I’m torn.

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.


Grocery Store Buffet

Guys. Omg. The buffet at the grocery store.

I’ve known about it, obviously, but I never really realized how perfect it is for a growing fatty like me. Chicken wings! Waffle fries! Mozzarella sticks! Chinese food! Mac and cheese! I couldn’t help myself; I got a little of everything.

Today was an especially stressful day. I had to work late, and then still didn’t finish what my team needed for tomorrow’s meetings, which meant that even after we left the office, we had more work to complete remotely. My boss had sent a passive-aggressive email, about how our upcoming reviews will be especially attentive to “productivity both inside and outside the workplace,” which meant my team leader, following suit, decided to organize a video call and, when that was done, a chunk of time working collaboratively on the presentation. Blah blah blah.

All I could think about the whole time was how I wanted to eat and eat and eat, and of course I couldn’t, really, since I was on the video call. As soon as that was over I hustled (as much as a girl my size can hustle!) over to the grocery store, half thinking I would pig out on a frozen pizza. When I walked in and saw the buffet bar, I was transfixed: the gooey mac and cheese, the greasy chicken wings, the calorie-ridden Chinese food; I was practically drooling. I felt my spine shiver and a lingering tightness deep in my pelvis: it was the feeling I had as a little girl when I first stuffed myself with birthday cake; the feeling I used to have when I would sneak Wendy’s before and after the high school school day; the feeling I had when my first FA boyfriend would feed me doughnuts in my dorm room; the tell-tale sign that tonight I would stuff myself fat; it was the feeling of my obsession with food and fat lodged deep within me.


The buffet bar, I’ve found, will prove to be economically dangerous. I couldn’t help myself, and the three boxes of food I bought (Chines in one, chicken wings, fingers, fries, and mozzarella sticks in the second, the third reserved solely for my precious mac and cheese) totaled nearly three pounds and cost me $23. As I was checking out, I was half hoping that the cashier—who I’m sure was wondering if all three boxes, all three pounds, of this food was for me—would open up the boxes and check to see just what this big fatty in front of him was buying. I wanted him to see my chicken wings, my mac and cheese, my Chinese food. I wanted to tell him I was going to eat all of this food tonight. I wanted to blush, slightly, as I let him in on the secret of my fat life, the secret of why I was so fat, which is that I cannot stop eating. I wanted to tell him that I am addicted to eating fatty dinners, to stuffing myself with caloric desserts, to waddling to the fridge for more and more and more food. (He was cute-ish, and when he told me how much it was, I leaned over the counter slightly, letting my belly inch over the waist of my pants towards him. He couldn’t take his eyes off of me; because he wants to feed me, I told myself, though probably because he was somewhat repulsed by my massive jiggly body preparing to feast, both thoughts I find to be unspeakably erotic.)

Equally as dangerous as the grocery store buffet, of course, is that this grocery store also houses a Dunkin Donuts. The thought of soft, chewy, frosted donuts, which occupied me for the entirety of my conference video call, were what initially prompted my obsession to enjoy a fatty feast tonight. I thought, perhaps, I would eat last night’s leftovers, but I couldn’t shake the donuts from my mind; I wanted a vanilla frosted, a chocolate frosted, a jelly, a glazed; I would buy 6, I decided, and stuff myself with them all night, and what was left, if anything, would be tomorrow’s breakfast. With the $23 of greasy buffet food in my bag, I waddled over to the DD stand. When I noticed they had no jelly and no vanilla frosted my heart almost dropped. The cashier wasn’t at the counter, so I decided to bounce over to the near-by stand-alone DD, just around the corner.

Takes a true fat girl to make more than one stop in search of just the right donuts to fulfill a craving.

Alas! This DD, too, out of both vanilla and chocolate frosted, and no jellies! I asked if they had any jelly donuts; only the munchkins, I was told. I asked for 12 jelly munchkins (he gave me 15; end-of-the-night generosity, I suspect), two glazed donuts, and a coffee roll. I could see that the man helping me eyeing my stomach, probably thinking to himself that these donuts were the last thing a girl like me needed. He seemed almost angry at my gluttony, like he was going to refuse me a sale, the way a bartender might deny the drunk perched at the end of the bar. Haven’t you had enough? he was thinking. Never, never, never, thought I! My fat belly will spill out over my jeans and drag along the floor, my hips will squish against the edges of your doorway, my chins will drip down near my cleavage, my thighs will jiggle up against one another with each inhalation of breath, and still I will trudge my way into your Dunkin Donuts and order my donuts! I will eat and eat and eat and you will watch my belly grow and grow and grow. (Ahh, the pleasures of indulging a fantasy; the eroticism inherent in a life of gluttony; the gratification of answering to your body, of giving your belly everything it desires and more, of never denying yourself a fattening treat!)

