Fat Dad Club, part 4 (Patreon)

JOE

4:00am

‘Waaaaaahhhh!’

Darcy stirred, twisting the bedsheets, contorting them away from Joe.

‘Joe, the baby’s crying…,’ she muttered drowsily. ‘It’s your turn…’

‘Mmmmph…’ Joe’s face was planted deep into a pillow, his bottom lip stuck there with a little drool. ‘Mmmmph…’

‘… Joe…!’ Darcy repeated.

‘Mmmwhatsssthe… wha…?’

‘Lucia’s crying… she needs you…’

Joe pulled his head from the warm cradle of the pillow, feeling at no sheets over his body with unresponsive limbs. His eyes wouldn’t focus, but on the baby monitor he saw the blurry blob of Lucia wiggling her arms and head about.

‘It’s… your turn…,’ he countered, wanting nothing but to return to the sweet embrace of sleep.

Darcy thumped his side none too subtly. ‘… Fuck it is…!’

‘Fuckin… c’mon, man…,’ Joe said.

Lucia’s wails were penetrating through the walls. Probably pissing off the neighbors again.

‘It’s your turn, “Fat Dad”,’ she said with trace spite.

Darcy had made no secret of how she felt about Joe’s ballooning size. It’d almost been miraculous how fast she’d dropped her pregnancy weight, diligently running and training any spare hour she could catch. And it was obvious there’d been an expectation for Joe to follow suit, that he would work to retain the defined muscle he’d carried for most of their relationship, but instead he’d forged ahead in the opposite direction - eating like crazy, filling his face, blowing his belly up into a massive great sphere. He got heavier and heavier, took up more and more space, his gut now beginning to bump into things - he’d knocked over a potted plant the other day just by turning on the spot. 

None of this Darcy found at all endearing. 

‘Get off your fat ass, Ramirez,’ Darcy told him, shunting at his bulbous torso, causing it to wobble and bob like a water-balloon filled with thick custard.

Joe sighed. ‘God… fuckin’… just give me a second, jeez…’

He turned over, looked to his favorite tattoo of hers, a mirthful-looking whale on her thigh.

‘Whaley says it’s your turn…,’ he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

She let out a nasally laugh but still sounded semi-serious, ‘Whaley says no such fucking thing. And don’t you dare besmirch his good name.’

‘Alright, alright, alright, alright…,’ he trailed off, heavily slipping his bulk from the bed, scratching his hefty dad-gut and pulling his underwear back up across the wide expanse of his growing ass. ‘I’m up… I’m up…’

‘She’s prolly hungry…,’ Darcy yawned, already laying back into her sleeping position.

Aren’t we all, thought Joe.

He padded sleepily across the hall to tend to his daughter. Mercifully she was back off to sleep in little time. But Joe didn’t copy her. He was no longer in the mood to drift back off in his bed.

He rubbed his now impressively large tank of a gut as he stepped heavy-footed into the kitchen, opening the fridge on a kind of autopilot and flooding the room with its stark bright light. One hand still on his belly, he grabbed a four pack of beers and as many snacks as he could, stacking them onto the counter beside him before using his extruding ass cheeks to close the refrigerator door.

He took his bounty to the garage. 

Joe’s garage had become his binge-eating haven of late. What had started as a sort of late-night-snack-treat-one-off thing was now a nightly occurrence. Wife and daughter asleep, he was free to pig out as much as he wanted. 

He sat back in a foldout picnic chair that was surely reaching its weight limit, and cracked open a Budweiser. Between slugs of beer he dipped his hand into a family-sized pack of M&Ms and chomped, zen-like, releasing a sigh of contentment. He loved eating, or overeating, honestly. He loved filling the tank with beer too. Loved feeling the growing curve of it, bowing out bigger and bigger over time. When he stood, or walked, or bent over, he felt his mammoth dad-gut weighing him down, newly fattened parts of his body touching that had never previously done so. He loved that his belly was getting to be so round and heavy that his back was arching a little to compensate. He felt hot, and masculine, and it’d been no exaggeration when he’d told the Fat Dad Club that girls were into it. He did the supply-run at the grocery store and the ladies would stare at his gut sticking right out from beneath his vest top, sometimes flashing him a little smile. It made him feel like he was still wanted, in actuality. 

He patted the tank a few times, drinking on and smiling to himself. Beside him was the garage gym he’d assembled and now never used. Only Darcy lifted the weights and ran the treadmill these days. And he looked to his disused drum kit in the corner; that one was a little more lamentable. He really missed drumming. Missed being in the band, out on tours with the guys, fucking living it up.

