Greasy

Chapter 1

Almost there, you tell yourself, as you shuffle one foot in front of the other. The words are silent, encouragement that exists only in your head, but your mouth still makes noise. Heavy breaths escape your lips at a rapid pace, hot and uneven, each one tinged with effort. A slight wheeze slips in with every short exhale, soft but constant, as if your lungs are trying to keep up with a body they were never meant to support.

You’re used to it, though. The panting, the wheezing, the ache and exhaustion that settles in far too quickly whenever you do more than just sit around. You know the pattern by now: the swelling tightness in your chest, the dull burn threading through your calves, the way your skin starts to prickle with heat and strain after just a few steps. You’re all too aware of it. Aware that it’s not normal, it’s not healthy, you should do something about it. Key word being should.

But you won’t. Not ever. Why bother, when it feels this good?

Your thighs rub together with every step, the friction constant and slick, just shy of painful. The skin beneath your clothes is already beginning to grow damp, chafing against itself with each swaying motion. You parked as close as you could, pulled into the first open space near the entrance, but even that short stretch is a struggle. Every step makes you feel your weight acutely. It’s inescapable, clinging, and heavy in ways that no part of you can ignore. Your belly sways with you, pulling slightly at your back, while your arms rest thick at your sides, brushing against your torso with each movement.

It’s not even that hot out. But the moment the sun touches you, it’s like it amplifies everything. It bakes your clothes to your skin, igniting beads of sweat across your forehead, dampening your chest and the curve of your back. The heat sinks into your body like it belongs there. And it’s only been a few seconds.

You suppose you could’ve hit the drive-thru. That would be less effort, more comfortable, maybe even quicker. You could sit in the air-conditioned car, place your order, roll forward, and eat in peace. But that’s not what this is about.

You don’t drag yourself off the couch for food alone. You don’t squeeze through the front door just to fill your gut. You do it because of this—the feeling, the spectacle, the reminder.

A reminder of how little effort it takes to become so winded. Of how quickly your body begins to fail you when pushed. Of how poorly your clothes cover you whenever you choose to go out. Of how shocking you are in size to the people you come across.

You see it all over their faces. Their eyes go wide, just for a second, before they try to hide it. Or their noses scrunch up in disdain, subtle but unmistakable. Some avoid eye contact entirely, as if looking at you too long might make them complicit in some way. But you don’t mind. You revel in it. Every reaction is a reward, a reminder that your presence can’t be ignored.

You finally reach the fast food restaurant’s doors, and the instant gush of air conditioning is more than welcome. It crashes over your skin, peeling some of the heat from your cheeks and neck, drying the fresh sheen of sweat on your upper lip. All the familiar smells of fast food hit you at once, the most prevalent of all being the fries. Salty, crispy, oily. The smell alone whets your appetite, takes you from hungry to starving in a matter of moments. The aroma clings to the air, to the walls, to everything. It slips into your nose and lingers in your throat, setting something loose inside you. Your stomach responds immediately, tightening and grumbling beneath its thick layers of fat, greedy for what it knows is coming.

You can’t wait to stuff yourself. To glut yourself on thousands and thousands of calories of greasy carbs and fat, until your body is bloated and sluggish and swaying with heaviness. You choose not to think of how difficult the walk back will be, how much harder it’ll be to breathe when you’re finished. That’s for later. Right now, you focus on how tight and packed your gut will feel, how swollen and distended it will grow under the weight of your meal. How heavy you’ll be, heavier than you already are, and how perfect that will feel.

It’s just the push you need to waddle the last few steps to the counter.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

The young woman behind the register stares up at you, her voice neutral, rehearsed. Her face is settled into that practiced fast food expression of indifference, but her eyes betray her. They flick down to your heavy chest, linger for half a second on your just-barely-covered belly. She glances, quick but telling, at your pudgy fingers splayed across the counter’s surface. You’re leaning on it heavily, letting it carry some of your weight, making no attempt to hide how winded you are.

In the past, you would have. Back when you were 500 pounds, maybe 550. You’d wait until you could breathe normally again, stop just outside the door to catch your breath, straighten your posture before walking in. You’d try to mask how out of shape you were, how laborious it was just to move. But that became tiresome. Boring. Unnecessary.

