Horny, Obese, and DTF

short story: A morbidly obese man takes one last shot at love

Wilfred woke up with an erection but couldn’t see it because his stomach was in the way. He reached down to get a hold of it, but his arm wasn’t quite long enough to get around his belly. If he really stretched his arm, he could get his middle and index fingers on the tip, but that wasn’t good enough to jerk himself off. He tried to rub the tip with his fingers anyways, hoping that could do something, but it only frustrated him more, which made him cry.

As the tears rolled down Wilfred’s chubby cheeks, he felt his erection go away, sinking back into blubber-inflated pelvic area and underneath his massive stomach gut. He was so ashamed of himself that he slapped himself in the face with the hand he tried but failed to masturbate with. 

“You fat, disgusting pig!” he said, and slapped himself again.”You don’t deserve to cum!”

He knew it wouldn't be long until he got another urge down there - they had been recurring more often lately, but he also knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, and this made him think bad thoughts, like putting a bullet in his head or swallowing some kind of poison. He didn’t like it when his head got into these dark spaces, he wasn’t really a depressive person. Wilfred was just a morbidly obese, 460-pound man who had never had sex and, after he put on the last 60 pounds, could not relieve himself, either.

After a few more hard slaps, Wilfred was ready to get out of bed, the jolt he got from the pain on his face giving him the spark he needed to begin the difficult undertaking of moving his massive body into a standing position.

He struggled to get out of bed, his gigantic outer body putting severe pressure on top of his weakened bones and muscles. He was used to this and rarely thought about it, but at that moment, it overtook his thoughts. At 35-years-old, in the physical condition he was in, he knew he wouldn’t be able to find a woman who would have sex with him.  He had considered a prostitute, but felt guilty about the idea, worried he’d be contributing to sex trafficking rings that abuse and exploit women. He also worried about getting caught and having his pathetic, sad-faced mugshot on the local TV news: Obese Man Busted in Prostitution Sting  - as his mother coughs up her tuna fish salad while watching the 10 o’clock news. He sometimes thought about her choking on that tuna fish, her last thought being that she raised a shameless fat pervert who used his disability money to buy abused women and abuse them further through rape and degradation. Then as the oxygen to her brain stopped, this image would be imprinted there, like a stamp, preserved and fossilized forever. 

Wilfred knew he was unlikely to get arrested, and the whole mental imprint thing was just a creation of his own imagination. In his mindset, however, it made perfect sense since sometimes our actions and lack of actions are controlled by our irrational inner worlds. But on his way to the toilet, he stopped in front of a mirror and looked at himself. His breasts drooped down to the top of his beach ball gut, which was flanked by love handles that looked like melted wax hanging off his sides. His upper body formed an umbrella over his marshmallow bag legs, and his entire body seemed to cover his pale white skin in dark blue varicose veins. He slapped himself in the face and watched his blubber shake. The sight sickened and shamed him, but the sight of the vibrating blubber intrigued him, so he slapped himself a few more times to watch. 

Years of diets and therapy did nothing but worsen the situation. Wilfred gave up trying to change his body and accepted his body as one accepts having a fatal disease, which he felt he did have, both physically and mentally, for morbid obesity is a combination of the two. These were just the cards he was dealt, and he would have to live - and die - with it. 

And death, he knew, would be coming sooner than later. His chest felt tighter every day. Breathing was getting harder every day. His bones were weakening from the massive weight he put on them. He could feel his body giving up. Death would be here before he knew it. And before he died, he wanted to experience real carnal pleasure - not the solo kind - just one time. He just wanted to know what it felt like to have your body make you feel good instead of tired and ashamed. 

He took a deep breath and looked up escorts online.

The photos he found weren’t as sexy as he thought. Most had their faces covered, which he didn’t like because he loved to look at girl’s faces, much more than their bodies. Many had very fake breasts, which he didn’t mind aesthetically, but the idea of having sex with somebody who cared about their body so much they go through the trouble of surgically enhancing it made him feel a tinge of guilt about his own appearance. 

