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bullh · 3 days ago

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How to Be an Alpha

A Big Belly Romance

“Fuck. They’re back,” I muttered to myself as Braden and his bros walked into my bar.

As always, Braden strolled in first, chest out, arms spread wide. He was tall and muscular, but he didn’t need to walk like that. It was just part of his act.

Five (less muscular) guys walked in after him, each aping his fake-macho stride.

And so it begins.

I didn’t know what his deal was. He came here every couple weeks, always on a Thursday evening. His friends were different every time, but there were always five of them. They sat in the same corner table, ordered the same type of beer, and acted like total dicks. I didn’t care that they disrespected me. (I’m a big guy. I can handle it.) But I hated how they treated my other customers. They leered at the woman and tried to pick fights with the men. They acted like they owned the place.

Braden lumbered up to the bar while his friends got comfortable around the table in the corner.

“Yo,” he said. He ordered six pints of Guinness, looking me dead in the eyes without blinking. “Not too much foam this time, kay big guy?”

He always said that last part.

“I’ll try my best.”

He nodded and went back to his friends. No smile. No “thank you.”

Honestly, I would’ve thought Braden was pretty hot if his attitude weren’t so toxic. He had a nice face. Very square-jawed. All-American. (He looked like someone straight from the 50s.) His body wasn’t that bad, either. He always wore tight black shirts that accentuated his chest muscles. Judging by his overdeveloped shoulders and arms (and his underdeveloped legs), he seemed like one of those guys who spent hours at the gym but only focused on his “glamor” muscles, the parts that made him look stronger than he really was.

He reached his crew, who all gazed at him like their hero, and sat on a stool. He man-spread as usual, and one by one, his friends copied the way he was sitting.

The rest of the bar was empty, so they didn’t have anyone else to bother. They talked for a while, Braden’s deep voice not quite loud enough to hear. One of his friends (the skinniest among them) asked him a question.

He laughed. “Fuck yeah, I can take him. You see how soft he is?”

I heard that. And I saw a few of his friends awkwardly glance toward me.

Seemed like a challenge. And after all his rude visits, maybe it was time to finally put that asshole in his place.

I knew I was stronger than him. I outweighed him by a hundred pounds, and while most of that was fat, I still had muscle underneath my flab. I didn’t go to the gym like he obviously did, but I earned my strength the natural way. Lugging boxes. Moving furniture. My roadside bar was a one-man show, which meant I had to do a lot of heavy lifting.

I balanced their six beers on a tray and headed over. As I passed them out, the skinniest guy thanked me.

Braden gave him a warning look, as if he wasn’t supposed to be polite. The guy regretfully looked into his lap.

“Can I get you guys anything else?” I asked, purposely accentuating the slight effeminacy in my voice. Despite being a large, bearded bear, my voice was just naturally high. Always had been. Sometimes, I’d code-switch, deepening it around certain customers. Right now, I chose not to.

Braden chuckled. “Naw, sir.” He emphasized “sir,” a veiled insult to my manhood.

“Sorry to eavesdrop,” I continued. “But I heard you say something like ‘I can take him.’ You weren’t talking about little old me, were you?”

Nervousness flashed across his face before he forced himself to regain his practiced, judgmental smirk. “Yeah.”

“Ooh,” I said, gaying it up a little. “I’ll give you my number.”

Braden’s face went blank. The others squirmed in their seats.

He jumped off his stool. “That’s not what I meant.” (He also called me the F-slur, but I refuse to write that word in this story.)

“Then what did you mean?” I asked innocently. “Arm wrestling?”

“Uh. Yeah!” He slammed his elbow on the table, widened his stance, and waited. Game on.

Two of his friends pulled out their phones to film us.

Braden’s bicep was huge, but I had no doubt that my flabbier arm was stronger. I hadn’t arm-wrestled in a while, though.

I grabbed his hand, met his eyes, and said, “Count of three?”

“Three. Two. One.” He cheated. He started pushing before he finished saying “one,” but it didn’t matter. It took me five seconds to slam his arm against the table. Piece of fucking cake.

The other guys had been laughing and cheering him on. When I won, they all went silent.