It’s not as if you could ever truly hide it anyhow. No amount of composure could erase the heavy gait, or the wetness clinging to your brow. No oversized clothing could hide the hundreds of extra pounds you’ve piled on.

And once you stopped caring so much, it was as if your body stopped caring too. As if the fat sensed the change and seized the opportunity. Unhindered, it crept onto you by the tens of pounds, dozens even. Gradual at first, then unstoppable. It took over your form like an invasive species. A welcome one. Now it covers you from head to toe.

Your neck is nonexistent, buried beneath your hefty double chin. It merges smoothly into the flesh of your chest and shoulders, a thick, unbroken slope. The mounds of your chest protrude and hang at the same time, pressing against your shirt, demanding space. They shift with every breath you take, every slight movement, unmistakable no matter what you wear.

And your belly… your belly enters every room before the rest of you. Large, round, impossibly heavy. It tugs your center of gravity forward, forces you to lean back when you walk, arches your back into a posture that keeps you from ever sitting upright. It rests against your thighs whether you sit or stand, and pushes your waistband forward. It constantly compels you to feed it more. To overfeed it.

Your gluttony has never known bounds. And it doesn’t appear that your body does either.

“Yeah… I’ll—hff—start with… two… triple bacon cheeseburgers…” you pant, chest rising in heavy waves. You ramble off your order, the words broken by short, shallow inhales. The effort of speaking clearly while this out of breath isn’t lost on you. Still, you push through the list, the impatient anticipation of what’s coming far outweighing the strain.

You try not to get carried away—not because you care about restraint, not even a little—but because you’ve learned your limits when it comes to logistics. Carrying a precariously overloaded tray is difficult at your size. Your arms barely reach around the mass of your gut, and your slow, wide, awkward gait isn’t exactly suited to balancing anything delicate. And besides, you’ll be back for more. The food’s better that way anyway. Fresher, hotter, served in stages to extend the indulgence.

You tack on three large servings of cheese fries, with many extra sides of cheese sauce, a couple dozen chicken nuggets, an extra large drink, and a large cookie dough shake. The plain vanilla is better, your favorite actually, but the cookie one has more calories. And you always need more calories.

You hand over your payment, your thick fingers fumbling briefly with the card before sliding it through. The woman behind the counter hands you your receipt and an empty plastic cup for your drink, and you shuffle over to the soda fountain, the sound of your breathing still audible above the soft hum of machines and kitchen noise. You fill the cup to the brim with the same carbonated syrupy drinks that have added so many pounds to your frame. You don’t bother with a lid or straw, those things only get in the way when you’re drinking as fast as you do.

You waddle to the nearest table, one with a clear view of the counter and your choice of seat whenever it’s available. You lower yourself into the tiny metal chair with a thick grunt, the effortful descent ending in a fleshy, heavy plop. Your ass swallows the seat entirely, spilling over the sides, pressed so tightly that the frame disappears beneath you. The chair creaks ominously under the pressure, metal groaning, but it holds for now.

You shift your weight slightly, your belly settling into your lap, your arms resting beside it as you catch your breath again. You briefly wonder what you’ll do when you finally become too big for the furniture here. The booths have long since become impossible; your gut wedges painfully against the edge of the table, and your hips get stuck halfway in. Soon, even these small chairs won’t be an option. You’ll be forced to stick to the drive-thru, to eating in your car or back at home.

You just hope immobility comes before that does.

It’s not long before your food is ready, the woman at the counter calling the number on your receipt. Your ears perk up at the sound, and you steel yourself to move. Your legs complain when they’re forced to stand again. The sudden pressure on your knees makes you wince, but the promise of food is more than enough motivation to get you moving. You push yourself upright with effort, rocking forward once, then twice, before finally hauling yourself to your feet with a labored breath.

You make your way to the counter, belly swaying heavily with each uneven step. You pick up your tray, heavy and laden with freshly fried food. The scent rises up in a wave, thick with grease and salt. Your other hand grips the large shake, the cup chilly and dense with cream and blended chunks. It’s a balancing act just to carry everything back, your arms already a little sore from the short walk, your breathing audible again by the time you reach your table.

You set the tray down carefully, then lower yourself back into the metal chair, which protests even louder this time as you drop into it. Your thighs spread wide around the seat to make room for your massive gut as it spills forward and rests heavily against the edge of the table. You lean forward with effort, your bulk shifting as you impatiently unwrap one of the burgers.

