tffm1m2 - Tumblr blog

tffm1m2 · 8 days ago

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Chubby muscle or chubby flab

I guess chubby muscle? Lol better than just flab.”

Didn’t think twice. I dropped the phone, let it tumble somewhere into the couch cushions, and went to pour another drink. But that’s when I felt it.

This pressure, building in my gut, like I’d eaten something bad — except it spread. I staggered, sloshing wine on the floor, gripping my stomach.

“Fuck... what the hell...”

I stumbled into the bathroom, switching on the harsh light. My face looked... flushed. Sweaty. I wiped my brow. My hand came away dripping. I hadn’t moved much, but I was sweating like I’d just finished a cardio session — and my heart was pounding, loud in my ears.

When I blinked awake again, I felt... weird. Sweaty, hot, like I’d just run a mile even though I hadn’t moved. My gut was cramping hard. I stumbled up, my belt digging into my waist, and waddled to the bathroom, unbuttoning as I went.

By the time I got the light on, I was soaked in sweat, like someone had dumped a gym towel over my head. My shirt clung to my chest, but not in the way it usually did. My body felt heavy — not in a “too much Thai takeout” way, but dense. Thick. My arms looked... fatter? But also... bigger?

I grunted. Loud. My voice sounded... deeper. Raw. Like I had a sore throat but also like I’d been screaming at a football game all day.

I ripped the shirt open — literally ripped, buttons popping, one bouncing into the sink — and that’s when I saw it. My chest was puffed out. My pecs... swollen, not cut like a bodybuilder, but thick. Round. There was a fat layer over solid muscle, like I’d been bulking hard without cutting. And my nipples — were they bigger? Darker?

“The fuck...?” I growled at the mirror, but my reflection didn’t answer.

Instead, I leaned in, my face flushed and puffy, sweat streaming down from my forehead. My jaw looked wider, squarer. My neck... thicker. There was stubble on my cheeks, but it looked... darker? Like my beard had shifted color.

I grabbed my gut. My abs — gone. In their place was a bulging, heavy beer belly, but when I flexed... I could feel muscle beneath it.

“What the hell’s happening...” I muttered, but then — crack — pain shot through my right leg. My knee buckled. I collapsed onto the toilet lid, grabbing at my knee. “Fuck!”

It felt shredded. Like I’d torn something. The pain was real. Deep. Like I’d blown my ACL mid-play. My vision blurred for a second, and in that haze, memories I didn’t have exploded in my skull: me in a football jersey, stadium lights, people chanting my name — Trevor, was that my name? No, no, I’m... I’m... Fuck, what’s my name again?

I sat there, groaning, sweating like a pig, holding my busted knee. My thoughts slowed. Sludged. I couldn’t focus. What day was it? What year was it?

I glanced back in the mirror. My face — no, his face — was red, bloated, nose a little crooked like it’d been broken once. My eyes looked dull, confused, but horny. Real horny. My cock was hard, pressing against the zipper of my slacks. Why the hell was I hard?

I pulled my pants down and saw it — my cock was fatter. Not longer, just thicker. And my balls? Fuckin’ huge. I sniffed — I reeked of sweat and something else, something rank. Like locker room funk.

And then I grinned. A dumb, cocky grin stretched across my bloated face. I looked good, didn’t I? Big. Manly. Real fuckin’ manly. I flexed my arm, watching my soft, muscled bicep bulge. “Still got it,” I muttered, not even knowing why I said it.

Still got what?

A sudden urge hit me, like a craving — to brag. To talk about football. Lifting. Getting pussy. I didn’t even like pussy. I was gay, wasn’t I? I had a boyfriend... fuck, what was his name? Shit, did I have a boyfriend?

My brain throbbed. A headache slammed behind my eyes like I’d taken a helmet-to-helmet hit. My ears ringing, and BOOM — another memory slammed in. College locker room. I was Trevor. Starting tight end. Junior year. Blew out my knee. Never went pro. Been angry ever since.