Wilfred wanted someone who looked normal, but pretty. Just plain pretty, not super-human or video game vixen-like. Finally, he found one. When he saw her photo, he felt a tinge in his heart, and he wanted to be with her, close to her, right away. In her photo, she looked right at the camera, almost like a protest compared to the other women with blurred or blacked-out faces. And the normalcy of her face - a beautiful normalcy but a normalcy nonetheless - made her forthrightness even more rebellious. She was a brown-skinned brunette with a round face, slightly chubby cheeks and chin, big brown eyes, and long, black hair. Her body was buxom, natural curves, and the bikini she wore in the photo showed off her smooth, glistening skin. Wilfred touched her thighs on the computer screen, and doing this was enough of a transgression from his normal behavior that it gave him the courage to pick up his phone and dial the number listed for Diana. 

– Hello?

– Hi, um, I’d like to order a date, please.

– Are you a cop?

– No, I’m not.

– 150 for an hour, 250 for two. No anal. No bareback.

– Okay.

– Where you at?

– 1632 Tremville Road, Palmetto Bay.

– Okay, that’s a little far, so an extra $50 for gas.

– That’s fine.

– I can be there in half an hour.

– Okay, but um, I have a question.

– Yeah?

– Well, it’s about me. I want to make sure you’ll be okay with me.

– STDs?

– No, none at all.

– Then what?

– It’s just that…I’m very big.

– Oh, is that right? Don’t worry, champ. I’ve been around.

– No, I mean me. I’m a big person. I’m obese.

– Who isn’t a fat fuck these days? You want a date or what?

– It doesn’t bother you?

– I don’t have time for this. You want this date or not?

– I do.

– Okay, text me your address, venmo me the $50 for gas. That doesn’t count toward the fee. You pay that when I get there. 

– I have to pay for gas first?

– That’s my standard operating procedure. Take it or leave it.

– Yeah, okay. Sure.

– When I get the $50, I go. 

Wilfred sent the money. As soon as he did, he wished he hadn’t.  It meant he was involved in something, which was something he wasn’t used to. When you spend most of your time alone, getting involved in any situation with another person can be terrifying. That this involved sex with a stranger - and an illegal act punishable with prison - heightened his fear and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. For a second, he felt relieved - maybe he would die before he had to make a decision to back out or go through with it. But the pain went away and he knew it was a false alarm. Maybe he would have to go through with it after all. 

She sent a text: Got it. Will be there in 20.

Wilfred stared at the message for several minutes, fantasizing about the woman on the other end. Her picture showed her to be a leggy, white brunette with perky fake breasts and a small but well-shaped ass - no money left over for enhancement there, he thought. He couldn’t see her face in the photo - it was blurred - but he imagined her to have a beautiful one, knowing she probably didn’t, but hoping she would, nonetheless. 

For 20 minutes, Wilfred sat on the couch, thinking about how every sexual experience he ever had was experienced either completely alone or with the aid of computer pixels showing images of surgically-enhanced women - a fake version of fake women.

This didn’t make him feel ashamed so much as it made him resentful of the whole idea of sex, how integral sex was to the survival of the species, and how much space it took of his own thoughts. Sex was a burden - a burden that, for Wilfred, caused grief and shame, but never joy, since he had never had sex before. But that was about to change.

The text came in: “here.”

Wilfred got up as fast as he could, which wasn’t fast at all, and pulled back the curtain to look out at the front of his house. A green, slightly beat-up Toyota Tacoma pickup truck was parked in front. Wilfred didn’t know what kind of vehicles $150 an hour prostitutes drove, but pickup trucks, especially pickup trucks like this one, were not what came to mind. 

The driver-side door opened, and a white brunette in a blue tank top, denim skirt, and black leggings emerged. Wilfred knew it was her - the body shape was exactly as depicted in the photos. But he still couldn’t see her face, which was mostly covered in oversized sunglasses. The woman checked her phone and looked up at the house. She seemed unimpressed, which made Wilfred feel insecure - not that he expected people to be impressed by his house, but he wanted this woman to like him, and the only thing he felt he had of value - personally or financially - was his house. 

Wilfred opened the door as she was walking towards it. She took a look at him and stopped.

“Wow, you weren’t kidding. You are big,” she said. 

“Sorry,” Wilfred said. He felt tears welling up inside of him, even though he didn’t feel like crying. It was a reflex, one that evolved after years of disappointment and self-loathing. But he had learned how to mostly control it, and was able to keep the tears inside.

“Is it okay?” he said, almost whispering. 

“Venmo me the $200 now, and it will be,” she said.

“I thought it was $150.”

“Overweight baggage fee.”

Wilfred had to fight a little harder to keep the tears inside as he picked up his phone to send the $200, but he succeeded.