He missed being free. 

Most emblematic of this was his motorbike - his Triumph Bonneville. His goddamned pride and joy. Well, it had been once, anyways. 

Oh sure, he loved being a father and he loved Darcy, but God-fuckin-damn did he miss going out on that hog, just riding around, not even knowing where, giving zero shits.

He chowed down on some raw cookie dough, and thought about breaking out the icecream. He didn’t know how much weight he’d gained lately, but it was probably a lot. None of his clothes fitted right, and he was kinda putting off buying new ones since he got such a kick out of his dadly flesh bulging out for all world to see (Darcy hated it). The bike could take a lot more weight so he wasn’t worried about that.

Joe didn’t worry much about anything. 

And that was the key to good living. 

Fat Dad Club convened at a burger joint called Hot Buns that following week. The place was pretty no-frills but good God did they make mighty fine burgers. 

Joe felt a swell of pride, arriving to find the fat dads each tucking into starters and looking even heavier than the last time. Seemed Henry had bought himself a new suit, even; Christ, he was getting huge. Boony looked thicker, and Carl… Carl was practically exploding out of his polo, every part of him encased in fatherly flab. They were a growing bunch, and no longer coy about it.

Over his delicious meaty burger with all the trimmings, Joe asked, ‘Hey, you guys wanna stay out after this? Do a little partying? Get in on some beers?’

‘Uh, okay, sure,’ Carl nodded, wiping mayonnaise from the corners of his mouth.

‘I can’t, I have to grade papers tomorrow and I need to be up, I’m sorry,’ Boony said. ‘Plus Gus is back from New York and… I just shouldn’t stay out late, sorry.’

‘No worries, Boony, my man, no worries,’ Joe pushed a few ketchup-laden fries into his mouth. ‘Next time, though, okay?’

Boony smiled and nodded.

‘Where did you have in mind, José?’ Henry asked. ‘I think most venues in town will be closing soon.’

‘Well, you got The Dugout,’ Joe replied, sipping on a thick vanilla shake. ‘That joint stays open late, I know that.’

‘The gay club?’ Boony smirked inquisitively.

‘Yeah, but fuck it, you know, I don’t mind,’ Joe shrugged. ‘Carl, do you mind?’

Carl also shrugged, making a curious expression. 

‘Colonel, what do you say?’ Joe asked Henry who was now pleasantly rubbing down the sides of his expanded tummy.

‘Well, I’ve never been much of a clubber, if that’s what it’s called,’ Henry replied, and then picked up his margarita. ‘But here’s to new experiences.’

‘Fuckin aye,’ Joe nodded.

The Dugout contained a couple of dancefloors and a few bar areas, the quietest of which was located toward the back of the place, where the fat dads took up residence, ordering beers and watching the lithe, energetic youth of Maupinton roll past.

‘Good grief,’ remarked Carl, casually running his hand over his polo’d gut. ‘Everyone here - I’m old enough to be their dad!’

‘Try getting to my age,’ Henry interjected. ‘I could be their grandfather!’ And the two of them clinked glasses and drank. 

‘Pffft,’ countered Joe, noticing one or two twinks openly staring at his balloon-belly. ‘I bet you two have still got the moves. Colonel, you never come out dancing with your hubby? You know, you should bring him along to Fat Dad Club some time, man.’

‘We’d love to meet him,’ Carl added. ‘He doesn’t have to be fat like us, haha. It’s just a name.’

Joe sipped happily from his pint glass, watching Henry deliberate before answering. He’d handed in his suit jacket at the door and presently sported a sharp waistcoat and shirt without his usual tie; probably his idea of relaxed get-up.

‘Ahhh… my, uh… my husband passed away two and a half years ago,’ Henry eventually said. 

‘Ohhhh shit, I’m sorry, man,’ Joe replied. 

Well that explained the lack of a ring on Henry’s finger; Joe had just assumed his hands had gotten too fat for it, and now felt pretty shitty for thinking that.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Carl. ‘We didn’t know.’

‘Dude, I feel like an asshole,’ Joe went on.

‘No, no, please don’t,’ Henry held up his hand. ‘I wasn’t sure… about… Well, some people don’t like to hear…’

Joe slapped a hand onto Henry’s shoulder, a fair bit higher up than his own. ‘Dude, we’re your bros now, okay? You can talk to us about anything.’

‘That’s, uh… you know, if you want to,’ Carl said. 

