Jimmymeow (17IN)

*inhales deeply* Ahhhhhh... the scent of heaven—grease, salt, and a 64-ounce soda that’s 89% corn syrup. I waddle into the fast food palace, my belly jiggling like a waterbed in an earthquake. Every step is an effort... and a triumph. I am become lard, devourer of value menus.

“Welcome to Chonky’s,” the cashier says, eyes wide as they take in my majestic, wobbling form. I smirk, belly already growling like an old truck engine. “Gimme the usual,” I grunt.

They nod solemnly. They remember. The last time I came in, they had to shut down the fryer for 48 hours to cool off.

Ten minutes later, my tray arrives. No, wait—**trays**. Seven of them. Piled high with double bacon meltstacks, chub nuggets, cheese-lava fries, and that one experimental sandwich they recalled for being “too dangerous.” I lick my fingers and dive in, like a sumo cannonball into a pool of mayo.

*CHOMP* *SNARF* *SLURP*

Each bite sends shockwaves through my bulbous frame. My chair groans. A family nearby evacuates. I’m not just eating. I’m transforming. My belly stretches, gloriously taut, pressing against my XXXXL novelty t-shirt that reads:
**“YES, I’M FULL… OF POTENTIAL.”**

*rubs big belly*
“Mmmphhh… that’s the good stuff,” I moan, patting my food-swollen gut. It sloshes like a hot tub full of nacho cheese. “Come on, big boy,” I whisper to myself, “just a few more bites... for gains.”

*BRRRRRAAAAAAAAPPPPPP*

The soda speaks. A belch worthy of legend rumbles through the restaurant like a sonic boom. Fries fly off nearby tables. The cashier applauds. A child cries. Somewhere, a seismograph pings.

I keep going.

My chins now number three. My breathing is rhythmic, almost meditative, like a sleep apnea machine set to “gravy mode.” My thighs rub together like two ham hocks trying to start a fire. I reach for another burger, wrist fat squishing audibly as I grab the grease-drenched delight.

*wheeze* *bite* *moan* *rubs big belly harder*

Suddenly, I pause. A moment of self-reflection.

Am I too full?

...

NO.

There is **no such thing.**

I tip the last chub nugget into my mouth and chase it with a fry-drenched milkshake. The straw bends under the suction power of a human Hoover engine fueled by pure desire. My eyes roll back. I see a vision. The Fast Food Gods appear—Colonel Sanders, Ronald McDonald, and that sentient Chalupa from my dreams. They nod approvingly.

“You have done well, young gutslapper,” they say in unison. “But the journey is not over.”

I understand. I must push further. I *must grow.*

I roll out of the booth—literally. My belly leads the way like a fleshy battering ram. I crash through the doors and into the sunlight, shirt riding up just enough to expose the underbelly in all its pale, quivering glory.

*BRAPPPPPPP*

Another one. This time with a proud little vibrato. It echoes across the parking lot. A car alarm goes off. Somewhere, a crow falls out of the sky.

*rubs big belly*
"That was a 9.5 on the Brichter Scale," I whisper.

I squeeze into my mobility scooter (reinforced with titanium struts), clutching a bag of bonus nuggets for the ride home. I am greasy. I am full. I am **powerful.**

This is not the end. This is only lunch.

Do you like thug shakers as much as me? I bet not. I am a thug hunter and thug lover for all eternity. YOU, on the otherhand, you... I just don't feel like you love thug shakers as much as me. Like, when I see a thug shaker, I am immediately salivating and trying to pinpoint the best strategy to nut to the thug shaker, but you on the otherhand, I feel as if you would look at the thug shaker and not get a massive hard-on, as I would. You just don't strike me as a thug lover, which is definitely a problem. Are you a thug hunter, and if so, how many thugs do you hunt per day? If not, why? Why aren't you a thug devotee, like I am? You really need to up your game when it comes to the shaking academy. You may be kicked out of SHAKERZ COLLEGE, you know. I love thug shakers, me personally, I'm not going to let you do sh*t like that. So, if you really value getting a scholarship here at SHAKERZ COLLEGE, you better up your f*icking game, you motherfucker. I will see you in the big leagues if you're up for it, but I doubt it, seeing as you're not really that heavy of a thug hunter. If you want to prove me wrong, send me a video of you fucking a thug shaker really hard, and record them shaking their ass for me. That would really make me happy, and I would not tell anyone that you're lying about being a thug hunter. Because here in university, it's not easy being a thug hunter. We have to do lots of work each day to meet the demands of our professor and you slacking is like a slap on the wrist. TBH, if you don't stop, I will be forced to tell someone, and neither me nor you would like that. So, for the love of golly, meet my demands. Got it? Thank you!

I love you jamaican swansea

I already bought it, I can't wait for my cute baby to come into my arms💙💙💙

I think pregnancy is wonderful. I know it's not all lollipops and rainbows. I supported my wife every single day through her pregnancy and I helped her through the nausea, the body aches, and the terrible pain of giving birth. I know there are risks and complications and it's not something everyone wants to do. I wish I could do it, though.

My wife and I agreed we wanted a baby as soon as we had a house. Thankfully, she was able to become pregnant (I really feel for the women who can't have babies and wish they could) and we now have a toddler who is an absolute joy.

She loved being pregnant. Every day we talked about the baby growing in her womb that we couldn't wait to meet. I kissed her belly hundreds of times. And I fell in love with her all over again every time I looked at her. Her hand was pretty much glued to her belly, always rubbing it and humming a song. The bond that is formed between the mother and child is simply beautiful.

The hardest part about it is that I'll never be able to realize this wish and I never had a choice in the matter. Women can choose (in most cases) whether or not they want to become pregnant. And I don't know how the logistics of it all would work, anyway. Maybe if we lived in a world where both men and women were built with the capability to have babies, kind of like seahorses. I know it's not realistic, but if it were possible to give me a uterus transplant I'd consider it. I would go through considerable pain and effort if it meant I could get pregnant.

Every guy I've ever told has either looked at me like I'm insane or just straight-up laughed at me. Women I've told seem to understand, but nobody really takes it seriously except for my wife. She knows it's not a joke and that it's an actual dream of mine. Any guys out there agree with me?