Braden glanced nervously at his friends. “I didn’t… He was…” All of his swagger was gone. “I want a rematch!” (He called me the F-slur again.)

“Sure,” I said flirtatiously. “How about tonight? My place?”

His jaw clenched. For a second, I thought he was going to punch me. He didn’t. He was too focused on his friends. He’d lost all their respect.

Three of them whispered to each other and headed toward the door. (I heard one of them say “refund.”)

“Wait,” he called. “That was a fluke.”

They were already gone.

He turned toward the two stragglers. They were still holding up their phones. “Stop filming!” His voice cracked.

They didn’t, so he reached across the table to grab their phones. Three of the beer glasses shattered on the floor. The others tipped over and covered the table (and his shirt) with Guinness.

The two guys started laughing. “Alpha my ass,” one of them said. They both walked backwards out of the bar, cameras still raised.

Now it was just me and Braden. If he was going to attack me, I’d be ready. He considered it. Then he backed off.

I watched him scurry out of the building, calling to his friends who were long gone.

Even though he didn’t pay for the six beers (or the three broken glasses), I let him go. Good riddance.

***

The next evening, Braden came back. For the first time, he was alone.

Because it was Friday, my place was busy. A few regulars sat at the bar, a group of old guys played pool, and his usual table was occupied by four truckers with bellies almost as big as mine.

He approached the bar with his head hung low.

“Welcome back,” I said. “Finally ready for a rematch?”

“A gin and tonic, please,” he muttered.

“No Guinness today?”

“Gin and tonic. And don’t worry. I’ll pay for the drinks from yesterday.”

That surprised me.

I poured him his drink, adding more gin than I normally would have. He needed it. He downed the whole thing, wiped his mouth, and asked for another.

I gave him a refill and he took a long sip. “I don't know what to do.”

I was about to check on my other customers, but this guy clearly needed someone to talk to. After how terrible he'd been treating me for months, he didn't deserve it.

But whatever. I guess I was curious.

“What's the problem?”

“I'm out of a job. Everyone saw that video and now...” He took another sip.

“You got fired?” I felt a twinge of schadenfreude. Considering our current political climate, it's nice to know that at least some companies would still fire their employees over drunken F-slur videos instead of, like, praising them for standing up to “wokeness.”

“Not fired. I'm freelance. But now that my image is ruined...”

“And what image is that?”

He looked up from his drink. I guess he was surprised that all this time, I didn't know who he was. “Look up Alpha Braden.”

He stared back at his drink as I pulled out my phone and searched for him on YouTube. His channel had hundreds of videos on how to be a man. He showed his viewers how to stand, how to insult women “the right way,” how to win arguments, even how to manspread properly. It seemed like satire, but nope. This channel was completely serious. And he had thousands of subscribers.

Then I saw the video from yesterday. (Not posted by him, obviously.) “Alpha Braden Gets Owned by Fat Gay Guy.” That one video already had millions of views. I really wanted to read the comments, but I stopped myself.

“So let me get this straight. You make your living by teaching men how to be assholes?”

“No. I teach them...” His voice softened. “Yeah. I guess.”

“And because of me, your brand is ruined.”

He nodded. His gin and tonic was finished, so I gave him another. (Out of sympathy. Also to make him stop slurping.)

“How much money did you make on these videos?” I had to ask. I worked my ass off to run this bar, and I barely had anything in my bank account.

“A lot. But most of my money came from workshops.” He explained how he charged guys thousands of dollars for four-day “alpha-training retreats,” where he taught them all his macho bullshit at the nearby Radisson. One of the evenings was reserved for my bar, which was why he always came in with a different group of guys who tried to mimic his exaggerated asshole behavior.

“But that’s all over,” he added. “No one’s gonna listen to me ever again.”

It was weird hearing him talk in his real voice (softer than before, more vulnerable). It made me realize how much of my opinion of him was based on his persona. His “act.” Listening to him now, I felt like I was talking to an actual person.

I gave him another gin and tonic. (His fourth? Fifth?) These would be on the house (though he still owed me for yesterday’s beers). “So what are you gonna do?”

