#body commentary

The first time she came in, she barely filled the table.

Tense shoulders. Narrow waist. The kind of body that disappears when it exhales. I remember thinking she didn’t eat enough - not as judgment, just observation.

There was a bowl of sweets on the counter even then. There always is. Clients like it. Something comforting. Chocolate squares, wrapped caramels, the kind of things people take one of and pretend they didn’t want more.

She took two.

The second session was a week later. Same polite smile. Same clothes, technically - though the fabric behaved differently. A little more tension around the hips. Nothing dramatic. Just… more present.

“You can help yourself,” I told her, nodding at the bowl as she lingered by it.

She laughed, embarrassed. “I already did last time.”

“So?” I said. “You’re allowed to enjoy things.”

She took three that time.

By the third session, I was sure it wasn’t my imagination.

Her body had weight to it now. Not just physically - visually. When she laid down, the table answered her differently. A deeper give. A creak. My hands noticed immediately; they always do. Massage teaches you to read bodies like text. And hers had gained a few extra lines.

I didn’t pretend not to see it.

“You’ve been indulging,” I said casually, working oil into her lower back.

She froze. Just for a second.

“I—what?”

“Relax,” I added. “I mean it as a compliment. You feel… well taken care of.”

She didn’t argue. That was the interesting part. The sweets became routine after that. She stopped asking. Just took them while I prepped the room, sometimes before, sometimes after, both. Always lingering. Always a little hesitant, like she expected me to stop her.

I never did. Of course I never did.

Instead, I started commenting, got bolder.

“Your body’s changing,” I said one afternoon, my thumbs pressing into her hips. “Filling out.”

She laughed nervously. “Is that bad?”

“For massage? No. Makes my job easier.” I hedged.

The next week, she came back heavier.

Not just softer - rounder. Thighs fuller. Waist less certain. When she turned over, her stomach didn’t flatten the way it used to; it settled. I let my hands pause long enough for her to notice.

“You’ve been busy,” I said.

“With work,” she offered.

“With eating,” I corrected, calmly.

She didn’t protest. She never does. That’s what keeps her coming back.

Now, she arrives early. She eats before the session starts. She eats after. Sometimes she brings her own things, sets them beside the bowl like offerings. I don’t comment on quantities anymore - just outcomes.

*

She’s different every time - heavier, slower to move, more deliberate about how she lowers herself onto the table. She exhales like it takes effort now. I let that silence sit before I speak.

“You know you’re not subtle,” I say, matter-of-fact.

She stiffens. “About…?”

“About coming back bigger every week.”

No smile. No softness in my voice. Just observation. God how do I love to tease her. I don’t stop working. My hands keep moving, steady and professional, thumbs sinking into flesh that wasn’t there when we started this routine. I don’t need to exaggerate. Her body does that for me.

“I try not to think about it,” she mutters.

“That’s obvious,” I reply. “If you thought about it, you’d stop.”

She doesn’t.

That’s the thing.

There’s always candy on the counter. And there’s always pastry on the little plate by the sink now.

One afternoon, as she reaches for the bowl again, I finally say it.

“I notice you come in fuller. You leave heavier. Next time, you bring it back with you.”

“That’s not how bodies work,” she says weakly. I merely laugh.

She eats openly now—unwrapping sweets while I wash my hands, licking sugar from her thumb without embarrassment.

I comment as I go.

“Your thighs spread more when you lie down.”

“Your waist doesn’t pull in when you inhale anymore.”

“You’re getting used to taking up space.”

Each time, she goes quieter. Heavier. Warmer.

Once, as I work over her hips, I say, “You know you could stop coming.”

She shakes her head immediately. Too fast.

“I didn’t think so,” I add. “You don’t come here to be fixed.”

She swallows. “Then why do I come?”

I press my palm flat, firm, undeniable.

“So someone will tell you the truth,” I say. “And won’t apologize for it.”

When she leaves, she always looks a little stunned. A little exposed.

*

It starts with her coming twice a week.

She doesn’t say why. She doesn’t have to. Her body says it for her the moment she steps into the room—breathing a little heavier, coat left unbuttoned longer than necessary, movements careful in a way that tells me she’s already aware of herself before I say a word.

The sweets don’t last the day anymore.

She doesn’t pace herself now. She stands by the counter and eats while we talk, eyes unfocused, like the decision was made long before she arrived. I watch her do it. Watch her throw one candy after another into her waiting mouth. Watch how she can’t help to rest her hand on her protruding belly. It looks so small sitting on the big straining ball.