Henry patted Joe’s hand with a half-smile. ‘Thank you, both of you.’ Then he paused, drank more, and added, ‘His name was Charles.’

‘Well then,’ Joe lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to Charles.’

‘To Charles,’ Carl said, raising his own drink. 

And Henry let out a sigh that could have been sad or happy or relieved or all three, it was hard to tell. He looked like he might say something, but then simply nodded instead. 

‘Colonel,’ Joe continued, ‘he must have been one hell of a guy to have been your husband.’

Henry laughed and reluctantly agreed, ‘Maybe.’

They drank into the night, three contented, settled, fat dads filling their substantial stomachs with more and more beer, enjoying the moment, and the company.

‘Gentlemen,’ Joe addressed them, now fueled with plenty of alcohol, ‘I do believe it’s time for some dad-dancing.’

‘Ohh no no,’ Carl laughed. ‘I only know the bossa nova and this ain’t that, haha.’ He pointed to the speakers above pumping out whatever the latest pop music was.

‘Aww, come on,’ Joe bopped his shoulders up and down some, causing his mighty ballbelly to jiggle and bounce. ‘I can’t dance for shit. You gotta join me, haha.’

Carl protested more, but was bobbing his head along to the music, and then tapping his toes. Joe started clicking his fingers like a dork. He didn’t care. Pretty soon the two of them were shuffling with abandon in true dad fashion, and Joe said, ‘Hey, where’s Henry?’

Carl responded with a ‘smooth’ expression and jerked his thumb behind him.

There, against a rear wall, a younger cubby-looking guy had gotten talking to Henry, eyeing his generous bulk pretty openly.

‘Colonel, you dog!’ Joe said, unheard by Henry and his new acquaintance. ‘Fucking go get it, dude, haha!’

‘I think he might have bagged himself a date,’ Carl noted.

They watched as the younger man took Henry by the hand and led him away from this room, out of sight.

‘Ohhh shit, son!’ Joe exclaimed, nodding and swigging in approval.

Carl laughed in agreement.

‘Okay, so bossa nova, right?’ Joe asked him.

‘I took some lessons,’ Carl admitted, still shimmying his girth to the music. ‘But that’s not what they’re playing right now. I don’t know what this is, haha.’

‘Well, you know, just, like, show me anyway, dude.’

‘Ohhh, nobody wants to see that. I’m rusty as heck, for starters.’

‘Ahh come on, I wanna see it. Is it like this?’

Joe performed some atrocious, awkward salsa-ish moves, drink in hand.

Carl’s whole fat, pillowy body convulsed in laughter. It caused a rippling effect among his rolls. ‘No, that’s… I don’t know what you call that, haha. It’s more like… more like… Okay, hold on…’

He made a short box-step, suddenly breaking into a fluid, flawless rhythm with his feet.

‘Fuuuck, dude, you’re good! How’d you get so good?’

‘Ahhh,’ Carl waved a chubby hand. ‘As I said, I took a few lessons, gosh, looong time ago, heh.’

‘Show me. Like this?’

Joe’s mimicry of the steps was a booze-addled abomination.

‘You gotta… put your - put your hips into it more.’

‘… I am, aren’t I?’

Carl let out one of his now-infamous chuckles that the rest of the dads found so hilarious while Joe repeated the exact same mistakes.

‘Haha! Oh gosh…’

‘Show me then, bud. I got two left feet.’

‘Alright…’ Carl drew in closer and made the box-step, slower this time. ‘Just… do what I do…’

It was lost on Joe. He really was terrible at dancing. He’d never get the rhythm, he knew, but there was a pleasure in watching Carl’s big, masculine frame going through the motions, watching the expanse of the man flow and wobble here and there as his feet expertly slid around the dance floor. 

Beer now emptied, Joe took Carl’s hands and placed them onto his own hips.

‘Show me,’ he repeated.

Carl looked up at him, drunkenly confused and amused. ‘Uhhh, okay, hehe.’ And he swayed his own hips whilst moving Joe’s in unison, their hands still atop one another.

‘Am I doing it?’ Joe asked, staring back into Carl’s eyes.

Carl blinked and swallowed. ‘You’re… Yeah, you’re… doing it…’

And even after this mini bossa nova lesson had been completed, the two big men remained in place, Joe’s expansive dad-gut now pressing up against Carl’s. He saw Carl’s weighty moobs rise up and down beneath that snug polo. Neither spoke.

Then Joe reached his face forward, and in that same moment felt Carl’s hands take his lovehandles.

They kissed.