My food purchased, my desert in hand, I jiggled home, imagining myself growing fatter with each step, as I would, soon, with each bite. The fries, the chicken, the Chinese food: each bite got me one step closer to fulfilling an unfulfillable erotic desire, as if each bite was but a single solitary coin dropped into an infinitely large piggy bank. The bites of food built upon one another and filled up my belly; the calories expanded throughout my body as my reserve of caloric energy was converted into excess bodily fat; my rolls rolled just slightly more and my belly swelled out over my thighs; eventually my stomach would reach its current capacity and the intake would slow. (I didn’t finish the Chinese food; it actually wasn’t as good as it looked. Note to self—next time double up on that mac ‘n cheese.)

But even as my stomach cried uncle and the fat feast came to a close (the donuts are 75% gone; I’m snacking on them now, an hour after dinner has been completed), I knew that my infinite piggy bank would only shake with an even greater desire. The fat little piggy is full, but the obsession with obesity and fat, with food and gluttony, with laziness and stuffing has not and never can be quelled, even for the briefest moment. My stomach grumbles with anguish—it can’t take more grease tonight, and admonishes me for pounding in a few extra donuts—but my heart is ripe with the pang of growing fatter still. I feel that deeply rooted tenseness, just above my pelvis, lodged deep in the heart of my spine, that promises to release after another bite, another pound, another donut, another belly roll. The knot in my spine tells me that with just a bit more cellulite, it will untie itself and will dissipate. I answer the knot, bowing to its every command: more pizza, more grease, more donuts and chocolate and ice cream and potato chips. More and more and more fat spilling off of my body.

I know that the knot of gluttony lies to me. I know that it will never release, even after a fourth and fifth and sixth donut; I know it won’t release after tomorrow’s pancake and egg and bacon breakfast; I know it won’t release if I get cheeseburgers and fries and a shake for lunch tomorrow. I know it won’t release when I hit 350lbs, 400lbs, 500lbs and beyond. I know the knot of desire will never cease to grow tighter, and will never cease to drive my body into the oblivion of obesity.

And I don’t care. I know that my desires are destructive; that knowledge only makes them stronger still. I answer to my desires. I am addicted to my desires.

I am addicted to food. I am addicted to fat. I am addicted to MY fat.

I can’t stop eating!

Lately I cannot stop eating!

As you know, I love to eat, I love food, I love being fat, and I love getting fatter.
But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy for me. There is a lot of social pressure against being fat—more than you can possibly realize if you are not fat. Nearly all of my friends have said something about my weight, minus those who are fat themselves and/or have helped me to gain/grow/eat. As my current weight is just north of 300lbs, I get comments in the street about my size, especially if I wear anything through which one could discern my figure. If my shirt doesn’t have long sleeves, I can almost guarantee I’ll get at least one comment about the size of my arms. Family, of course, is always the worst. They have never supported my growth, they fat-shame me constantly, and they regularly post (public!) comments on my Facebook photos suggesting I should try to lose some weight.

With all of those things confronting you constantly, it can be hard to stay comfortable in your own skin, even if you feel like the body you are in is (finally) the one you were meant to be in. I knew my whole life I wanted to be fat; it took me nearly 20 years to get the body I always craved but just as frequently denied myself. I’ve never felt better about myself since I got to be as fat as I am. Still, it can be hard to stay true to yourself when the world around you is telling you you are wrong. (It’s especially hard when you don’t have a partner who encourages your lifestyle and loves you in the body you are in.)

So, despite my love of all things fat, I have my doubts. But recently those doubts have been suppressed under a barrage of treats, candies, cakes, and snacks. I just cannot stop eating!

I think part of it has to do with a recent vacation I was on with some friends. My mom met us as the beach one day. I was wearing a fatkini (inspiration courtesy of the inimitable Loey Lane) that was a high-wasted two-piece. My mother was repulsed that I would venture out in public in such a revealing outfit. She commented, in a brief moment alone, that shouldn’t I cover up a bit better, at least until I’ve lost a bit more weight? In the moment I mostly ignored her, laughing quickly at her comment and inviting my friends back into the conversation, where I knew she, Mom, wouldn’t be so suggestive.

Secretly, internally, I loathed her comment. And that loathing turned to lust: I wanted to be even fatter, and wear even more revealing clothing. I craved, in that moment, to stuff myself with pizza and ice cream. I mourned that I wouldn’t have a night to myself, a night of gluttonous indulgence in whatever my belly desired, for another two nights. I wanted to watch myself grow fatter, my belly hang lower, my thighs jiggle more furiously, just to smite my mother’s expectations. My anger towards her attempted intervention morphed into a desire to grow as fat as possible.Fat-Girls_Can-Wear-Whatever-They-Like

Later that night, after I spent the remaining hours at the beach longing to have my belly stuffed with greasy, fattening pleasures, distracted by my own fat body, my lust growing too great to handle, I lied to my friends. I told them my mother had left her wallet in my purse, and that I would have to run out to where she and my father were staying and drop it off; I would be right back, and did anyone want to come with me? (I learned, when I used to stuff myself as a teenager but before I grew to be an actual fat girl, that, when you are lying to people so that you can sneak out alone to eat fattening treats, it is best to invite others to come along, to shirk suspicion. Sometimes the trick fails and someone joins you. This night, thank the lord, it did not fail.)

