I haven’t written in a while. With good reason.
I met a guy.
We aren’t dating. We’ve hooked up a few times. He’s really cute, funny, smart. We have a very similar worldview when it comes to politics, movies, music, etc. I love hanging out with him; I think he loves hanging out with me. There’s just one problem.
He wants to help me lose weight.
He hasn’t said so explicitly. I haven’t said anything about losing weight. But he’s an athlete, and I think he assumes I want to lose weight. He has no idea how badly I want to grow fatter. He’s mentioned that we should exercise together. He often wants to go for a walk with me. He invites me out for lunch and we go to a salad place. He’s cooked for me a few times, always very healthy meals. He’s never offered me dessert.
Don’t get me wrong: he loves my body. At just over 300 pounds, I must be nearly double his weight; guys his size don’t end up with girls my size by accident. I can tell, too, the way he touches me that he’s enamored.
He doesn’t know I’m this size on purpose, and I think he thinks my weight is something with which I’m struggling. What he doesn’t know, of course, is that the only reason I’m struggling with it is because of him.
I don’t know how he would feel if I told him I love being fat, I love to eat, and and I want to grow fatter and fatter. I suspect, based on our interactions, that that might scare him off. While he loves my body, I suspect he wants me to lose a little weight and stay active. He doesn’t seem like the type to want to feed me fatter.
And this poses a problem for me. This is why I’m torn.
Because I want to be fat. I want to eat, all day, and I want him to feed me. I want to watch my belly hang lower and lower over my thighs; I want him to watch my belly hang lower and lower over my thighs. I want him to come home with donuts every night and stuff me, then cook me dinner and stuff me again, then stuff me with dessert. I want to wake up in the morning to donuts and bacon, pancakes and eggs. I want to go out to eat with him and order two appetizers, two entrees, and two desserts, all to myself. I want him to take me out for ice cream and buy me two large milkshakes. I want him to order me a pizza all for myself, and watch as I stuff my face with it.
There have been moments, since I’ve met him, that I’ve considered going along with him: exercise more, watch what I eat, let him help me lose weight. Because I’m happy with him. I like being with him. I like having a friend to spend time with, who wants to spend time with me. I have had moments—moments that feel very much like moments of sanity, moments of clarity—where I have said to myself, “why don’t you give up your mission to be fat? Isn’t it a silly mission? Why don’t you just let yourself have a normal life? Why stuff yourself with donuts every night? Why not just let yourself be happy with him?”
Admittedly, these moments have been frequent. I haven’t been eating that much; I haven’t been stuffing myself with donuts; I haven’t been bingeing on cheeseburgers and pizza; I haven’t been ordering a milkshake with every lunch. I’ve lost a few pounds. I’ve let my life—my real life, not my fat fantasy life—take over. I’ve spent very little time in the past few months thinking about how I love my fat.
Tonight was an exception. Tonight, I found myself obsessed with food and with fat. It started, actually, this afternoon: while I was at work I found myself fantasizing about donuts, fantasizing about stuffing my belly with them, fantasizing about my big fat thighs being squished together in my office chair. I was potentially hanging out with Boy; I texted him and told him something came up, not tonight, hopefully tomorrow. I sent a flirtatious 😉 with the text.
The only thing that came up, of course, was a longing, deep within my body, deep in my spine, to stuff my fat body with fattening foods and feel myself grow fatter. I left work early and stopped on the way home to buy half a dozen donuts. I got home and ate them while admiring, in my mirror, how my belly hangs over my panties. I watched my thighs jiggle as I walked towards my bed. I lay in bed, eating my donuts, feeling the love handles bunch up on my side as I scrunched myself together. I jiggled my arms and squeezed my belly.
I fell into a trance. The sight of my fat rolls sagging off of me made me lose my breath. I felt a pang like I hand’t felt in months: it was a familiar craving: it was the craving for more, more, more fattening foods. Having finished my donuts, I ventured out for Wendy’s. Two double cheeseburgers, two chicken sandwiches, two large fries, a large soda and a large chocolate frosty.
I just finished stuffing myself; I feel ready to explode. But I feel so, so good. And I want more, more, more food to fill my fat body.
Because I am addicted to my fat body. Because I am addicted to greasy, fattening foods. Because I want to watch my fat jiggle and jiggle, sag lower and lower off of my body. Because I don’t care if this guy wants me to lose weight, and I don’t care if he likes to hang out with me, and I don’t care if he’s perfect for me.
I just want to eat myself fatter and fatter.
Because food is all I need.
Because fat is all I need.