“You’re not even pretending this is incidental anymore,” I say.

She exhales a laugh that doesn’t carry. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“No,” I correct, calm. “You know exactly how. You just don’t want to.”

On the table, she feels different every session. Not just heavier - less contained. Her body spreads, yields, stays where my hands put it. There’s a kind of inevitability to it now, like momentum has taken over and she’s stopped fighting the direction.

I stop softening my language entirely.

“You gained again,” I say, not as an observation but a statement of fact.

“I can tell,” she murmurs.

“Of course you can,” I reply. “You live in it.”

That’s when it starts affecting her outside this room.

She mentions clothes she no longer wears. Chairs she avoids. Mirrors she rushes past. She talks while I work, voice flat, as if listing symptoms she’s already accepted as chronic.

“I keep thinking this week will be different,” she says once.

“And is it?”

She shakes her head.

I don’t reassure her. I don’t interrupt the spiral with kindness. I give it shape.

“Then stop lying to yourself,” I say. “You’re not ‘slipping.’ You’re choosing this. Every day.”

Her breath stutters. I feel it under my hands.

“I don’t even enjoy it anymore,” she admits.

“That’s not true,” I say. “You enjoy what it does. You enjoy being seen. Measured. Commented on.”

She’s quiet after that. Too quiet.

The next time she comes in, she’s noticeably bigger. Enough that I raise an eyebrow when she steps out of her shoes.

“Well,” I say. “You’ve been busy.”

She doesn’t deflect this time. She nods.

*

She leaves for a holiday and I don’t get to see her for three weeks. The routine feels off without her. All my other clients… too bony.

The first time she steps into my office again I can’t get my eyes off her. Her shirt is fighting for its life and leggings had to supplement for pants. I can see why.

Her eyes are not on me. They are lured to the snack bow in the corner. And it’s as if she can’t - doesn’t want to - hold herself back anymore. She is upon the sweets immediately.

My hands are almost shaking when she finally waddles to the table. As she lays down all I can focus on is the dome in front of me. This heaving massive belly which cannot be ignored. And my job is to touch it. To ease its existence.

I get my hands on her. Knead the belly slowly at first. Jiggle it, feel it, pat it. I don’t think any of us is breathing.

,,This is what happens when you go on vacation now? Have you left the buffet at any point?” I can’t help the smirk which stretches across my face.

,,I don’t know what you are talking about.” is her breathless answer. She is as affected as I am. Goosebumps all over her arms.

,,Look at all of you. How you have grown. How this obscene belly gets all the attention…” she reddens as I continue to play with her. Good thing I cleared my schedule for the rest of the day.

*

Next time I see her the changes are again noticeable. Hips wider, thighs so deliciously round and soft. Arms barely contain by her sleeves. And belly defying laws of gravity. Proudly on display, peeking from underneath the too small shirt. She looks so round.

saw this on ig

"I don't look at food that way"

"I don't look at bodies that way"

I was having a discussion with some of my friends about my Division III (My senior thesis-like project, for those of you not familiar with Hampshire College), which deals a decent amount with the idea that women's bodies are public-- in the sense that they are comment on, critiqued, and touched beginning at an early age, and we got to talking about a couple of comments an ex-boyfriend had made about my body. Specifically, "You're modest on top" (for those of you who, like one of my friends, don't get that, he was saying I have small boobs) and "You'd be really hot if you toned your ass." My friend's response? "What I gather from this is that your ex-boyfriend was an asshole."

The problem? No, he wasn't. In fact, he was incredibly sweet and kind, constantly telling me how beautiful I was, how I was too pretty and too smart for him. He was liberal-minded, intelligent. Hell, he was even comfortable around gay men-- not just not homophobic, but 100% comfortable around gay men, unlike a number of straight men I know.

So if he was such a nice guy, why did he feel the need to make these comments about my body, comments I still think about to this day? A number of things, many of which I will be addressing in my Division III, but most notably a society that gives others the right to comment on women's bodies. I am a woman, so despite the fact he thought I was attractive, despite the fact I was aware of my own flaws, despite the fact that if I made similar comments about his body he'd have been horribly offended, MY body, unlike his male body, is up for display and judgement. Because I'm female and he's male, because we have both been raised in a society that tells men that women's bodies are there for their consumption, and tells women the same thing-- that they are to be consumed-- MY body is not wholly my body. It is as much a public thing as it is a private thing, it is as much an object as it is a capacity, it is not just a body, it's a female body-- so therefore, it is societies' body as much as it is mine.