Of course, my mother had not left her wallet in my bag. I simply had to eat, to rub my fat belly as it digested enough for three of my friends back at the house, to pull my shirt up over my belly and watch as the flat spilled out over the waist of my pants and took rest upon the top of my thighs. I was practically moaning with desire as I started my car. I stopped at the first fast food place I could find (Wendy’s). I went inside to order, rather than going through the drive through; I get a strange satisfaction watching the face of the person taking my order as they size me up (pun definitely intended) and think to themselves that the reason I am so fat is because of how much food I ordered. My cashier was a young man, probably a few years my junior, and his eyes widened slightly as I ordered two double-patty Baconators, a spicy chicken sandwich, a large fries, a large coke, and a large chocolate frosty. (I took my meal to go and ate in my car; as much satisfaction as I get ordering face to face from the cashier, I’m not yet comfortable stuffing myself in front of others, unless he’s feeding me, of course 😉 ).

I didn’t finish all of it—the Baconators are HUGE—but I did enough damage to satiate my cravings. I imagined myself growing fatter and fatter as I washed the fries down with chocolate frosty. Mmmmm.

The Wendy’s binge, however, only temporarily held me over. The first thing I did after getting back from vacation was stop at Dunkin Donuts and stuff myself with 6 donuts. They went down with comparative ease. Despite the relative enormity of my stomach, my eyes tend to remain larger still; I often purchase 6 donuts, only to find that the last donut and half have to wait until the next morning. Not on that night. I ate my 6 donuts before dinner, still had room for leftovers from the night before, and then ate the remaining ice-cream I had in the fridge.

Like I said above, it can be hard to be as fat as I am and to deal with the social pressures. Often I succumb to them, and after a particularly enormous binge, or a particularly offensive one (like when I have to lie to my friends to stuff myself fat), I tend to lay off the fat bingeing for a bit. Not recently. I have been back from vacation for three days now, and have stuffed myself everyday. The donuts the first night; cheeseburgers and fries and a milkshake for lunch AND dinner the second night; and now, on day three, 5 slices of pizza for lunch and, for dinner: the remaining 3 slices of pizza, two boxes of chicken fingers (totaling 1500 calories) and and ENTIRE Entenmann’s raspberry Danish twist (another 1600 calories).

Even after tonight’s massive fat feast, I am still craving more food. I am already planning my trip to the local doughnut shop (not Dunkin’s…) for a breakfast treat; perhaps lunch has more cheeseburgers in store; and for dinner, only my fat belly really knows the secrets it has in store for me.

I just can’t stop!

Now all I need is someone to feed me and rub my growing belly…

Stuffing me Fat

I crave fatty foods. All things fat—sugary treats, fatty burgers, salty fries, greasy pizzas, decadent desserts—occupy my thoughts to the point of obsession. When I start fantasizing about eating and eating and eating, stuffing my face and feeling the food pack into my expanding belly, I can hardly participate in everyday activities. All I can think about is food and what it does to my fat body.

Today was one of those days when the allure of stuffing myself overcame me. Breakfast: a three egg omelet with toast and bacon, followed by four doughnuts from a local artisan doughnut shop. Lunch was a doublestack burger, fries, and a chocolate shake. And for dinner, pizza (6 of the 8 slices; two I’m saving for a late-night snack 😉 ), cheesy garlic bread, and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.

Consuming so many fattening foods, and flooding my body with unnecessary calories (like most days, I hardly got any exercise today), I was essentially useless at work: on these days, when my obsession consumes me, I find that I mostly walk around in a stupor, fantasizing about the fat that hangs from my body and the foods with which I am stuffing myself. I can almost feel the cellulite jiggling more intensely as I consume my third and fourth breakfast doughnuts; my belly seems to swell with an after-lunch milkshake; I imagine the dining chair flexing under the increased weight of the pizza now populating the small roll that hangs from my upper thigh.

I am a slave to my belly.

The Beginning: A Prologue

I have always known I wanted to be fat. I can remember, as a young girl—I couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8—I went into the city with my family for the day. We were sitting down to eat when I went to get ketchup and napkins. On my way back to the table, I saw a girl roughly my age. She was fat. Her belly poked out over her pants, her arms puffed with baby rolls that probably never went away, and her double chin protruded out even though her head was tilted up towards her much taller parents.

I was transfixed. I couldn’t stop looking at her. I didn’t know it then, but what I felt was the pang of desire, the deep longing of sexual lust. I didn’t long for her, I longed for her body. I wanted my own body to look like hers, to swell with fat. I wanted to eat and eat and eat until I looked like her. Of course, as a 7 or 8 year old, I wouldn’t have said any of those things explicitly; I knew only that I felt a shiver in my spine that I couldn’t fully explain.

