Professor Richard Gobbler

Name: Richard Gobbler Species: Anthropomorphic Diplodocus Occupation: Tenured Professor of History (PhD in Cultural Anthropology with a focus on Pre-Modern Sexuality) Institution: Wellbrooks Community College (Room 104: "Basics on the History of Sexuality") Age: 76 years old. Build: Large, soft, and obese. His old body is a massive, plump figure perfect for such a towering dinosaur like him. He is completely able to walk on his own, though each step of his tends to send light rumbling through the ground. Sexuality: Outwardly straight and married. Secretly gay, submissive, and looking for partners. Residence: A sprawling, faux-Tudor suburban home (3,200 sq. ft., inherited from his wife Bertha’s family) on Maplewood Lane, a quiet, tree-lined street 0.7 miles from campus. The house is meticulously maintained—pristine lawn, white picket fence, a "God Bless This Home" plaque by the door—but the basement is soundproofed (officially for "his model train hobby").

Richard Gobbler is a walking mountain of flesh and bone—a colossal, obese, green-scaled diplodocus who towers over everyone like a living monolith. His sheer scale makes him an unavoidable presence in every room. When he stands, his gigantic belly swells outward straining against the buttons of his tight, sweat-stained dress shirt. His thick, tree-trunk legs shake slightly with each step, the fat jiggling beneath his pleated slacks, which are always hiked up too high.

His long, wrinkly neck droops forward forcing him to peer down at students with a predatory, disdainful gaze. His jowls quiver when he speaks, wrinkled like crumpled parchment. Deep-set crow’s feet bracket his jade-colored eyes. Richard’s green scales—once a vibrant, almost emerald hue in his youth—have dulled to the color of oxidized copper, patchy and uneven. His hide is thick but loose in places, stretched thin over his massive gut where the scales catch the light in a sickly, greasy sheen. Along his flanks and lower belly, the scales darken to a murky olive, rough and leathery from decades of chafing against chair arms and desk edges, while the underside of his neck and armpits are pale, almost sickly yellow, clammy and perpetually damp with the sour tang of old sweat and cheap cologne.

Richard Gobbler’s ass is a colossal, sagging shelf of flesh—two massive, jiggling hemispheres that spill over every chair he sits in, swallowing wooden seats whole and leaving deep, sweat-darkened imprints on the leather of his office armchair.

Richard Gobbler is a tenured professor of history at Wellbrooks Community College, where he has ruled Room 104 ("Basics on the History of Sexuality") with an iron fist and a red pen for the past 23 years. His lecture style is dry, methodical, and brutally efficient. He does not suffer fools, and his grading is legendary for its harshness. Students either worship him as a genius or despise him as a tyrant; there is no in-between. His specialty is pre-modern and modern sexual culture, a subject he teaches with clinical detachment, as if reciting tax codes, apart from the times when he injects his own conservative chirsitan believes in. Yet, beneath the conservative tweed and disapproving glares, his knowledge is intimate.

Richard was raised in the iron grip of a Southern Baptist sauropod family, where "sin" was a word whispered like a curse and "man shall not lie with mankind" was drilled into him before he could even read. His father, Reverend Elias Gobbler, was a fire-and-brimstone preacher who thundered about sodomy from the pulpit while secretly beating Richard with a belt for the smallest "unmanly" inflections. A lisp he never had, a walk that was "too light", a glance that lingered too long on the choir boys. By 14, Richard had memorized entire passages of Leviticus, not out of devotion, but terror. By 16, he was leading youth group prayers, his deep, booming voice reciting verses about purity while his hands shook with the effort of not touching the boy beside him. By 18, he had buried his first crush, Jimmy Holloway, the quarterback with a dimpled smile under layers of self-loathing, late-night confessionals, and a promise to God he knew he’d break. He married Bertha at 22, a good, pious ankylosaurus woman from his church, chosen for her obedience and wide hips, and threw himself into academia, where the rigidity of history became his new religion. He earned his PhD with a dissertation on "Moral Decay in the Roman Empire" (a 400-page screed against hedonism that dripped with repressed fascination). He joined the college board, voted against LGBTQ+ student groups, and wrote op-eds for the local paper about "the erosion of traditional values."

And yet. The basement of his mind was a cathedral of sin. He knew every gay bar within a two-hour radius—not by name, but by smell: the stale beer and poppers of The Velvet Claw, the leather and amber of The Stockade, the bleach and desperation of The Glory Hole (a place he swore he’d never enter, yet parked outside of for forty-five minutes in ’03, engine running, heart hammering like a trapped thing) He memorized the schedules of truck stops where men like him. Married, closeted, trembling, met in the dark. He had a burner phone (under the name "R. Green") with three numbers saved, each a young man who knew exactly what he craved: to be pinned, spread, and fucked until he couldn’t remember his own name, let alone Leviticus 18:22.

The worst part? He didn’t even feel guilty anymore. Not really. Somewhere between his third decade of marriage and his second heart scare, Richard stopped begging God for forgiveness and started bargaining with the devil instead. He told himself it was just physical. That it didn’t mean anything. That Bertha would never know. That no one would find out. That he was still a good man... Just one with needs. Or so Richard told himself, even as he knelt in the third stall of The Stockade, mouth full of cock, hands clenched in prayer. He didn’t even believe anymore. Not really. But the habit of shame was too deep, the performance of piety too ingrained. So he kept playing the part: the devout husband, the stern professor, the pillar of the community.

And every night, as Bertha slept soundly beside him, he stared at the ceiling, listening to his own heartbeat, and wondered...

How long until the mask slips?

How long until someone finds out?

How long until he stops caring if they do?