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sometimes, when I'm struggling with post-nut clarity, I remind myself that there's less choice in getting fatter than you think.

we were all given this kink, and it's never going to leave us. we're always going to keep coming back, keep wanting more, keep craving lard.

so pick up that extra tub of ice cream! chug that extra pint of milk! stuff in that extra slice of sheet cake! we need to fill that belly to the brim.

what's that, you're getting turned on at the thought? that's because you were always meant to be a fatty. you know once your belly passes that flabby threshold, there'll be no going back. love handles and moobs are round the corner. fatpads and fupas are on the horizon.

There’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes with being a super-sized big handsome man (SSBHM). It’s not just the kind of loneliness that creeps in during the quiet moments—it’s the kind that follows you everywhere, sitting heavy on your chest like an unspoken truth.

I’ve spent my life being larger than most, not just in size but in personality, in heart, in the way I love and care for others. And yet, despite all that I give, I often feel unseen. Unwanted. Overlooked.

In a world that glorifies chiseled bodies and superficial standards of attraction, men like me are rarely seen as desirable. We’re the teddy bears, the “big guys” who are good for a laugh, a deep conversation, or a comforting hug—but rarely the first choice, or even the second, when it comes to love. I’ve heard all the compliments that feel like veiled pity: "You have such a great personality." "You’d be perfect if only..."

If only I was thinner. If only I didn’t take up so much space. If only the world could see that there is more to me than just my size.

I don’t want to be someone's secret. I don't want to be someones emotional support. I don't want to be someones source of validation. I don’t want to be the one they text at night but are too ashamed to bring into the light. I want to be chosen. I want to be loved openly and fully, not in whispers or hidden corners.

But the truth is, the world isn’t kind to bodies like mine. And some days, that truth is suffocating.

For those asking for side boob and lovehandles, my gift to you!

being able to walk

being able to get through doors

being able to feed myself

being able to tie my shoes

what i want to do

eat myself to the point where i can’t get out of bed, let alone walk

get stuck in every doorway i try to get through, to the point where i am confined to just one room that i can’t get out of

take all my meals through a funnel so i don’t have to deal with the unwieldy task of getting food to my mouth myself

I’m assuming you want one piece of advice! Here’s my response:

You have to be okay with being fat on your own.

I think some feedees get caught up in the fantasy of having a partner that is a feeder that will stay with them forever and never leave them. While that is the case for quite a few people, you still have to keep your relationships grounded in reality. People break up, people die, people move on and grow apart. A feeder is not bound to you just because they helped make you fat. A feedist relationship is still a relationship. That’s why, if you decide to enter a feedist relationship, you need to seriously consider what will happen if your relationship doesnt work out. Will you be okay with being significantly fatter without a partner in the picture? Will you be okay existing as a fat person without the validation of a partner reassuring you how attractive you are? Will your mental health remain stable?

Unfortunately, no matter how hot you think it is, there are real life social/health/political/familial/daily consequences to voluntarily becoming obese and/or gaining significant amounts of weight. You need to be prepared to face those consequences with or without someone at your side.

Listen, it's hard work lugging all this heft around! There better be plenty of food to make up for it...

in:

shocking people with how fat you’re getting

continuing to eat when you’re full

midnight snacks (or three course meals)

spilling out of clothes that used to fit

belly rubs after every meal

associating eating with self-pleasure

out:

‘healthy’ food

portion control

gym memberships

dressing to hide your fatness

pretending you don’t get out of breath from minuscule movements

I want to go to a restaurant and barely fit in a booth because the table squishes my belly, and have to pretend I don’t care how noticeable it is.

I want to have to stiffle a grunt whenever I stand up, so as to not look like I’m struggling.

I want to have to avoid laying down on the ground because my heavy gut might pin me down, and simply trying to get up would make me look helpless.

I want to have to make my friends wait when we go out to eat because I ordered enough to fill myself up, and it’s just that damn much!

I want to sit on a three person couch and make it impossible for more than one other person to sit next to me.

I want to have to make others wait for me before we go out as I struggle to get my shoes on.

I want to have to make everyone go to the mall so I can Maybe find clothing that fits me.

I want to go to the fair and have to sit out every once in awhile because I won’t fit in the rides.