I can remember playing with my dolls in my bed. I was their mother, and I enacted scenes for them; I had several dolls, and they shared different relations. Older and younger sisters, mostly absent and somewhat mysterious brothers, cousins who would occasionally visit, friends that lived with friends (ever the childhood fantasy). Not every character appeared every night, but their identities remained consistent. And my identity remained consistent: I was their fat mother. From a very young age, I would stuff my shirt with my pillows and play the fat mother, constantly trying to feed my too-skinny daughters. I encouraged them to eat the way I ate; they were too skinny, 8 year old me thought of my dolls. Eventually, as my fantasy belly outgrew the size of my pillows, I switched to the beanbag chair in my room; my fantasy fat, in form of my beanbag, spilled out over my thighs, creeping through my bed, threatening to overcome my daughter-dolls. My imagined husband, who had no effigy but in my mind, liked my fat, and encouraged me to keep eating.

As a very young teenage (perhaps I was 12 or 13), I started sneaking snacks into my room to eat in the middle of the night. It proved tricky, because the candy bars had to make their way into my room, be consumed in silence, and then the empty wrappers had to be disposed of quietly and secretly. My beanbag belly propped on my thighs, I ate Snickers bars and Milky Ways, Butterfingers and Reeses Cups. I was afraid M&Ms would be too loud, or that I would drop one to be found by my parents, but I soon learned that I could sneak pastries in my backpack. Eating and imagining the fat swell off my body fulfilled me in a way I had never felt fulfilled before; I didn’t yet know that my desire was sexual, but I knew that I felt a deeply rooted desire.

Of course, around this time, I also became aware of the expectations and demands of society. I realized that fat bodies were taboo. I realized that, if I was to remain popular and attractive, I would have to remain skinny. (I hadn’t, for all my late-night, fat-filled fantasies, gained any weight. I was a moderately thin girl for most of my childhood and teenage years.) I can remember looking at a chubby girl in my fifth grade class; her thighs overflowed off of her chair and her belly poked out over her waistline. Two small but sharply defined rolls fell out from under where her breasts would grow in. Looking at her, I had two important realizations: I realized that boys don’t like fat girls; even more important, for a pre-teen girl, I realized that skinny girls don’t like fat girls. My mother said once, off-handedly and with no ill intent whatsoever, that only fat people like other fat people. I nodded quietly but silently disagreed.

I can remember being 15 or 16 and learning about masturbation. I didn’t know what I was doing, and couldn’t produce an orgasm. It felt good, of course, but nothing more than merely good. Then I discovered a secret: I could stuff my shirt with pillows, eat donuts I had snuck into my bedroom, imagine I was fat and getting fatter, and touch myself. The first time I did it I lost my breath. I remember stuffing the donut into my face faster and faster, telling myself I was such a fat little piggy, and didn’t I just want to get fatter and fatter, and didn’t I want to just eat and eat and eat. I felt my body shake and pulsate; a shiver went through my spine and my legs went numb; I think my eyes were open but I can’t remember seeing anything but darkness; I couldn’t hear anything, not even the voice telling me to eat and eat and eat; I could no longer feel the longing I had felt to be fat; my hand was wet with a liquid I had never seen before. I can remember, after my first orgasm, eating my last doughnut.

I never told anyone, not my closest friends with whom I ostensibly shared everything, about my overwhelming desire to gain weight and get fatter and fatter. I never overate in public; I often refused seconds and desert. I drank diet soda with my friends, ate salads in the school cafeteria. I made out with boys who told me I was “hot.” I wore bikinis at the town pool because, like my friends, I wanted to show off my thin body to the boys and, of course, to the other girls. I laughed when my friends made fun of the fat girl in our French class. I pointed my finger down my throat and fake puked when someone recalled that she should had worn a bikini at the pool that summer. Secretly, I wished I had seen her.

I remember a day-dream that occupied me for most of 10th grade: I developed a super-power that allowed me to freeze time. While time was frozen, I could do whatever I wanted, while everyone else remained stuck in place. In the middle of geometry, I would pause time and eat and eat and eat, right in front the the girls who mocked our fat classmates; they couldn’t see me since they were frozen. My belly would grow larger and larger, stretching out my shrinking t-shirts and bursting the buttons off my jeans. When I un-froze, everything would be back to normal, and I would be skinny, and I would snicker when the meanest of my friends suggested that, oh my god, did that girl get even fatter over Christmas break? Each time I froze time, I would pick up where I had left off, as fat as I was the last time I un-froze. My belly, in frozen time, swelled up over my desk, and the cellulite on my thighs bulged out of my short shorts. I ate cakes and candies and pizza, right there in front my classmates, and they were none the wiser. I grabbed my big fat belly and jiggled it right in the face of the meanest of my friends, while she gaped blankly, unable to see the disgusting fat that was overcoming her.