He sucked up his drink. (There was very little tonic in this one. Mostly gin. Not sure why I was trying to make him so drunk.) “I’ll pivot,” he said. “I’ll… find a new brand.”

“Or you can get a real job,” I suggested.

He laughed. “Yeah. A real job.”

“Seriously. I’m sure there are places…”

He grabbed my arm. “What’s… like… you know…?” He was slurring his words now.

I didn’t pull away. He started rubbing my arm hair, as if he was confused by it. “What’s, like, a thing you… would watch?”

I didn’t know what he meant.

“If you were on YouTube, and you wanted to learn… how to (hic) live, what’s… what would you look for?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking, but if you want a suggestion for channel ideas, I can’t really help you. I don’t watch videos to tell me how to act.”

He seemed weirdly interested in my arm, rubbing it, squeezing my skin. Call me crazy, but it felt kinda… horny.

“You bested me,” he slurred. “You’re stronger than me.”

“Okay?”

“What channel would you make?”

I already told him that I didn’t know. I couldn’t imagine myself as a vlogger. That sounded awful. I was happy with my job, running my bar and getting to know my customers face-to-face. It was a good, simple life.

Braden touched the back of my upper arm, where my fat was softest. He played with it, wobbling my hanging skin with curiosity. “How are you stronger than me?”

“Maybe you should eat something,” I said. I was starting to suspect that he’d already had a couple drinks before he came in here. The guy was sloshed.

“An eating channel?” he asked. “How to get big? Like you?”

“That’s not…”

“Is that how you bested me?” he slurred. “’Cause you’re bigger?”

“That’s part of it.”

He looked up, his eyes unfocused. (Was he coming onto me? No. It couldn’t be.) “What if I get big? What if I teach (hic) people how to… how to…” He burped. He clung to my arm fat like a koala clinging to a tree. It was as if he’d never felt a fat person before.

“I think I’m cutting you off,” I said, still not stopping him from touching me.

“That’s it. My new, my new (hic) channel. ‘How to Get Big.’ No one’ll ever beat me again.” He pulled his hands away. “I’ll be bigger than you! And I won’t hafta act tough. I’ll be tough. And I’ll…” He leaned closer and poked my belly. (I wasn’t offended.) “Can you help?”

“With what?”

“Getting big. Like you.”

I didn’t have any tips to give him. My size was mostly because of my genetics. Everyone in my family was obese. I didn’t choose to look this way.

But there was something about his weird, drunken offer that intrigued me. Did this hot guy really want to get fat? Did he look up to me just because I beat him at arm wrestling? And even crazier, did he want to be a weight gain vlogger now that his old channel was ruined? No one would be interested in something like that.

“I think you’re drunk,” I said. I slid him a bowl of peanuts so he could get some food in him.

His eyes lit up. “You’re making me eat?” He interpreted my gesture as a sign that I was agreeing to help him. He grabbed a handful and shoved it into his mouth. “What’s your name?” he asked, his mouth full.

“Alec.”

“Thank you, Alec. I’m gonna learn so much from you.”

I opened my mouth to tell him that I wasn’t interested. He was drunk and confused. Once he sobered up, he’d realize how nonsensical this whole conversation was.

Then I saw one of my regulars trying to get my attention. He’d been waving at me for a while now. I left Braden alone and went back to my real job.

By the time I returned, the bowl of peanuts was empty (along with the other three bowls on this area of the bar) and Braden was typing into his phone. “Big Belly Braden,” he announced. “That’s what I’m gonna (hic) call myself.”

“Sure,” I said.

***

I made sure Janet could handle the bar without me. (Slow night. She seemed fine.) Then I headed to my apartment in the back to see if Braden needed help with today’s video.

“Baby!” he shouted when I walked in. “Just in time!”

He was in his usual spot on the couch, the tripod and camera set up on the table in front of him. He tried to stand, but I knew it would take a while. Plus, he’d probably knock over the camera again. It was better if I met him where he was.

I plopped down next to him and kissed his smiling, fat face.

I licked my lips. “Strawberry?”

