature elevates when your stomach needs to send the 'fullness signal' to your brain? You could turn your AC off if you wanted to curb your appetite…or, you could crank it up to full blast to trick your body into letting you stuff it with more calories than you'll need all day, much less in one sitting.

Online was also where I discovered the world of feederism. Feedism? They've changed the name since I wandered into the community, but the objective is the same. For the unindoctrinated, the subculture is singlemindedly determined to fight the war on obesity…on the side of obesity.

I may have started small, but my dogged, almost unhinged pursuit of regal, rippling rolls and a gargantuan gut attracted the attention of tons of local feeders all too eager to contribute to my growth. There were curvy women who maintained their own soft silhouettes on a steady diet of hearty home cooking…slender women who were all too happy to fake eating disorders in doctors' offices to obtain prescriptions of Zyprexa meant to boost my voracious hunger…savvy, experienced feeders whose brains were databases of all the most calorific recipes…and then there were some female fat admirers who weren't quite so bright, but managed to make up for their lack of conversational skills with their sweet submission and passion for pudge.

Look, sometimes you just want to do shots of gainer shake off a pretty little bimbo while she worships at the altar of your ballooning, bloated belly.