This was, of course, nothing but a fantasy. Publicly, I remained scornful of the very idea of excess fat. Publicly, my opinion of weight gain, junk food, and fat was what you would expect from a high-school girl: weight-gain was a fearful nightmare and repulsive, junk food was for sleepovers and gossip nights but was to be worked off the next day in the gym, and fat wasn’t much discussed, unless we were mocking an unsuspecting classmate.

As I progressed through high-school, I came to more fully adopt society’s expectations as my own: I was not simply a public fat-scorner and private fat-worshipper, I was a through and through fat-fearer. The secret side of me, that which (less and less frequently, as the demands of the boys with whom I wanted to make out become more and more severe) ate junk food in the privacy of my bedroom, I came to understand as some sort of strange perversion. I mourned the lust I felt to be fat, and the desire that was only sated when I was stuffing myself with sugar and candy. I can remember praying: please make me normal, please make me like the other girls who are perfectly content to be skinny, and who want a boyfriend that encourages them to be skinny. Please remove these passions from me. Please don’t let me be fat. Please make me stop wanting to be fat.

My public life came to dominate my sense of what was normal, and thus to pollute my secret fat fantasies. I was in several relationships with skinny, athletic boys who wanted me to remain skinny and athletic. I joined a gym with my mother and went several times per week. I went for runs on the weekend. I (mostly) stopped stuffing myself with junk food in privacy (though I didn’t stop entirely; more on this in a minute). I did my makeup and straightened my hair and admired my size 4 waistline in the mirror. My boyfriend told me that, in my bikini on the beach the summer before senior year, I made other girls jealous. He once threatened to fight a boy who went out of his way to turn his head and gape at me, following my shapely, curvey, skinny body. I was admired, wanted, desired, and I loved that feeling.

I shared my fat fantasies with no one, and as time went on, my desires became more severe. I longed more severely and felt sharper pangs; the energy I spent repressing my secret desires would at times melt away more completely than ever. While my fat stuffing nights became less frequent, they also became more intense. I no longer stuffed a pillow in my shirt; I stuffed blankets and sheets in my pants to imitate fat thighs. I used a puffy, soft, and very large down blanket to portray a jiggly fat belly. I stuffed spare towels in the arms of my shirts, imagining all those doughnuts had gone to my arms. The nightshirt and yoga pants I used became stretched beyond fixing; I had to hide them in the bottom of a drawer so that my mother wouldn’t notice that my small yoga pants had been stretched to a size 3x.

One time my family went away for a weekend and left me home alone. They cautioned that I wasn’t to have friends over for a party. They needn’t have worried; I didn’t invite anyone over. Rather, I cherished the most intensely private moment I had ever known: I went out and purchased an actual pair of 3x yoga pants, and a stretchy 3x shirt. I bought half a dozen doughnuts. I went to Wendy’s and bought a cheeseburger, large fries, and a milkshake. I bought a bag of potato chips. When I got home, I stuffed my extra large and stretchy yoga pants with blankets. I used a pillow to enlarge my butt. Towels filled out my thighs. My upper body, with my down blanket and spare quilt stuffed inside, was, I thought, a pretty accurate representation of a severely obese version of myself; it was, I thought, that severely obese version of myself for which I longed with a passion unknown in any other area of my life. Fully stuffed with blankets and pillows filling out the fat I didn’t myself have, I sat down to feast. I ate doughnuts and Wendy’s. I washed it down with milkshake. I snacked on chips. I spent that entire first Friday night eating; I couldn’t fall asleep because I was too full. I thought I might be sick. I imagined my belly getting larger and larger, and stuffed an extra blanket into my shirt, as if the doughnuts I had just consumed had already had their effect, as if my fat was already swelling out even further. I touched myself and finally fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV, the food I didn’t finish still scattered throughout my living room, the pillows and blankets still puffing out my imagined belly. I woke up sometime in the middle of the night (I found it rather difficult to sleep while I was “dressed up” fat) and ate some stale, cold fries and a handful of potato chips. I fell back asleep.

Saturday morning I finished yesterday’s doughnuts for breakfast. They were stale, but this was somehow erotic: I was such a fat little pig, I thought to myself, I had no choice but to stuff myself with yesterday’s stale doughnuts. I rubbed my fake fat belly, imagining that, one day perhaps, my own belly would be this large, and I would, for real, stuff myself with yesterday’s doughnuts.

I got out of my fat costume and left my house in search of more food. The idea that I was addicted to food and to fat overwhelmed me: I went to the grocery store and bought a chocolate cake, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, a box of double-stuff Oreos, and more potato chips. I got home and ate far less that I would have liked; I  was, after all, not actually fat. I had a slice of cake and a few Oreos before I felt sick. Still, the fantasy that one day I wouldn’t be limited by my body lingered. I imagined myself getting so fat that I would be able to consume as much as I wanted without restrictions. I would sit around all day, with my fat hanging out over my thighs, and I would finish that cake, those Oreos, those potato chips, and that ice cream. I would finish all of that fattening junk food and watch my fat belly hang lower and lower over my thighs.