“And vanilla. Oh, I need you to do an ice cream run tomorrow. If that’s okay.”

I already planned to. My grocery trips used to be once every two weeks. Now, I went on Tuesdays and Fridays.

As I stroked his shirtless belly (not really rubbing it, just feeling it and checking for growth), I told him about my day. When I wasn’t back here helping him with his videos, I was in the bar, serving drinks (but always thinking of him).

That’s the big reason I’d increased Janet’s hours. I needed to spend more time helping Braden grow for his channel. That’s where we made most of our money now.

Braden listened intently. Since he spent so much of his time here, he loved hearing about my day, living vicariously through me.

Sometimes, I exaggerated my stories. Not a lot happened in the bar. Just drunk people getting drunker, and lonely people drowning their sorrows.

Today, however, I had something pretty interesting to share. “So this guy came in. He looked a little familiar but I couldn’t place him. He kept glancing over at me and smirking. After a few drinks, he introduced himself. Said his name was Jackson.”

Braden shrugged. The name didn’t register.

“He was one of your clients from three years ago. Skinny guy. Big nose.”

Braden thought for a second. (When he’s deep in thought, he runs his fingers around his belly button.) “Oh shit! He’s the guy who took that video of us arm wrestling!”

“That’s him! And it seems like he remembered all your training. Still a total jackass.”

Braden bit his lip. “Oh.”

We didn’t talk much about his previous persona, but whenever it came up, he was always filled with regret. Alpha Braden caused a lot of damage, which was why Big Belly Braden focused so much of his videos on kindness and acceptance (in addition to all the fat stuff, of course).

“What did he say?”

I smiled. “He relived that moment as if it was the funniest thing in the world. Called you the F-slur, so I put him in his place.”

Braden’s eyes widened. “Did you…?”

“Just an arm-wrestling match. Beat him in seconds. Then I thanked him for taking that video and left.”

“Wow.”

We sat together in silence for a while. We were both thinking about how far we’d come since that day. It’s crazy to think that Braden had ever been closeted, musclebound, and mean. He was the exact opposite now, a gorgeous, 500-pound, wonderful man who was nothing but comfortable in his skin. He didn’t have a “persona” anymore. He was just Braden. My Braden.

When he started his new channel, I really wasn’t much help. I set up the camera and helped him write captions, but he was sort of on his own when it came to the content. The only advice I gave him was a list of what foods I ate in a day.

And that’s how his gaining started. He ate exactly what I did, and pretty soon, he grew a belly. Over time, we both realized how much we enjoyed watching him change (and how much the audience liked it, too). Things sort of snowballed from there. Bigger portions. Funnels. An hourly alarm to tell him when to have a snack. And we documented every step of his journey.

Watching his new fat made me appreciate my own body even more. I’d always been agnostic about it. (It was just the body I was born with.) Braden turned fat into a celebration, and when his belly finally eclipsed mine two summers ago, I felt nothing but pride. He’d gone so much further since then, always retaining the same positive, friendly attitude that he’d been suppressing for all those years.

I kissed him again. I couldn’t help it. “Well? Are you ready?”

“Always.” He had a page of notes at his side, though he usually went off-script as soon as I pressed play.

I hoisted myself off the couch and came back with a couple pizzas. This wasn’t one of his stuffing videos, just general advice, but he needed a snack to keep him going.

I turned on the camera and got into position next to him. His face immediately lit up. “Hey, world! This is Big Belly Braden again, and today, we’re going to talk about table manners.”

I laughed. I had no idea that was the topic of the day.

Braden nudged my fat side. “What’s so funny?”

I handed him a slice of pizza and he happily tore off a bite. “Tell them what the topic really is.”

“Okay. Today, we’re talking about how to check chair strength before you sit down. I decided to make this video after an unfortunate incident from a few days ago.”

As he kept talking, pausing every few seconds to eat more pizza, I just sat there and watched. Braden was a natural. And seeing him in his element reminded me once again that he didn’t need to be an alpha. He just needed to be his big, beautiful, happy self.

The End

Thanks for reading! This story was included in my anthology ebook Fattening Influencers. Check it out.