Nowhere to Go But Up, Part 1

I hit a low point in my life a few years ago.  I had made it through college with a history degree, but with no real career prospects after I graduated, I took a gig working at a copy shop.  I hated the job, which I think my boss could sense because she kept reducing my shifts until I was only scheduled a few hours a week.  

Most of the rest of the time was spent moping around my apartment playing videogames or getting high, so it’s not really a shocker that my boyfriend of two years, Devin, split one morning without so much as a goodbye.  I can’t really blame him, of course, because looking back I had become a pretty shitty person.  The chain of events left me almost broke and very depressed, and I didn't get up off my couch for the better part of a month.

Fortunately I had one buddy, Phil, who didn’t give up on me.  He and I had been friends since the third grade, and he recognized that I needed to get my life turned around.  Phil came by one afternoon and said he had gotten me a job interview for something he thought I might be good at: as a valet (said with a hard t) at the Carlisle Social Club.

“Do you mean valet?” I asked.  “Like parking cars?”

Phil shook his head.  “Not val-lay, Ryan.  You’d be a val-lette. As in a gentleman’s gentleman.  The Carlisle is a men-only club just a few blocks away, and the valets do different tasks for the members.  They serve refreshments, and make dinner reservations, sometimes run errands – the goal is for you to assist the members so they can relax and enjoy themselves.  My uncle Geordie – you remember, you met him at my Christmas party 2 years ago – well, he’s in charge of hiring the valets, and they are looking for a new one right now.”

My first reaction was to say “No way in hell am I working as a servant,” but Phil knew me too well and didn’t let me say a word before he had also described the weekly pay (certainly more than I could make at any other entry-level position), the generous health care plan I would qualify for after 3 months of employment, and the opportunity to meet some of the most eligible bachelors in the city.  “And maybe even talk to them about history,” he added with a smile.  "You love to talk about history."

Phil was a hell of a salesman.

I agreed to the meeting with his uncle, which was set up for that afternoon at 3:00pm.  “Good thing I didn’t smoke anything this morning before Phil came over,” I thought.  Unfortunately, I had eaten a lot that morning and was stuffed to the gills, which had been typical for the last few months during the fog of my depression.

Before my downward spiral, I had been considered quite a catch.  I wasn’t tall, only 5’6”, but I was always in great shape from my years as a gymnast.  I was pretty good and had hoped to make it on the US Olympic team, but I had one fatal flaw that kept me from achieving that goal – I was, as one coach told me, “proportionally out of balance.” Which was a nicer way of saying my lower body was a lot thicker than my upper body.  On top I looked like Paul Hamm, but my bottom half was just ham.  I never really worked out my legs for fear that everything down there would grow bigger than they already were.  Given my height I should have weighed around 135 during my gymnastic career, but I was closer to 150 most of the time no matter how much I dieted.

Regardless of my proportion, my athletic physique and eye-catching butt got me a lot of dates (my playful personality and overall cuteness also helped).  I probably didn’t have as much sex as the star quarterback on the college football team, but I had quite a few notches on my bedpost.

Because of the sedentary life I had been living after graduation, however, along with the constant attack of the munchies from the marijuana, my weight had climbed to 173 on the day of the interview.  The muscles that used to define my arms, chest, and abs were much smaller and cloaked in fat, and my butt, thighs, and calves had grown wider than before.  I used to wear pants with a 30 inch waist, but at this point on the rare occasions when I put on something besides sweats, I was up to a 32.  Well, 33.  I wouldn’t say I look terribly flabby, thanks again to years of gymnastics, but rather “bloated” or “soft.”  Maybe even “doughy.” Whatever you called me, I was definitely on the road to flabby.

I searched my apartment for some clothes, and thankfully my ex had left some of his stuff behind in his rush to get as far away from me as possible. I found some black slacks that fit me, along with a white button-down shirt that was just a little tight – not quite a sausage casing, but the rolls on my stomach were clearly visible, as were my drooping pecs. I was hoping to find a blazer that would work, but mine were all way too tight, so I covered my torso with one of Devin’s sweaters and checked my look in the mirror. 

“Not bad, Ryan. Still got it,” I thought. Even if my body wasn’t as tight as it used to be, I still had my cute face, blue eyes, and blond hair to fall back on. The hair was getting a little longer than normal – it looked sort of like Robert Redford’s in All The President’s Men – but I put enough product in to keep it all in place.

I finished getting ready and headed over for the interview. It turned out to be a formality, as Phil had vouched for me to his uncle, and I met the most important qualification: I was a guy. Apparently the Carlisle took the “men-only” part seriously, and even the staff had to fulfill that prerequisite. While filling out the new hire paperwork, Geordie explained what my duties would be and when I would work.