You have to feel at least a little guilty…

There’s no way you can look and eat the way you do and not be.

If not in the moments after you carry out the most sinful acts of gluttony, or even after you finish cumming yourself senseless because of how tight and sore your gut is, you have to feel guilty the morning after when you wake up and still have that feeling of slight fullness mixed with nausea… You know? Right before you gorge yourself again, cause you’ve convinced yourself that when you’re not filled to the brim and gasping for air, you’re not full.

When you’re in front of your family and they make little remarks out of love and concern, telling you how they go on walks, or how they’re trying this new diet they think you’d “like.” Isn’t it embarrassing?

The looks you get from them at holiday dinners don’t make your heart sink? That one distance relative who gets drunk and tells you how big you’ve gotten since the last time they saw you, but they’re joking of course. And your aunt bragging about how your cousin lost so much weight since they’ve started going to the gym.

When your smaller friends continuously bitch about how fat they are, and you realize you’re double almost triple their size. When they say it, the others instantly reassure them. But when you say it, they all kind of go silent or coo and tell you you’re still beautiful.

Aren’t you ashamed when you run out of breath laboring your weight back to your bed with bags of food to pack your gut? I mean, you get winded from eating.

When you hear your jeans creaking while you sit. When you keep tugging the bottom of your shirt in public, trying to keep it down. When you avoid the gaze of strangers, cause there’s something inside of yourself letting you know they’re staring and judging. When you rip and pop buttons on clothes that fit less than a year ago.

And the amount of money you spend on food is disgraceful. You could’ve used that money on so many things… bills, nutritious groceries, a vacation, a gym membership. Hell, by now you could’ve built a home gym with how much you’ve spend on your gut.

Any normal person would be disgusted with themselves. But you’ve cummed yourself into submission to your mound, right? And I can bet you’re eating or touching yourself right now.

I am over 400lbs. Many people think that being this fat is the ‘easy option’ in life, or a product of sheer laziness. It is not. It takes constant mental and physical effort, it is a kind of warped dedication that most people cannot understand and would not endure. I keep eating more when I am already uncomfortably full, I restrict my activities because I wouldn’t have the energy to do them, I have sacrificed parts of my social life because I can’t keep up with my friends. Sure, a lot of it comes naturally at this point, but I am still making choices every day that my body does not want me to make. I have chosen to be fat. I make no excuses or mindless decisions, I have no delusions or medical conditions.

Why then? Why choose this struggle? Because it’s worth it. Obviously, I get to enjoy delicious food in quantities and combinations most never will. Yet, it’s about so much more than the pleasure of eating (though I love it dearly). I get to feel the ecstatic satisfaction of a stuffed stomach every day. I get to feel the soft, doughy goodness of my body everywhere I go. I get to be a warm, cuddly blanket for a partner everywhere we go- I get to embrace and envelop them with my fat, to feel our heartbeats fuse together as their vibrations send ripples through my jiggling body.

The nicest, the tenderest part of a feedie.

Just starting out, they're so small, so quaint but damn when I mentioned them how he blushed and offered to go to the gym. Embarrassed about something so cute and adorable.

...

Now they're just a measurement of how much lard I could force to pile onto that greasy yellow heart.

Hanging off your sides, pulling like heavy sandbags against your body.

Scarred and squeezed a testimony to how harsh I would tease you over stuffing yourself full.

It started when I told you, you shouldn't eat so many fatting snacks.

You brushed it off like the sweat on your brow, and kept chowing down.

Eating, scarring, pulling anything you could into that lumbering gut of yours.

Once or twice you ate such an ungodly amount I silently swore you'd burst right open, like an overfed tick.

I tried, to tell you how worried I was about you.. but it fell on deaf ears as you asked me to hand you another gallon of cream.

Two years later, and now here you are. laying out on your mattress like a pampered king.

Disgustingly distended belly hanging there like a sack of sand on your thunderous thighs.

Bat wings rubbing against your giant moobs with every motion. Like pork belly meat slapping onto a deli counter.

Sausage fingers flapping and usless folds jiggling as you gasp and wheeze for breath beneath hundreds of pounds of lard.

Half choked begging spewing from your fat swallowed face along with grease droplets as the pain in your yellow crusted heart gets worse.