After my gluttonous private weekend, I return to my normal, skinny, fat shaming self. I was embarrassed that I had spent the entire weekend eating junk food by myself. I felt terrible, probably from consuming more sugar and calories than I could handle. I wished that I had just had a party where my skinny friends came over and drank wine, like a normal girl. I wished I had brought some cute, skinny, athletic guy to my room and had sex with him. I was so embarrassed at myself, I promptly threw away the 3x clothes I had purchased, vowing I would never get dressed up like a fat girl again.

Repressing my desires, however, seemed only to have the opposite affect: they came back stronger than ever. While I would vow with what I thought was sincerity never to stuff myself fat again, I would just as quickly find myself in Dunkin Donuts buying donuts; at a convenience store eating candy bars; at the ice-cream parlor getting a banana split; stopping, on my way home from school, at McDonalds for a cheeseburger and fries. I gained weight; it was a small amount, 5 or 6 pounds, and then ten, but it definitely showed. If my friends noticed, they didn’t say anything; most of the weight went to my thighs and butt, and I think my boyfriend at the time liked it. Mortified, though, I swore to myself I would lose that weight; I would cut out my secret fat food runs and hit the gym harder.

It was around this time that I discovered BBWs and, even more exciting, SSBBWs online. It was my senior year in high school; I would have been 17 or 18. I had never really watched porn, but one day, after I had received my own laptop as a gift from my grandparents, I decided to search for fat girls and weight gain online. The hardcore porn sites weren’t of interest to me, but the fat forums were. I found other people, fat people and skinny people, who were committed to, obsessed with, weight gain, food, and fat. I found websites that were fat positive. I found BBW and SSBBW models. I was overcome: there is a world, I realized, about which I have fantasized my whole life; there is a world wherein fat, food, and weight gain is cherished and worshipped. I ogled with profound admiration at the SSBBWs who posed, naked or half naked, for the camera. Some of them allowed themselves to be photographed while they stuffed themselves with even more food. I learned a whole new vocabulary: feeder, feedee, foodee. I was all three, I thought to myself. I learned an even more exciting term: FA, the fat admirer. Were there men out there, I wondered, real men, who wanted to feed me, watch me get fatter, and worship my fat belly? Could I find one of these men? Would I find one of these men?

I became active on some of these sites, but always anonymously. I never posted a picture of myself, out of the intense fear I would be found out. But I stayed current with new developments, and watched other girls create and update their modeling websites. I became obsessed with the idea of being a fat model. I would fall into a trance scanning these website, imaging that I, too, would one day find my image, my own fat body, scattered across the internet. I had a new activity: I would pack my 3x clothes full with pillows and blankets (I had, of course, purchased new 3x clothes after throwing out my initial ones) in imitation of the girls I looked at online, and I would sit in front of my computer eating junk food longing for the day when I would be able to join them. I longed for the day when they would call me a BBW. I longed even harder for the day (I was relatively sure it would never come) when they would call me an SSBBW.

These longings and these desires become part of a routine. After losing 7 of 10 pounds I had gained a few months back, I quickly gained another 10 pounds, and then 12. I was still relatively small, but, at 15 pounds heavier, noticeably larger than I had been. I went up three sizes. My friends and family mostly didn’t think anything of it; it was, after all, my last semester of senior year of high school, and I was nervous about starting college.

That summer, I lost a few pounds during a summer fling with a cute guy I had had a secret crush on for most of high school. He encouraged me to go running with him. We went for hikes through the woods and rode bikes around town. We ate ice cream, but I usually ordered a non-fat frozen yogurt and put blueberries on it. Our romance was passionate but short lived. After going away to college, we stayed in touch briefly and then moved on.

My college experience, like most college experiences, was one of profound self-discovery. My self-discovery, however, was perhaps of a somewhat different nature than most. It was in college that I finally admitted to myself that I wanted to be fat, and that if I wasn’t fat, a large part of my life would remain hidden away in a closet. I realized that if I wasn’t fat, my identity must remain a lie. I realized that I would not be happy, truly happy, with my life and with myself, unless I was fat. I sympathized with a close male friend from high-school who had recently come out as being gay. I imagined the relief he felt knowing that he could finally be who he really was with the people he cared about most, that he wouldn’t have to hide his real identity. I imagined it was the relief I would feel if acknowledged openly that I wanted to be fat.

My self-discovery began the very first day. I had planned, at the end of the summer just before I left, that I would use the infamous “freshman 15” as an excuse to gain weight, to eat what I wanted, to let myself go. My meal plan, which allowed me access to an all-you-can-eat buffet for nearly every meal, become my partner in crime. I had pancakes for breakfast everyday, ice-cream for dessert at both lunch and dinner, and slices of pizza at the late-night pizza place. My friends, who didn’t want their bellies to hang out over their pants like me, nevertheless ate like me, or sort of like me. They, too, were in college; they, too, had a new-found freedom; they, too, were victims of their meal-plans; they were victims of the freshman 15, and some of them the freshman 20. I was a victim of the freshman 50.

