Jude

You show me off to your family, and they're all politely shocked at how big I am. They whisper when I can't hear: "Don't you see you're dating a fat whale?" "He's not that big." Not yet. But you keep that to yourself as you pile more and more onto my plate. When I've waddled back out to the car and settled in, you'll gently lift my poor belly and unbutton my pants to take the pressure off it. As you squeeze my chubby hand affectionately, we both already know you're going to stop at the drivethrough before going home.

The bigger I get, the more reasons you seem to find for me to stay home instead of going out. It looks like rain, a new movie came out, you need me to fix your computer, you're too tired... It doesn't matter. The more often you keep me soft and safe at home with you, the easier it is to convince me to stay there. The rare times you finally let me out, I find myself getting stuck where I used to fit: first my jeans, then behind the steering wheel, in restaurant booths, and eventually doorways... You ask if I want to see a movie, but only because you know what I'll say: "Not tonight," my arm is draped over my immense belly as I pant. The couch creaks ominously under my weight as I shift my hips, already settling in deeper. "Let's order in. I'll take my usual. But make my drink diet. I think I might be getting a little chubby..."

i want you bigger. lazier.

i want you hungrier. i want you going to bed each night stuffed, and waking up each morning a little softer and puffier than the day before. shirts fitting tighter, pants becoming harder to button.

i want you desperate. constantly craving, constantly thinking about eating and getting fatter. when you’re not eating, i want you thinking, fantasizing about it.

and when you do eat, i want you giving in to it completely. mindlessly swallowing thousands of calories, moaning as you eat. oinking when you’re finished. i want you losing track of yourself, focused solely on the taste of the food and the feeling of your gut filling up until it aches.

so helpless and pig-brained that it’s all you think about. all you desire. and maybe you’re dimly aware of the fact that you can’t stop. maybe part of you knows that your level of addiction is unhealthy, and that every stuffing just feeds into it more and more. that every time you get turned on by stuffing yourself, or by playing with your fat, or even just by observing the changes to your body as you gain, you push yourself deeper and deeper down the path of no return.

but any concern or self-awareness is far overshadowed by the pure pleasure you’re chasing. the pleasure of being overstuffed to the point of discomfort, of waking up bigger the next day. tighter clothes, and the feeling of soft fat as it clings your body. all of it just feels too good. you can’t help yourself. you can’t stop, and you don’t want to (though you and i both know that wanting to wouldn’t change anything).

i want your gluttony to consume you until it dictates every choice you make. i want you huge. hopelessly addicted. make yourself a symbol of gluttony, a cautionary tale to ordinary members of society.

…but this is all to be expected.