He also laid out the policy on tipping. Members were allowed to provide gratuities for good service, but everything had to be done confidentially; they couldn’t just hand a wad of cash to an employee. The members either had to leave tips at the front desk, which would be given to the staff member later without word of where it came from, or they could send money electronically via an anonymous Venmo account. The whole point was to prevent the workers from feeling like they owed any special favors to certain members. Apparently direct tipping had led to some ugliness in the past, and at the Carlisle, it was all about keeping peace and harmony inside the walls.

After the paperwork was finished, I was sent next door to the tailor. Yes, the Carlisle had an on-site tailor for members, but he also was the keeper of the uniforms for the staff. His name was Ron, and he took my measurements and handed me several pairs of pants, shirts, and vests, and explained how to launder them properly so they would last as long as possible. I was pretty shocked when the trousers label said 34, but he insisted that’s what I wore.

Two days later I started my first shift, and I was very glad about one thing: the tailor had done a great job. I don’t know if I had been wearing the wrong-sized clothing my whole life, but I had never felt as comfortable as I had in this uniform. It fit perfectly and allowed me to focus on my new job. I was given the grand tour of the club on my first day – the reading room, the different parlors, and of course the employee lounge, which was well-stocked with every snack food on Earth. If I was going to shed my extra weight, I definitely needed to stay out of there.

The work itself turned out to be just as Phil described – I was there to help the members. We didn’t have a full restaurant in the club, but there was a well-stocked bar and small kitchen that prepared a few offerings like sandwiches and soups, so I spent time taking orders and bringing out food and beverages, and of course bussing the dishes after the members had finished. 

I also would look up directions, give tours to new members, and pick up their starched shirts before the dry cleaners closed. Some of the older members would need assistance connecting with their grandkids on social media, so I would get them signed up on Instagram or SnapChat or whatever platform they were interested in.  And Phil was right - sometimes they would ask me questions about local history, which I was more than happy to talk about.

One of the more frequent requests from members was to make dinner reservations at nearby restaurants, either for them as a group or for meeting their wives and girlfriends later that evening. Apparently, calling from the Carlisle carried such weight in the area that the hosts would find a way to make room for the party even if the restaurant was booked solid. After a few months I had become pretty knowledgeable about the menu items offered at different places near the club and no longer needed the cheat sheet that Geordie prepared for the valets.

One afternoon I was approached by a younger member, Lucas Miller, and asked about dinner reservations. Lucas had recently gotten back into town after a few years away at college, and he didn’t know the restaurant scene very well. His father was a member of the club and had gotten Lucas a membership as one of his graduation gifts.

I made some recommendations to Lucas, and he selected a nearby seafood restaurant. I asked him how many would be in his party, and he nervously replied, “Well, two. If you’ll join me.”

I was torn about how to answer. On one hand, there was no rule preventing members and employees from fraternizing outside the club – as long as nothing unprofessional or untoward happened inside as a result of outside friendships or dating, then it was perfectly fine. But knowing my past – and how I didn’t manage to stay friends with any of my exes – I was wary to get involved with a member as it might jeopardize my job. I was getting a steady paycheck and considerable tips that had greatly eased my debt burden, and I was the happiest I had been in a long while. If I started in with Lucas and had an ugly breakup, it might derail the upward trajectory my life had been on. My head was definitely voting no.

On the other hand, it had been a while – a long while – since I had been with a man and my body ACHED for some companionship in the bedroom. Lucas had also been very kind to me at the club, always making sure to say hello and asking how I was doing, and he was definitely my type. Tall, but not too tall (which can be a problem when you are only 5’6”), and possessing a sturdy physique from his years playing rugby in college. He had brown hair, small eyes and full lips, and overall resembled a young Tom Hardy. My cock was definitely voting yes.

As with all decisions made my men since the beginning of time, I naturally sided with my cock. “I’d love to, Lucas,” I said with a big smile. We agreed to meet at the restaurant at 7:00 that night, and I dialed to make the reservation.

Thirty seconds later I hustled my body (as much as it could hustle) over to the tailor’s shop. “Ron, I really need your help,” I said. “I’ve got a date in a few hours and I have nothing to wear.” This was unfortunately true – six months with an income large enough to afford DoorDash whenever I wanted, plus access to unlimited snacks in the employee lounge at work, had only made my body grow bigger. I wasn’t sure how much I had gained, but I was definitely fatter than the 173 when I had started working at the club. I had already traded in my original uniforms for bigger ones, but I hadn’t bothered to buy anything larger that would fit for a night out. All I had wear a bunch of oversized sweatshirts and sweatpants that I had gotten at a TJ Maxx sale a few weeks ago.

Ron was my absolute favorite person at the club – he loved history as much as I did, and he told me about some fantastic sites I should visit to learn more about the city (which I had never known about). He also loved to talk about the Housewives and share funny TikTok videos, which made him seem much younger than his 57 years. And he was also blessed with a bigger backside, so he knew the sartorial issues I had been dealing with. Ron had been happily partnered with Michael for the past decade, and in the first few weeks at the club, when I was really struggling as I awaited my first paycheck, Ron and Michael had me over for dinner a few times and made sure I had enough to get by.

