My massive bariatric bed creaks under the weight of its occupant. I lay propped up against a mountain of pillows, my body spilling over the sides like dough. My skin, pale and stretched, shimmers under the dim light, revealing map of angry stretch marks that tells a story of years spent in this very bed growing against my will for you. That’s the thing about caring about others. You do things for them even if it hurts you. That’s why I have been immobile for two years.
Every morning is a battle, but today feels like something especially daunting will happen. I can feel my body giving up more and more each day. My thighs and feet are swollen from the lymphedema, I am taking enough insulin to kill a horse, and I know my heart will give out any day. The weight of my body makes me try to shift uncomfortably as I take off my CPAP and replace it with my oxygen cannula. The weight of my chest chokes me out, so I have to constantly be on oxygen. My heart races as I struggle to these very basic tasks of changing out which machine makes sure I can breathe. Ironically, it leave me breathless.
Panic bubbles beneath the surface—What if today is the day my trapped body gives up?
The door creaks open, and in you walk wearing nothing but a cheerful apron that reads “World’s Best Dad.” That’s right. That is the sick game we play. You’re the feeder dad and I am your helpless son. Behind you a cart full of breakfast becomes present: ungodly stacks of fluffy pancakes dripping with butter and syrup, bacon glistening that looks like it came from a whole hog, and a gallon of whole milk.
“Good morning, champ!” you beam, setting the first tray down on the nightstand with a clatter. “I made your favorites!”
I manage a weak smile, though my heart sinks at the sight. Have I ever been able to resist you? My food addiction wins every time and even if it didn’t there is no way in hell you would let me lose the weight. I am too far gone. I feel it in my enlarged heart that is starting to hurt. “Thanks, Daddy.” My voice hoarse, tinged with the weight of anxiety. I want to feel grateful, but look what you did to me under your “care.” Each bite you, my daddy, prepare feels like another nail in the coffin.
“Talk? Or eat?” you laugh sadistically. You plop down on the edge of the bed. “You’re going to love this,” you cut a piece of pancake and lift it to my lips.
As the food touched my tongue, a familiar rush of pleasure mixed with a bitter taste of dread. I chew slowly, aware of the way you watch me with a blend of pride and lust. You prepare another fork full of pancake.
“Daddy, I... I can’t keep doing this,” I finally manage, pushing the fork away as my chest tightens.
“Shh, don’t think like that. Just eat, my boy,” you bring the fork to my lips. “You’ll see. I’m making you stronger for daddy.”
“Just finish your breakfast, son. That’s all I ask,” you press, tone firm but loving.
“I am bedbound and dying. People die at this weight!”
“And you should be grateful someone is willing to take care of you and let you eat whatever you want! Be grateful for daddy.”
“No buts! Just enjoy your breakfast. There is plenty more after this tray.” You force a crispy piece of bacon dripping in syrup in my mouth, the sweetness overpowering me. “Trust daddy. That’s right, eat. Get nice and fat for daddy.” The rhythm in which you feed me starts to pick up. “You’re such a good boy.”
That was it. Between the delicious food, your lust, and calling me a good boy, I feel my little nub of a cock somewhere in a fatpad covered under rolls of lard twitch. I am yours. I will never question you again. You're right. This is silly. I need this. I need thousands of calories. I need YOU.
As we sit together, you feeding me, I feel some fucked up warmth--both comforting and suffocating. How much longer could this last? As I chew, the words echo in my mind: Trust me. And in that moment, I wonder if trust can be both a comfort and a cage. Trust will kill me...Food will kill me...You will kill me.
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