“Got it,” she said and walked inside.

As she walked past Wilfred, she realized just how big he really was, especially compared to her. He was at least a foot taller than her, she estimated, which meant he was at least 6’3” since she was a petite 5’3”. As for weight, she could only take a wild guess - 400 pounds? 500? He definitely looked like one of those people on those TV shows where the people are so fat they can’t get out of the house. When she thought of that, she looked over at the doorway and then at him.

“You’re able to fit through that?” she asked.

“I have a special door in the back,” Wilfred said. “But I don’t use it very often.”

Her real name was Alex, short for Alexandria, but she started going by “Honey” when she went “pro” two years ago. And mention of the special door that Wilfred needed just to leave his house made her think about how disgusting it would be to fuck him, which caused Alex to have a flashback to the first time she ever had transactional sex, back to when she was 15 and gave a blowjob to a guy who was 21, so he could buy her and her friends some beer. At the time, she wanted to do it - she thought the guy was hot, and it was just a fun, stupid thing to do. But it led to another transaction with somebody else a few weeks later (concert ticket), which led to another with somebody else (more booze and an ounce of weed), and by the time she was 18, she was strung out on meth and fucking truckers at a gas station outside Dallas for $50 a pop.

Three years later, at the ripe old age of 21, she was a seasoned pro and occasionally got thousand-dollar-an-hour gigs with the better escort agencies. But those gigs were too sporadic to rely on, so she did these $150-an-hour gigs to supplement her income. 

Looking at Wilfred, she now realized that the blowjobs at trucker stops were low, but those men were just horny assholes who would have put their dick in any hole, and she was an addict willing to be a hole. It made sense in that it was two people desperate for something could come to a mutual understanding long enough to achieve their goals. But this was something different. The man she was about to have sex with for $200 (plus $50 for gas) was a physical freak and social outcast who was nauseating to look at. She actually felt sick to her stomach when she saw his humongous, fat-enclosed head on top of a small mountain of shapeless lard that somehow had workable limbs attached to it. And the smell he emanated was a mix of foul body odor, week-old bacon grease, and fatigue, which she didn’t realize had a smell until now. She thought of animals who could smell human emotions and realized she could smell not only Wilfred’s fatigue, but his shame and self-loathing, too. It all combined for a smell that made her want to run out of the house and enroll in a community college to study something, anything, that would not involve pathetic men with penises. 

And that’s what she decided to do. 

“I always ask the customer to wash up before we get to it,” she said. “Would you mind?”

The tears were starting to well back up in Wilfred’s chest. He wanted to accommodate her request, but he couldn’t.

“That takes a lot of time for me,” he said. “I can’t take a regular shower. I have to draw a bath. But I did take one this morning, so I’m clean.”

“A simple rinse will do,” she said. “Just give me some piece of mind, will you?”

She flashed a cutesy smile and winked.

“Please,” she said. “When you come out, I’ll be ready.”

“Okay,” Wilfred said. “For you.”

Wilfred waddled over to the bathroom and went inside. But he didn’t close the door. He kept it wide open as he pulled down his sweat pants and lifted up his overhanging gut to find his genitals, which he did after much effort, and sprayed them with water from a special hose connected to the bathtub faucet for just this purpose.

Alex watched this with disgust and intrigue. She couldn’t believe somebody was so damn fat. So fat they could barely find their own dick and balls? How was that even possible? She wanted to sit and marvel at the monstrosity, like somebody in a zoo who can't look away from an animal that repels them, such as a giant cockroach or two-headed snake, but she had to make a run for it. She grabbed her purse and made a beeline to the front door.

Wilfred saw her. He expected it. 

“If you stay, I’ll give you a five-thousand dollars,” he said.

`Alex, her door on the doorknob, stopped and turn around.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. I know this is not easy to work with,” he said, waving his hand over the giant pile of gut blubber sagging down to his knees. “I can give you five thousand. It’s all I have.”

Alex took a step forward but stopped.

