Sexually Transmitted Fat - Part 4

I’d always been big. Not huge, but, y’know, hefty. Chunky. My squat frame and above average height meant I carried it pretty well, but there was no denying I was a fat boy. Had been since I’d been born.

And it sucked. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been passed up for promotion at work because of my size, or how many guys shoot down my advances for not wanting to fuck a fatty. Each time I’d go home and take solace in a tub of ice cream. Sometimes, it felt like ice cream was my only friend.

But I never let it get me too far down. I’d like to think I’m a pretty positive guy, y’know? People say it’s a redeeming quality. Which is a bit of a backhanded compliment, but even a backhanded compliment is still a compliment.

See? Positivity. It’s a good thing.

But I gotta admit, after the virus game, being a fat guy became even harder. It used to be that people just didn’t want to hang out with me--now they treat me like I have the plague. I’m fine, of course. I’d never gotten the STO virus like so many others. But it didn’t matter. I was fat and that meant I was infected, and no amount of negative test results would convince people otherwise.

About a month after the virus struck, my boss walked into my office and told me to pack my things. I was being let go. It didn’t matter that my boss had known me for years and had always known me to be big--my presence was starting to make others nervous. People were calling in sick saying that I was infected and they wouldn’t come to work until I left. Since I was in one of those “at will” states, there wasn’t anything I could do.

Being fat was bad for business, so I was out the door.

“That’s why I’m here, I guess--drowning my sorrows,” I said. I was already half in the bag, so I didn’t care who I talked to. I just wanted to talk to someone. Someone who didn’t care whether I was fat or not.

The other guy was big--bigger than me. By a lot. I was close to 300 lbs, but this guy was easily over 400 at least. Said he knew where I was coming from, that he too had always been a big guy, and ever since the virus he’d been out of work as well.

“Yeah, I feel ya,” he said. It felt genuine. He said it in that way that made it felt like there was a connection. A good one. Or maybe it was the booze. I dunno.

“So whattaya gonna do now?” He asked. I shook my head.

“I dunno. Maybe go home and cry a little? Eat some ice cream? The usual.”

“Come on now, that’s no way to spend an evening,” he said, offering his hand. “The name’s Giles. Why don’t you come on over to my place and we at least not be lonely?”

It sounded like an invitation for sex. I was quite surprised since this definitely wasn’t the type of bar to pick up, but then again, I was (mostly) drunk and thought that a night alone sounded a lot worse than a night with a random stranger.

I’d had sex a few times with bigger guys. I’m not one of those sizists that can’t get it up if there’s a little extra on the guy. Giles certainly had a little more than extra on his frame, with his big gut spilling over the belt of his jeans and a heavy double chin covering his neck, but the way he smiled just felt so warm and inviting. There was a twinkle in his eyes, a rosiness in his cheeks, and fuck me if I didn’t want to say yes.

So I said yes.