welcome to the café

You didn’t throw caution to the wind. Oh no, you abandoned it entirely. The next period of your life was a drastic step away from everything you’d ever known. Even so, it was somehow the most freeing at the same time.

The Feeder you’d spoken with lived across the country. Somehow, after only a couple days of intense conversation (you’d call it indoctrination but this was only the beginning and they knew you weren’t entirely comfortable with the entire feeder/feedee lifestyle just yet), they convinced you to quit your job and move in with them. That was, for you, the person who’d never lived more than 20 minutes from your immediate family, who’d had the same job since you’d left school, a terrifying leap. But you had faith in this person, and you did it. You broke your lease, lied to your family about a different job prospect several states over, and vanished.

Within a week you’d comfortably settled in your feeder’s spare bedroom. Crazy, right? Probably. Definitely not a sane thing to do, but they didn’t pressure you into anything more while you settled in. You looked for some easy-going jobs in the area, found a reliable desk job, and took that up part time. When you weren’t at work you were getting to know your new friend, because they wanted you comfortable around them first and foremost. You traded likes and dislikes, hobbies, showed each other what you liked cooking, scouted out interesting venues of entertainment in the area, and so forth.

There was no meeting of their family, not yet. A few friends you did meet, and they were nice. Before those meetings you’d fussed over what to wear, what to talk about, what they must think of a desperate person abandoning their old life and crossing the country just to pursue an alternative lifestyle. Your new friend assured you nobody cared--all they wanted to do was meet you. That was it.

That was the first step in unravelling an entire life’s worth of bad thought processes, you quickly realized. Their friends were fine, and nice. It turned out, not everyone was like your friends and family back home. Not everyone cared if you looked like someone on TV. Not everyone cared if you weren’t put completely together. Your friend’s first step in giving you everything you ever wanted was relaxing your own anal thoughts and getting them to quiet.

Because when they were quiet, you found you could really enjoy life.

Between the friendly meetups, there was your relationship with food. Decades of being scared to make the wrong selection, knowing there were people just around the corner ready to police your food choices, was a hard habit to break. To counter this, your feeder started every meal the same way: they’d serve both of you the same sized portions at home, and always get the same thing as you when out. When eating, there was no commenting on the food. No commenting beforehand, or after for that matter, too. If you did you were swiftly met with a reminder that it was ‘just food to nourish your body’, nothing more. Nourishment couldn’t be good or bad.

Months of this went by and your friendship deepened, even somewhat romantically. Your relationship with food and body image healed in increments, and it helped that your friend never had a bad thing to say about your body. Didn’t matter if your cheeks felt puffy from too much sodium the night before. Didn’t matter if you felt bloated. They always said they were grateful to see you and your smile each and every day, and that was all that mattered. You’d repeat that to yourself over and over, and some days you didn’t always believe it, but you liked hearing it nonetheless.

More months passed. Your feeder slowly incorporated a few new things into your routine. You’d get bigger portions than them, be it dining out or at home. Not enough to really notice, but your clothes certainly did. It’s not like you got much exercise what with your desk job, and your feeder didn’t exactly encourage it at home—they went to a gym in the morning before heading off to their own job at a labor-intensive manufacturing plant. But of course they never said anything about it, either, and when you brought up your clothes fitting a little tighter in a slightly panicked, slightly excited squeal, they merely smiled and asked how you felt about it.

You couldn’t really answer them at the time because you…didn’t really know. For years you’d fantasized about exploding into a quivering pile of fat. Now that it was happening, and honestly you couldn’t even say you were actually fat, more like…softer than usual…you didn’t know how to feel about it. Were you happy? Somewhere deep down you did feel a sense of pride, of finally being able to beat the odds and gain a little weight. Straddling that thought, however, was the judgy crow bitching about how you were now a cow and nobody could possibly love you.

And while that crow wouldn’t quite shut up, you were emboldened by the fact your friend, your partner, your feeder, just acknowledged that you’d gained weight and asked what they should make for dinner.

Like it was normal. Like it was okay.

It was…okay. Okay to be bigger. Okay to have gained weight. Okay to not be a waif.

A year into this and you stepped onto their scale, somehow surprised to see it only tipped in at 150 pounds. Really? That was it? With the way you were eating and the lack of exercise, you could’ve sworn you were bigger. Every time you studied yourself in the mirror you certainly thought you were. Huh.

