*Desperation | Weight Gain Story* It didn’t even start with..

*Desperation | Weight Gain Story*

It didn’t even start with a craving.

More a whim, really. The passing, innocent thought that some chocolate would really go nicely with my morning coffee. The morning coffee that I’m taking black, that’s supposed to hold me over until at least lunch, if not dinner. I’ve been eating too much, getting too big. My body’s changing fast and I’m beginning to scare myself.

I grip my mug, trying to hold on to the new me, the responsible me. The me that’s going to see myself fit back into my 30 inch jeans and put this whole surreal weight gain fever dream far behind me.

But all it really takes is a whim, these days.

And then I’m raiding my fridge, finding crackers and dip left over from a wine and cheese night. The memory of how my buttons had pulled, how my friends had tried not to stare, only makes me shove the crackers in faster. *No, no, no!* I take the box back to the couch, barely even tasting it. What started as a thought of a pleasurable marriage of flavors has turned into the mechanical, tasteless shovelling down of anything I can find. My morning coffee sits abandoned. Because it’s not the *food* that I want. Not really.

I catch sight of myself in the black screen of the television, and what used to be an automatic horror response makes my back arch off the couch cushions as a euphoric shudder trembles through me. I see my face crumple in bliss.

The crackers are gone. It’s not enough. I’ve started now, and this has happened enough times for me to know it’s a runaway train. I know I’ll wake up tomorrow morning, flopped on my side with my belly heavy against the sheets, and feel regret. Come slightly closer to realizing the lie I tell myself about getting back on track is just that — fiction. Lay there, caressing my fat and bloated stomach, pondering the deep, frightening knowledge that my body is out of control and I’m inevitably going to become much fatter than I want to be. I’m *already* fatter than I want to be — on one hand, at least. But on the other…

I push myself off the couch, biting my lip roughly at how difficult that’s becoming, and let my stomach bounce as I rush to put on some clothes. I choose ones too small on purpose. I’m already awash with heady, hazy thrill, a pleasure so thick my inhibitions can hide behind. Pants buttoned tightly under my hanging belly? Snug t-shirt clinging to my vulnerable fat? Fuck yes. I’m in a whirlwind. I can’t think straight, and just as well. If I could, I’d *never* step outside looking like this.

Emerging into the bright supermarket with all its normal people makes me feel like I’m high in church. Harboring a taboo secret which itself renders me incapable of knowing whether I’m slipping by or looking obvious. Pulses of electricity from all my wobbling erogenous zones shiver straight up to my brain, keeping my head in a spin. My eyes dart around. I feel so exposed. Every soft wobble feels a thousand times more noticeable. I resist the urge to suck my stomach in, so overcome by the thrill of what I feel like, what I must look like, that I don’t even see what I’m putting into my cart. I check out and waddle back home, fabric tight against my body. Heart pounding, cheeks flushed.

The moment my apartment door closes behind me, I become insatiable. The shred of propriety I still have barely got me through my trip into the outside world, but now in private, I’m unleashed. I upend the shopping back onto my couch and plop amongst it, letting my shirt slide up, my bottom push back, my stomach drop between my thighs.

Fuck, I’m fat. *Obese, blubbery… ruined.* Words tumble from my mouth as I rip open packages and feed myself fattening cakes, chocolates, pastries, the other hand palming at my belly, gasping as the bottom of it wobbles against the couch cushion, the sides pressing plush against my soft thighs, pushing them apart. Bite after bite after bite. I’m obscene. I feel high, handfuls of fat pushing me close to the edge. I empty packages so fast that they’re finished before I’ve even registered what they are. Because I don’t want the food.

I want the *fat.*

That heavy, quivering substance that’s making me *doughy*, that’s making me *different*. That’s blanketing me so fast I know people are worried. I know they don’t know what’s happening to me. Well, neither do I.

My belly swells, heavy. I cry out from the size of it, my voice laced with pain and pleasure. Regret, and desperation for more. Pressure begins to build within me, and I don’t want to come, because that means this frenzy will be over… for about thirty minutes, anyway. But I can’t keep myself from chasing the peak, it’s too sweet, too addictive. One hand forces food into my mouth, the other takes desperate handfuls of the stomach I grew for this very purpose. It hangs down between my legs and I lift it up, drop it. Lift it up, drop it. I rub the crest, the underneath, toy with the soft, bulging rolls that have formed down my sides, hold it in both hands and think about how it’s all just *blubber*… and that’s what does it.

Electricity sends me rigid, my neck snaps back, a long, guttural gasp that looks like a scream, and in a moment of lucidity as time becomes incalculable, I *feel* the size of my obese body. The reality of what I’ve turned myself into.

It’s terrifying. I want more.

So when the last of the spasms pass and I collapse against the back of the couch, panting, boneless in the satisfied, disoriented aftermath, I slowly push more food past my lips, and chew.