No. NO. That wasn’t me. That was... someone else.

I clutched the sink, staring at my reflection. My gut hung over the waistband of my boxers now, which were soaked in sweat. My chest heaved, and I felt hungry. Horny. Angry. My knee throbbed, but I could still lift, couldn’t I? Yeah. I was still jacked. Just chubby. Strong under the fat. Like a real man.

I didn’t notice my phone buzz again. Another DM: “Enjoyin’ that chub muscle, bro?”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy flexing my pecs, bouncing them in the mirror like I’d done it a million times. “Fuck yeah,” I grunted. “Still got them college gains... still got it... fuckin’ hot... chicks still want this...”

I belched loud — the stink of beer and protein farts filling the room — and then laughed. Deep, dumb laughter. I couldn’t stop. My brain felt broken. Slow. Like I’d taken too many hits. Like maybe I had CTE. Like I’d never be smart again.

But I didn’t care.

All I could think about was getting laid.

And maybe hitting the gym.

And fuck... talking about the glory days.

“Yo, I used to play D1 ball, you know that?” I said to nobody, voice cocky, dumb, like I was always bragging.

I couldn’t remember who I used to be anymore.

I don’t know how long I stood there in the bathroom, shirtless, sweating like a pig, just staring at myself in the mirror.

Flexing.

Panting.

Touching my swollen gut, jiggling it, then tensing it like I could will abs back into existence. But there weren’t any abs. Just beef — thick, soft, with that hard core underneath from years of lifting.

Wait.

What years of lifting?

My thoughts hit a wall. Hard.

I tried to remember my job, my apartment, my boyfriend — fuck, didn’t I have a boyfriend? I used to care about stuff. Politics. Books. I was smart. Sharp. Now? I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think. My brain felt like it was full of cotton balls and testosterone.

And all I wanted was to fuck.

And maybe eat like four cheeseburgers.

I stank, too. Like pure jock funk. My pits reeked. My ass? Rank. But I liked it. It was me, right? A man’s man, yeah? I belched loud, laughed dumber.

“Fuck yeah, Tank’s still got it,” I muttered, running a meaty hand over my pecs, bouncing them. Slap, slap. That sound? Hot.

Wait.

Who’s Tank?

I stumbled out of the bathroom, my right knee throbbing. I couldn’t bend it right. I limped, grunting, every step making me sweat more. I needed a drink. Something strong. I needed to fuckin’ unwind, man.

Back in my living room, I spotted my phone — screen still glowing — next to my discarded wine glass. Wine? Pfft. Fuck that. I needed beer. Or whiskey. Something manly.

Another DM.

“Tank bro, how’s the gains? Still thinkin’ chubby muscle’s better?”

I stared at the words. My brain ached. “No… my name’s not… not Tank…” I whispered, but my voice sounded uncertain.

I rubbed my dull forehead, now glistening with sweat again. My fingers scraped over my buzzed hair. Hadn’t it been long earlier? Styled? Now it was short, like I’d just shaved it with clippers in a locker room bathroom.

“Bro, I ain’t… I ain’t no fag, right?” I whispered.

Where the fuck did that come from?

I winced, clutching my temple. My brain pulsed. CTE, a voice whispered. I knew that word. “Chronic… Chronic Traumatic…” Shit, I couldn’t finish it. My concussion history, right? I took too many hits back in the day. My head — fucked. That’s why I get so mad now. Why I can’t think straight.

Was that me? No. NO.

I looked around my apartment — but it wasn’t my apartment.

Gone were my bookshelves, my framed art, my little succulents on the windowsill. Instead, there was a massive TV, dumbbells on the floor, a stinking gym bag wide open with sweaty jockstraps hanging out.

On the coffee table? A bottle of protein powder. Half-empty can of chewing tobacco. My old wine glass now full of what smelled like straight Jack Daniels.

I limped over, snatched it, and downed it in one go. Burned like hell. Made my cock throb again.