Part of me was mortified. I wanted, of course, to be fat, and I loved to rub my new fat belly, and feel my butt jiggle as I squeezed into the new pants I had to purchase. But part of me didn’t know how to handle this identity: I had never been the fat girl; I had been the skinny girl who laughed with her friends at the fat girls. I was the cute, skinny, athletic girl who made out with cute, skinny, athletic guys. I wore short shorts in high school. My classmates in college were admittedly less critical than my high-school classmates had been; most didn’t seem to much care whether I was 125 or 175 pounds. I had friends who weren’t concerned about my weight, even if they were moderately concerned about their own. Still, it was hard to imagine what my public identity would be if I continued to gain weight.

This changed drastically when I met a boy. I was 60 pounds heavier than I had been on the first day of college when, after history class, a boy I had noticed once or twice approached me. He asked if I was prepared for the test next week. I told him I was and he asked if I could help him study. He was nervous he might fail it, he said, unless he got some extra help. I agreed, half-suspecting that the test wasn’t the real reason, or at least not the only reason, he had approached me.

We made out the night of our very first study session. He agreed to meet me in one of the campus cafes; when our study session turned into a chatting session, and when we became self-conscious about having been sitting in the cafe for several hours, he asked if I wanted to head up to his dorm. I said I didn’t, but invited him to mine. My roommate was out of town for the next few days. I didn’t tell him that,  but imagined myself doing so. We were in my room for about an hour before he leaned over my bed and kissed me.

It was the first time I had made out with anyone since I had gained weight. He was small; at that time, I weighed about 35 pounds more than he did. It turned me on to know that I was fatter and bigger than he was, and, I would find out later, it turned him on too. I could tell, by the way he touched my body, my newly chubby body, that he was enamored with me.

One night several months later, after we had been making out regularly, and after we had been introduced to each other’s friends, and after we had for the first time had sex, I asked him if he thought I should lose weight. He looked heartbroken, like I was asking him if he wanted to never again have sex with me. He asked me if I was comfortable in my body; he told me I should do what felt comfortable, whatever felt most natural to me. He told me I should never be someone else for someone else, not even him. If I want you to lose weight, he said, and you don’t want to lose weight, then don’t lose weight.

I listened attentively to what he said. I was somewhat struck by his sagacity; I couldn’t believe I was talking to an 18 year old guy. I thought he was probably making up some shit that sounded good because he wanted to keep having sex with me. I thought that perhaps he had heard what he had just said in a movie, especially the bit about not being someone else for someone else; it kind of sounded like a speech that a wise old grandma gives to her granddaughter in the climax of a dramatic coming-of-age movie. I remember him looking me directly in the eye and brushing a piece of stray hair behind my ear.

I felt in that moment more comfortable than I had ever felt with another human being. He told me to be comfortable, and I was. He asked me never to be someone else. I wanted, in that moment, never to be someone else. I’m not entirely sure what I was thinking at just that moment, but what followed I will never forget.

I asked him if he thought I should gain weight.

My previous question, about losing weight, had struck him somewhere deep, and left him looking heartbroken but ready to impart to me some profound wisdom about being true to one’s self. The present question, about gaining weight, caught him completely off guard. He stared at me intently, not saying anything. I smiled sheepishly, half-suspecting what he might be thinking. I had guessed correctly, of course: he was attracted to my belly, to my thighs, to my fat; he thought that, if I gained weight, I would be even sexier. He finally muttered another version of what he had said previously, about not doing anything for other people, but mostly just stumbled over his words. I kissed him. I asked him again: would you think it was sexy if I was fat, even fatter than I am now?

He nodded but remained, I think, embarrassed. I would find out later that his admission to me, that he found my belly attractive and would find it even more attractive if it got larger and jiggled more, was the first time he had admitted to anyone that he was attracted to fat. I assured him that my admission was likewise a first. We shared something indissoluble: we had shared with one another the most profound secret each of us had been harboring for our entire lives. I found out that he too had fantasized secretly about fat girls but dated publicly the skinny ones; I found out that he too had realized a fantasy in the online world of BBWs and SSBBWs; I found out that he had eaten secret doughnuts in private, but that his real fantasy was to feed someone else, to feed a girl and watch her grow fatter and fatter.

Perhaps because he was my first real boyfriend, and perhaps because we had shared such an intimate secret with one another, this boy from my history class became, as cliched as it sounds, my whole world. The strictures and demands of society slipped away, and I cared less and less about being skinny, about losing the weight I had gained since starting college. When my mother expressed some concern, after I had gained 100 pounds, I shrugged it off, mostly unbothered; my boy adored my body, cherished my body, worshipped my body, and so did I. I allowed myself to eat more and more; I let the boy feed me; sometimes I ate doughnuts and candy while we had sex. I watched my body grow, and I imagined society, the other girls, even my family, gossip about my weight behind my back; I didn’t care, because the boy loved watching me grow, and, most importantly, I loved watching me grow.