Your feeder simply shrugged but went on to make a hearty breakfast that could probably feed a family of four but was split between the two of you. The most adoring expression always crossed their face when you finished a big meal and your clothes stretched to accommodate the temporary girth, so you already knew what they were thinking.

175 pounds came and went. Somehow, you were more surprised that you could still fit into your clothes from 150 pounds than the number on the scale. Your feeder, who you’d now become intimately comfortable with, wrapped their arms around you from behind and cackled with mockingly evil laughter as the scale spun to over 200. You squealed and twisted in their arms, only to be met with a true hug and a tender kiss, “I’m so proud of you for doing this” coming from their lips and ending on yours.

No one had ever, ever said they were proud of you for anything. Your family just had expectations, as did your former friends. Nobody ever cheered you on. Your feeder did though. They wanted you to be happy, and if they benefitted from it, too, then so be it.

~

At 200 pounds you did cry, a lot, the scale beneath your wobbly little belly obscured by big fat tears dripping down your chubby cheeks. You’d seen the belly, sure, and you’d jiggled it admiringly (your feeder always starting in right after you, pawing all over your plush frame). You’d noticed your hips widening and your feet getting a little thicker, just like your slightly puffy fingers. The stretch marks. The softening jawline. Every change your body went through to accommodate new deposits of fat you’d obviously noticed, but to see evidence on the scale…that was another thing entirely.

You didn’t know why it was so shocking, and you barricaded yourself in the bathroom for a while to try and come to terms with your new reality. You weren’t just fat any longer. It’d taken almost two years to happen, but you were past fat. You were clinically obese. Doctors would laugh at you behind you back. Coworkers wouldn’t take you seriously any longer, and forget finding another job—no one would want to hire a fat slob, never mind your good work ethic and outstanding performance reviews. This was it. Your identity was now bound to being…fat.

The dumb part of your brain, the part you hadn’t been able to leave behind, screamed that this was unattractive. YOU were unattractive now, you’d ruined yourself, your family really was going to disown you if they ever saw you again, and it wouldn’t be like that story you’d once read about becoming so fat you went home on thanksgiving and everyone thought you were a stranger—no, they’d really slam the door in your fat face and call the cops. All the time you’d spent starving yourself in previous years was for nothing. The compliments, the calls that you could be a model…gone.

Eventually your feeder came in after a few unresponsive knocks on the door, and they clearly knew what you were upset about before you even managed stuttering out a few incoherent words about being a pig. They remained quiet, letting you cry out all your frustrations and insecurities, listening to your fears and worries about the future.

When you’d somewhat calmed down they joined you on the floor and gently cradled you in their arms, squeezing you like you were a precious object and not the big fat pig you’d just proclaimed yourself to be. They asked if there’d been any particular instances lately that made you think they wouldn’t like you any longer, or find you any less attractive. They asked if any of your new friends had done anything to make you feel like you were less than a fantastic, kind, and caring person. Or if it hadn’t been them, if anyone at work had been making comments that would make you feel so insignificant.

Sniffling, you thought about it. No. If anything your feeder had been handing out compliments left and right lately, pouring love and affection into your relationship without a doubt. And no, your new friends hadn’t given you any reason to think they were making snide remarks about your weight. Coworkers hardly talked to you as it was—it was fairly entry-level, so people didn’t tend to stick around, and the people who did were always neutrally considerate.

So…no. The only person who was making you feel this way was…you. Because you’d been raised to believe it was the end of the world, this being fat business, no matter what your inner desires were. Because your family and former friends had been judgmental in physical appearances alone and only compared bodies to what they saw distorted in media. Because you’d been taught that carrying extra weight was somehow inherently wrong, despite a good potion of kind, caring, intelligent, loving, beautiful people being actually fat.

Kissing your temple, your feeder reminded you that you hadn’t gone on this journey alone. They’d come with, remember? They were the ones who’d encouraged you to let yourself enjoy your meals, to eat as much as you want and to take charge of your own life. They were the ones who’d praised you every step of the way, every new clothing size, new weight milestone, new bit of pudge, all of it. If you weren’t happy they would help you do whatever it took to be happy, but they wanted you to ask yourself if you truly were mortified by the number on the scale, or if it was because of the toxic baggage you’d been carrying around for too long.