Knock knock.

Someone at the door. I opened it, still shirtless, boxers stretched tight over my massive quads and swollen gut.

She stood there.

Madison.

Hot. Blonde. Crop top, tight jeans. Huge tits. Dumb smile.

I knew her.

Knew her body. Knew her smell.

But I didn’t know how I knew her.

“Hey, Tank,” she giggled, “You forgot we were hanging out today?”

I just stared.

“Who the fuck…?”

She rolled her eyes, stepping inside, brushing past me. “You always forget. Ever since that damn knee, you’ve been lazier than ever.”

She grabbed my crotch. I groaned. Instantly hard. Like steel.

“Damn, babe, you’re fuckin’ leaking again.”

She licked her fingers. I moaned. My brain felt like it was melting. I needed to fuck. Breed. Fill her up. She was mine, right? My girl.

But…

“No… I don’t… I used to be someone…” I said, eyes wide, drool leaking from my lip.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, pulling her top off. “You used to play D1 ball. Now you’re just my big, dumb, horny retired stud.”

She bent over the couch.

My body moved on instinct.

I grabbed her hips, my cock raging, my belly slapping her ass.

“Fuck, I used to be…” I moaned.

“Used to be what, big guy?” she teased, wiggling.

My brain shut off.

I thrust, hard.

All I could think was:

“I used to be smart... now I’m just Tank.”

And Tank fucks.

I wake up every day feeling like I got hit by a goddamn freight train — not just my knee still killing me, but my head pounding like a war drum. My brain’s fuzzy, thick, like someone stuffed it with peanut butter and slammed it shut.

But my body? Fuck, my body’s alive.

I’m a chubby muscle beast. Thick arms, huge gut, swollen pecs I bounce like I’m still the king of the damn locker room. The fat hangs soft but under it all? Steel. Hard muscle I flex constantly — and I can’t stop staring at myself in the mirror.

My face? Puffy, ugly-ass, red like I spent the night puking in a gutter. My hair? A buzzcut that itches like hell. Beard’s patchy but dark and scruffy — perfect for looking like a dumb, angry ex-jock with a busted knee and no future.

And holy shit, the horniness.

It’s like a fire in my gut I can’t put out. I wake up hard, go to bed hard, and all day I’m thinking about the same thing — breeding. Not just sex. Breeding. Pumping some poor girl full of my seed so she can carry my legacy. Because I’m Tank now. The alpha. The dude who used to be somebody.

Only I’m not.

I’m just some dumbass with CTE and a torn ACL who can’t even walk right without limping like a damn old man.

I tried to hold onto my old self once. Tried to remember my life before this—books, politics, my gay pride. But it’s like those parts of me are dead, buried beneath layers of sweat, muscle, and an ever-growing pit of rage.

I’m angry all the damn time.

I yell at the TV — sports channels only, always. Football. College football. I rant about “what could’ve been” every damn day. The pain in my knee? Constant reminder that I’m broken. But I keep lifting, keep bulking, even though every rep hurts like hell. Because I have to prove something.

To who? Hell if I know.

Girls? They’re everywhere. My dumb instincts crave them. Soft skin, curves, warm bodies pressed against mine. I don’t even know their names half the time. All I know is the need — that primal, stupid, breeding urge that pushes me forward.

I got a girl, or three. They call me “Tank” like I’m some prize stud. I don’t care. I just want to fuck. Hard, fast, like I’m racing a clock I can’t beat.

Every time I’m inside one of them, feeling her tight around me, I remember a flash of something else — a scared, smart guy who used to read books, argue about politics, cry over bad movies and heartfelt music.

But that guy’s dead.

I hate that guy.

I’m a dumb, horny musclehead now.

And sometimes, when I’m lying there sweaty and spent, I whisper to myself:

“I’m not me anymore. I’m Tank. I’m the guy who used to be somebody. And I’ll fuck anyone to prove it.”