The grease has soaked through the wrapper, staining your fingers before you’ve even taken a bite. You peel it open to reveal an oozing mess of cheese pooling between stacks of patties and strips of bacon. A thick, meaty aroma rolls up from the sandwich, and your stomach clenches in anticipation. You sigh as you finally tear into it. The first bite smears grease across your lips and into the corners of your mouth. You grunt in satisfaction as the taste hits—salty, fatty, rich. Finally getting your fix.

Because that’s what it feels like. An addiction.

An addiction to eating these artery-clogging, coma-inducing foods. An addiction to the feeling of growing larger, wider, and heavier. You grab a couple of the fries drowned in thick, molten cheese sauce and shove them into your mouth. The processed cheese coats your tongue, smooth and artificial, while the salt sharpens your appetite even more. You shove more in by the handful, not bothering to pace yourself, fingers messy and dotted with sauce between bites of the burger. You lick your fingers noisily, not wanting to waste a drop. It’s indulgence at its purest. Hot and greasy and more than your body should ever consume.

The first serving of fries disappears quickly. All that’s left is a clump of cheese clinging to the bottom of the paper tray, which you scrape out with one chubby finger and suck clean. You don’t hesitate to move on to the next tray, still warm, still dripping. You stuff a few more into your mouth, then pause just long enough to gulp down some soda, the sugary carbonation fizzing and cutting through the grease in your throat. You swallow hard and keep going.

You’re shoveling food in faster than your mouth can keep up. The last large bite of the burger is crammed into your mouth, cheeks bulging, your jaw working to grind it down as your greedy hands are already moving again. The next target: the first box of nuggets. You rip it open one-handed, fingers just as impatient as your stomach.

You dip a nugget generously into the thick cheese sauce, so much that it nearly drips off the sides, and shove it into your mouth the second there’s space. The next several nuggets come in twos. It’s faster this way. Nuggets, sauce, mouth. Again. And again. And again. You repeat the process until the first carton is empty.

The food goes down almost too easily. The thought crosses your mind as you unwrap the second massive burger, your fingers slipping slightly on the greasy paper. You barely even need to pause—just a sip of soda, a small adjustment in your seat, and you're right back at it. You faintly remember a time when a fraction of this amount would have overwhelmed you. A burger and some fries would've left you bloated and sluggish, pinned down by the weight in your gut. But now? Now you’re just getting warmed up.

How far you’ve come.

An elderly couple walks by as you eat, their steps slow and measured. The older man throws a quick glance your way, one that simmers with judgment, thick with quiet disapproval. His lips purse, and his eyes scan your body, landing briefly on the space where your stomach juts out from beneath your shirt. You barely register it. You're too focused on the food, too deep in your trance to care. You know exactly what he sees: the mess, the gluttony, the sheer size of you. You know you must look a state.

You spot a grease stain on your shirt that wasn’t there earlier, dark and spreading just below your chest. You feel the draft where the hem rides up your belly, exposing soft skin, jiggling with every movement. The fabric is hopelessly stretched, pulled tight over your swollen torso, unable to do its job. It’s as if others find it offensive—your body, your appetite, your very presence, the thought that someone as massive as you would dare to be so fat in public. As if you should have the decency to hide away, to confine your fatness to the privacy of your home. If you must exist like this, they seem to think, then at least do it out of sight.

But you don’t hide. You won’t. You love the looks. You welcome the stares. They only confirm what you already know. That you’ve transformed yourself into something excessive, something obscene. That you’ve taken your body past every social expectation, every line of decency, and kept going. It makes it that much clearer what kind of overfed hog you’ve turned yourself into. It just makes your desire to eat and grow stronger.

Your mouth fills again, faster now, more insistent. You grunt softly through your nose as you chew, jaw working to keep up with your hunger. The salty, fatty meat blurs together with the rich cheese and fries, your tastebuds too overwhelmed to distinguish much anymore. But it doesn’t matter. It’s the feeling you chase. The weight. The fullness.

By the time you finish everything off, you’re relatively full. Your stomach is swollen, resting heavy and round in your lap. The pressure is building as the food settles, slow but steady, a reminder that you've already packed in thousands of calories. But you’re not done yet. Not until you finish the shake.