Somehow, that was the easiest thing to answer. Of course you liked this. You liked your new, comfier silhouette. You liked your larger ass and shapelier figure. There were some things you hadn’t liked thus far, like the chafing of your thighs and the constant sweat under your arms, but that was nothing some problem solving couldn’t fix. You liked being able to eat to your heart’s content, and to eat the things you’d been denied for so long. You liked that full feeling you now got to actually experience on the regular. You liked the intimate feeling of cuddling your squishy body with their harder one. Almost everything about your new reality was great. Now if only that dumb part of your brain would get the memo.

Ignoring it’s angry cries for now, you informed your feeder that you were happy; the visual shock of putting a number to your frame was just jarring. And even though you were struggling to accept it, by no means did you want to stop.

So you didn’t, and they helped. Every step of the way. 250 pounds came about a year later, and you were rounder than ever everywhere. Your feeder couldn’t keep their hands off you, exclaiming their joy over your journey every chance they got. 275 took a little longer, and eventually you settled somewhere just under 300 pounds for the longest time. Your feeder didn’t consider this a failure because you’d never had expectations to keep growing exponentially. Fantasy and reality were two very different things, and you did like being able to walk around where you could. Would that change in the future? Possibly. You did like the idea of taking up an entire loveseat, and they definitely did, too.

Gradually, you did make it over 300 anyway. You’d be lying if that awful voice inside your head didn’t surface from time to time, trying to scare you into orderly compliance, but you did your best to ignore it and believe what your support system, your feeder, said and did instead. Sometimes you’d go out and get the same bad vibes from people around you like you’d gotten back at home, but they were few and far between. It turned out, not everyone was obsessed with weight. It was an interesting, and relieving, concept, one that took a long time to root in your head.

Sometimes it was easy to slip back into that evil mindset. Sometimes it took work to climb back out and take pride in the body you’d accomplished. Certain things would set you off, like needing to go to the doctor’s for something you wanted looked at. Your feeder attended the appointment with you, and when the doctor immediately launched into what could be done to bring down your BMI, your feeder politely interrupted.

“We’re aware of the weight,” they informed the doctor, “but my partner’s here to have a spot examined, so if we could please get to that, that would be great.”

Just like that. Easy peasy. Your feeder always knew how to defuse a situation, always knew how to force people to not focus on weight, and how to keep you focused on your own happiness.

Or the first time you had to unzip your jeans while eating out, consuming family sized portions and then being unable to zip them back up. You’d flushed deeply with shame, but they’d remained by your side and problem-solved the shit out of the situation, getting crafty with some napkins and a towel stolen from the kitchen staff.

On the slow, laborious walk back to the car, they’d informed you there was nothing wrong with getting pleasure out of a meal. If your clothes didn’t fit afterward, so what? It was just evidence that you’d had a good time. Somehow, that statement calmed you considerably and took the sting out of your self-induced shame.

Then there was the time you had a meltdown over the fact your soft, wide shoulders and hips touched doorframes without even trying. You’d been in tears, ready to mutiny and starve yourself until you were no longer this large, but they were quick to reassure you that being this size and inadvertently bumping into things was normal. All it meant was you took up some more space and really, was that truly the end of the world, to take up the space you deserved?

No, no it wasn’t, and you didn’t admit it out loud that day but you did like the feel of hard, inanimate objects brushing against your rolls and your bloated fat limbs like a demanding caress.

There was never any crisis on your part that could waver your feeder, nothing they couldn't solve or distract you from with skilled hands and worshipful belly rubs. They were patient and understanding. They never dismissed your concerns but they did always want to dig into why you were concerned, to get to the bottom of your fears and if at all possible, wipe them away.

But it helped they were with you not only as your partner but as your coach. Helping you unravel the self-destructive behaviors and patterns one day at a time until eventually, you truly began to believe you’d been destined for this path.

You’d chosen it, they’d encouraged it, and you’d finally gotten what you wanted. A soft, massive body to protect your tiny innards, and someone who appreciated you for it not only because of how attracted they were to it but because of how naturally you took to it.

You’d become the plush, fat person you were always meant to be, the one you’d envisioned for so long, and it was everything you’d imagined and more.

-SB