Stoner Slob - Part 1

“Hey, Raymond!”

Raymond’s dealer went in for a hug with a giant grin. He used to ask him not to, but he seemed to think a name like “Raymond” meant he was obliged to do what the old sitcom said and show physical affection. Raymond hated it and the show, but he still lived in an illegal state and just couldn’t bear to burn this bridge--not when he was the best source of product in the county.

“Hey man,” Raymond muttered mid-hug. It always went on a moment too long--Greg was a hugger. He was also the stereotypical stoner: long hair, tie-dye t-shirt, ripped jeans, sunglasses, the whole nine yards. His apartment was a perpetual mess and utterly reeked of weed. It was a wonder his super didn’t toss him out on the street, but given the business he took in, he probably paid his rent on time and in full. These days, no landlord would throw out a tenant like that even if he dealt in narcotics. As far as Raymond knew, Greg just dealt weed.

“Got some new stuff today,” Greg said, finally down to business after a few minutes of small talk. “Potent, or so they tell me. I haven’t had any yet myself--got a thing for burning down a nug in progress before I move on to the next big thing. But trust me, this shit is next on my list.”

Raymond shrugged. “Sure, if you vouch for it. I trust your taste, man.”

“Most people do,” Greg replied with a confident grin. “Usual quarter for you, then?”

“Yeah,” Raymond said, handing over a wad of bills. Greg took them and then went into his room to start measuring out bud on a kitchen scale. After another 15 minutes of chit-chat, Raymond finally managed to extricate himself and head home. It had been a long day, but it was about to get a whole lot better.

Today was Raymond’s cheat day. Raymond had always struggled with his weight; growing up, his parents fed him burgers, soda, and fries on the regular, and that diet barely changed in college. Finally graduating at well over 300 pounds, Raymond’s first act after landing a job was to get a gym membership. Then came a rigid diet, and a few years later he’d managed to get himself within a hair's breadth of 210--his smallest since high school.

But Raymond still yearned for his childhood days of a diet filled with junk food, and as many diets do, he allowed himself one cheat day a week. It just so happened that Raymond lined his cheat day up with a refill of his chronic so he could fully enjoy the large pizza that was slowly burning his palm as he carried it through his front door.

He managed to lay out the large box on his kitchen table without burning himself too badly, then Raymond made his way to the bedroom of his apartment to strip down into something more comfortable. In t-shirt and track pants, he giddily made his way back to the kitchen with a small vaporizer in hand--his preferred method of imbibing marijuana without the negative side-effects of inhaling smoke.

Finally on the couch in front of the TV, Raymond carefully packed a small amount of weed into the vape and turned it on while searching for something to watch. He decided on a new standup special on Netflix and then reached for his first slice just as the vaporizer light indicated it had reached optimal temperature.

It was best to let the weed cook a moment, so Raymond scarfed his first slice using a patented method he’d learned as a professional eater in his younger years--folding the slice in half, stuffing it in his mouth, and then chewing as little as possible. He used to be able to finish off entire pizzas to himself with this method, but these days it was just a personal quirk he kept to himself for emergencies.

Wiping his hands clean first to avoid getting grease on the vape, Raymond exhaled to prepare himself for a long, slow inhalation. Weed wasn’t something he’d picked up until after he’d already blossomed into obesity, so he’d never really blamed his weight on the drug, and even after losing all that weight he had the mental fortitude to ignore the munchies whenever they arrived.

But this time… After one long drag, Raymond gently put down his vape and then devoured his pizza like he was back in middle school and was in the middle of another stupid eating competition with his friends. Tomato sauce covered his face, his hands, and the collar of his shirt as slice after slice went from table to mouth at a rapid pace.

And as they did, Raymond’s physique unraveled. His years of dieting and near-daily trips to the gym seemed to fade from his body as Ray’s slight muffin top began to pooch out further and further, every slice adding pound after pound to love handles that had laid dormant on his hips. Soon they were joined by a pot belly that filled in the sagging skin of Raymond’s middle, hibernating lipids awoke and expanded pulling taught Ray’s comfy tee until a slice of his softening middle became clearly visible between the hem of his shirt and the flexible waistband of his track pants.

It wasn’t until Ray heard his shirt begin to tear that he realized what was happening, and yet he didn’t see any reason not to reach for the few remaining slices of pizza. After all, so what if he got fat? He’d been fat for most of his life and it never really bothered him until after graduation. Why should it bother him now?

A strange feeling of anxiety washed over him, as though there was something deeply wrong with those thoughts, but Ray couldn’t quite place what it was. Instead of dwelling on it, he reached for his spliff and took another drag, holding the smoke in his barrel chest a few moments before exhaling a plume into the room. As he did, his apartment changed around him--dishes piled up in the sink, his bed became a riot of unfolded laundry and stained sheets, and his carpet grew cluttered with empty cans and game controllers.

The large box of pizza he’d finished off on his own had been replaced by two more boxes, still hot, still ready to eat. So eat Ray did, and with each slice he forgot the calorie-counting, twice-a-day jogging Raymond and remembered more of Ray, the college dropout that spent his days smoking weed, playing video games, and of course, eating, which he did with a gusto few could match.

Halfway through his second pizza, Ray’s chest burst through the pizza sauce-stained t-shirt that had been struggling to contain his growing bulk. Impressive man tits now sagged over a tank-like stomach covered in stretch marks. His comfy sweats now strained like overstuffed sausage casings around legs that were nearly twice the size they were just a few moments ago, while pudgy cheeks grew a five-o-clock shadow that drew down to the curly hair that coated Ray’s burgeoning man boobs.

Another pizza down and that strange anxiety was back once again. So once again, Ray reached down for his bong, grabbed his lighter, and ripped a great cloud of white smoke from his lungs. It was impossible for Ray to see through the haze that obscured everything in his room, but the dirty laundry covering his bed now spread to the floor, the dirty dishes now stacked as high as he was, and two empty pizza boxes that had been sitting alone on Ray’s living room table were now joined by dozens of compatriots.

Whatever anxiety Ray felt immediately fled from an onslaught of THC. A good bong rip like that always made Ray feel nice and relaxed, ready to eat another mountain of pizzas he’d managed to beg off his friend down at the pizzeria. They were all just going to be thrown out anyway, and there was nothing like pizza to quell the munchies--not that anything could really truly satisfy Ray’s appetite. He’d even signed up for a few competitive eating competitions just after graduating high school. It’s what made him into the man he was today--a near 500-pound eating machine.

At that thought, Ray exploded out of his clothes as roll upon roll of flab coated his body from head to toe. Wide enough to cover the sweat and food-stained sofa himself, the sweaty behemoth shoveled cold pizza into his maw in between breaths, heedless of the specks of cheese and grease that flew all over his chins, tits, and belly, his chest now stained an almost sickly shade of orange.

Another bong rip, another pizza, and Ray was in his own personal nirvana. He’d never felt better than when he’d stuffed himself to the brim while high as a kite, the twin satiations combined with his own jiggling flab always making him hard as a rock. It had been well over a decade since he’d even seen his own member, but he could still reach it so long as he laid back and let his belly flop over to the side.

But that was far too much effort. It was way easier (and hotter) to just rock his hips back and forth on the couch. As thick as his dick was, it wasn’t very long, and the fat cocooning his groin provided ample friction to get him off.

Ray had just started rocking while nibbling his last slice of pizza when he heard a knock at the door. Heaving himself up and not even bothering to put on clothes (nobody could see his hardon when he was standing anyway), Ray lumbered to the front door to see who had interrupted his self-care session.