We dated for almost all of the first two years of college. Over that time, I gained nearly 150 pounds; I had ballooned to almost 300 pounds. My friends changed. I met a girl, who had been watching me grow with fascination, who came to be one of my closest friends, with whom I would eat and gain. She too, it turned out, harbored secret fantasies of becoming fat; she had never acted on them, not seriously enough to actually gain weight. She had watched me grow with jealously, and she noted, once, that I was holding hands with a very skinny and very athletic young man as we crossed campus. It didn’t take long before she confessed to me that she envied me for the fat that hung from my body. She wanted to be fat, she said. I told her what the boy had told me: don’t let someone else convince you to be someone else.

Other friends, who weren’t fat and didn’t know that I wanted to be as fat as I was, rarely brought up my weight, assuming that I was struggling to lose it. They were good friends, and I remain close with many of them; some of them I have told about my desires and my lusts, and they have accepted me. They perhaps remain skeptical, and I’m sure they don’t fully understand. But then, neither do I.

The boy I had dated for the first few years of college, who had helped me to become who I had always dreamed of being, in whom I had confessed so many of my darkest secrets, left me in the summer before my junior year. He has never told me exactly what happened; at the time, he said in so many vague words, that he felt like our relationship had stalled somewhere, and that, while he loved spending time with me, he didn’t see our relationship continuing. In retrospect, I can see he was right: we were perfect for each other for a while, but not for ever. I don’t wish we had stayed together. I do suspect, though, that part of his decision wasn’t really his decision. I think that his faith in my fat faltered when I neared 300 pounds. His next girlfriend, whom he started dating about a year after we broke up, was a petite girl, smaller even than he was; I saw them once running through campus together, and read on Facebook that they completed a half-marathon together. I think that the boy who had taught me so much, who had convinced me that the fat me was the real me, who had fed me doughnuts during sex and brought me pizza in the middle of the night, who had helped me eat and eat and eat and who had worshipped the fat as it spilled out over my clothes, who nearly drooled at the sight of my belly hanging out over my thighs, became, in the end, embarrassed of his own desires. I think he regrets our break-up more than I do.

At the time, though, I was devastated. I lost weight, because I stopped stuffing myself and because I was, in general, not hungry. The idea of being fat became again repulsive; my body was a reminder of the relationship I had just lost. My belly was a remnant I couldn’t get rid of; though I took the pictures off my wall and gave him back the trinkets he had left in my dorm, I couldn’t give him back the cellulite that now jiggled with every step, the belly that had to be tucked into my size 24 jeans, the double chin that no amount of make-up could hide. I was trapped in my body, and my body was a memento of that which I had lost.

While my friends helped me with late-night chats over wine, I found real solace in two places: one was the internet community of BBWs and the other was the friend I had met who wanted to become fat. She was the only one I could tell about how I really felt, about how my fat body was a reminder of the boyfriend who was no longer there to feed me. This friend, this fellow fat girl (she had gained some weight and was approaching 200 pounds), filled for me the gap that the boy had left. She told me how gorgeous I was. She reminded me how amazing my body was, and how much I, myself, loved my own body. She reminded me that the big fat belly that was hanging out over my too-tight jeans was the belly I had been dreaming of since I was a young girl.

She reminded me how much I loved being fat.

I have since dated other guys, nearly all of them skinny and athletic. I love watching my fat, squishy body push up against their hard, toned muscles. Some of the guys I have dated have wanted me to get fatter and have begged me to let them feed me while we have sex; others are too embarrassed about their desires to admit that they want to feed me; others still have no desire for me to gain weight, but love my body as it is. One wanted me to lose weight; he said that right around 250 pounds was the perfect size for every girl. I haven’t seen him since, nearing 300 pounds, I told him that it was more likely that I would someday weigh 400 than that I would ever again weigh 250.

Right now I tend to fluctuate between 260-280. I go through spurts where I eat and eat and eat all I want for days on end (having graduated from college and moved into my own apartment has allowed me increased freedom to stuff myself when the desire strikes). Other times, though, I stop stuffing myself, and eat relatively normally (though I haven’t dieted, or really limited what I ate, since high-school). My family doesn’t know about my desire to remain fat and get fatter; they sometimes suggest this or that diet. Once my mother forwarded me some information about participating in a study for obese women between the ages of 18 -27. I told her I was insulted and hurt. She didn’t bring up my weight for several months.

This blog is about my current journey: it contains my fantasies, my desires, my day-to-day thoughts and opinions, and, of course, my food log. I would not say that I’m currently gaining, only because I have no systematic way of getting fatter. That said, I eat whatever I want, and I love my fat, and I want to see my fat grow and expand.

You can continue to read about my fat here.