“Send it now,” she said, grabbed his phone off the living room table, and tossed it to him. He missed it with his hands, but it landed on his belly. He picked it up and sent Alex $5,000. Then, feeling bold now that he had given this woman so much money, he lifted up his belly and held his dick in his hand.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Alex thought about running out the door, but she remembered that case from a few years ago where a prostitute ran out of a client’s house before servicing him, and he shot her. That man got away with it because he said the woman was stealing from him, which, he argued, gave him the right to kill her under Texas state law, and a jury agreed. That was Texas. This was Florida, but Alex figured there’s probably a similar law here, so she didn’t risk it. Besides, for five thousand dollars, the disgusting pile of lard with a tiny dick didn’t look so disgusting. In fact, the experience might be interesting. Having this thought made Alex think that something ingrained in his brain made her become a prositute. Would a teacher or social service worker suddenly think it might be interesting to fuck somebody they found repulsive based on how much they were paid?

The money went through, and she said, “The hour started when I walked in the door. You have 50 minutes left.”

Wilfred led her to his bedroom, which Alex thought was surprisingly neat: No stray clothes or shoes lying around, extra-large bed made up perfectly, and a few small, tasteful house plants. She liked the room. She even thought a little better of Wilfred - he had a problem with his weight but seemed to be a put-together guy besides. That’s when she thought a bus ran into her back.

The force of Wilfred running into her back knocked the wind out of her. She fell face down on the mattress. She was able to turn her head just enough to get air. But the rest of her body was completely immobile under Wilfred’s massive weight. She got herself ready for Wilfred’s disgustingly pathetic and potentially painful (for her hips) thrusting, a desperate attempt at feeling like a man after years of failing to control his own appetite, but there was no movement. Wilfred was still. She could feel what she thought was Wilfred’s erect penis - a hard little point sticking into her right butt cheek. Wilfred was just lying on top of her, not moving. But he was breathing - a gurgling sound came out of his mouth and wheezing out of his nose. 

“What are you doing?” she said, her voice strained from the pressure.

Wilfred was having a heart attack. He knew it. He somehow had never had one before, but the stabbing pain shooting through his heart and paralyzing his whole body told him he was having one now. But through sheer will and an intense desire to have sex - greater than any man before him and probably after - he kept himself alive by the thought of having an orgasm with a woman under him. But his brain was fading out - the lack of oxygen causing everything to fade. His body was almost completely drained, and the pain was excruciating. However, he remained focused on his penis and the woman under him, whose name he never got.

With gargantuan effort, he managed to get these words out: “What. Your. Name.”

“Honey,” Alex said, giving her prostitute name.

Honey was Wilfred’s favorite food. He loved it on bread, in his cereal, he sometimes put honey on vanilla ice cream, and even the frosting on cake for that spectacular sugar variation sensation. The thought of honey on spongey cake splayed across his taste buds gave him newfound strength and, more importantly, a will that he had never had before. His suffocating brain created the most fantastic images of honey-covered food and naked women; jiggling breasts covered in honey; sculpted thighs smothered in honey; honey dripping off buxom asses. Every food and sex receptor in his brain was on rapid fire mode. The dopamine area of his brain was pumping out more of that pleasure crack than at any other point in his life, maybe more than anyone ever. He felt aggressive. He felt strong. He felt like his dick could smash through walls. He felt his body pummeling the woman under him. He felt that she was loving every second, experiencing both the most pain and pleasure she had ever experienced and wondering where this big, beautiful man had been all her life since nobody could even imagine fucking her as good as this.

But all that was just in Wilfred’s head. In reality, he was still gurgling, wheezing, and barely managing to move his pelvic area in an up and own motion. To Alex, or Honey, it felt more like a cell phone vibrating, if the phone weighed 600 pounds and smelled like dairy and sweat.

And that’s Wilfred let out a long, bullhorn-like fart that sounded like it was coming out of a deflating balloon. And then he plopped down and died. 

Alex knew right away that he was dead. The gurgling and wheezing stopped. The pathetic attempts at having sexual intercourse like a grown man had stopped. And the air smelled like rotten death, a smell she never smelled before but knew what it was right away. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was the warm, little wet spot on her thigh. 

As she struggled to get out from under Wilfred’s massive carcass, a few synapses in Wilfred’s brain were still firing from the last bit of oxygen still flowing through his skull. They created one last thought before fizzling out completely: “Finally.”

Alex eventually got out from under Wilfred. When she looked at his dead body, she thought of those beached whales that wash up from time to time. She always felt bad for those whales, but she didn’t feel bad for Wilfred. She didn’t know him, but she knew he must have lived a desperately sad life. She also knew that it was probably better this way. 

On her way home, she thought about using her money to start a new life, maybe study something healthcare-related. There seemed to be a lot of money in obesity.