In addition to working as the tailor, and as the keeper of the uniforms, Ron was also in charge of the clothing lost and found. Any item left behind in the club overnight was given to him, and he would hold onto it for a few weeks to see if it was claimed; if not, it was donated to the Goodwill. His back room wasn’t quite like the closet from The Devil Wears Prada, but Ron did have a nice supply of gently used blazers, shirts, and slacks.

When I told him my dilemma, Ron smiled, grabbed his tape measure, and immediately started checking my sizes. I gulped when he announced my waist was 36 inches and my chest was only 35 – I guess that V shape I had as a gymnast was gone – but he told me not to get hung up about it. “Obviously this young man knows what you look like,” he told me. “And he is pleased with what he sees.” I laughed, and even though my belly jiggled a little, I felt better.

Two minutes later he shooed me from the shops so he could work, and a few hours after that I returned to pick up my outfit – a navy blue jacket, tan chinos, and crisp white shirt that he had quickly altered to fit me. I thanked Ron for being my Fairy Godmother and left to get ready for my date.

I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes before 7:00pm, and Lucas was waiting for me at the entrance.  He was wearing the black suit and gray shirt and tie combo he had on earlier in the day and still looked quite dashing, and he told me I looked great in my ensemble. We headed for the table where we got to know one another a little better – his passion had always been art, but he didn’t think he could make a living at it, so he had majored in accounting at college. He had a job offer that started in a few months in another state, but he wasn’t sure if he was going to accept it yet.

I told him about majoring in history, my years as a gymnast, and how much I enjoyed working at the club. I kept thinking that he would ask about my weight, especially after telling him I had been an athlete, but the subject never came up. So I enjoyed my seared ahi, the pleasant conversation, and Lucas’s bright smile.

Ninety minutes later we walked over to his building, which was not too far from where I lived but in a much nicer neighborhood. Lucas invited me up for an after-dinner drink, and I hastily (maybe too hastily) agreed. 

When we got into his apartment we dispensed with the “drink” pretext and headed straight for the bedroom. We undressed quickly and jumped into the sack, where somehow it was understood – by both of us – that I would be the bottom. Lucas played with my belly for a few minutes as we kissed, and then rolled me over and inserted himself. I liked feeling his heft on top of me, holding on to his strong arms, and taking in his intoxicating scent. He obviously was very knowledgeable about what he was doing – he learned more than just how to play rugby in college – and I felt warm and safe and desired. We both came a few minutes later, and then another hour after that, and a third time a few hours later. It was heaven.

Lucas and I continued seeing each other for the next few months. He’d take me to dinner wherever I wanted to go – he loved all kinds of food and didn’t care about the costs thanks to his family’s money, so I would make reservations at all the places I couldn’t afford. The meals were terrible for my waistline, but I couldn’t resist all the buttered bread, creamy soups, and tantalizing desserts that were offered me. After dinner, Lucas and I would typically visit a museum or gallery and talk about history or art, and then we would go back to his place for sex. Over time we realized that neither of us were falling in love with one another, but we enjoyed the company and had a lot of fun.

Strangely, the issue of my weight continued not to come up. I knew that my body turned him on, but Lucas didn’t say anything my growing belly or ass. I offered him the opportunity to make comments by starting conversations with “I think I’m gaining too much weight,” but his response was always to take out his credit card and buy me some new clothes. One day I hopped on the scale in his bathroom and gasped when the number said 215, but all he did was smile, say “Now we weigh the same,” and kiss me on the cheek. I wanted to add that I was 6 inches shorter than him, but I knew it wouldn’t make a difference.

Ultimately, Lucas did decide to take the job out of town, so we had one last passionate night together before he moved away. I was sad to see him go, but happy at the time we spent together. I went back to my apartment the next morning and downed a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, and then got undressed to take a shower. I looked at myself in the full-length mirror while naked – I had changed so much in the last few months. 

Any hint that I had been an accomplished gymnast had been completely erased, and I looked more like the “Before” photo in a weight loss ad. My pecs had turned completely into man-tits as they sat lazily above my droopy belly, and my arms and legs looked like they were made from melting ice cream – smooth and soft instead of strong and defined. I had grown a fat pad down below by stomach which was swallowing up several inches of my cock, and the love handles on my side had grown considerably.

I decided at that moment that I was going to get back in shape – maybe I would never be able to slim back down to my college level, but I could try to get down to 160. Or maybe 175.  Whatever the result, I was determined to lose weight; I was too young to turn into a pile of blubber.

I began kneading the flab on my lower abdomen.  "God, there's just so much of it," I thought. "I feel like a beached whale."

I turned to look at my reflection in the mirror and said out loud, "I really let my eating get out of hand.  I must be the fattest ex-gymnast on the planet these days, but that ends now."

I noted that my dick was stirring – maybe growing was more accurate – as I spoke about my fatness and rubbed my massive belly, but I assumed it was just excited that I was finally planning to drop some of my excess tonnage.