“Hey, good to see you!”Marley’s hug is light, quick. Friendl..

“Hey, good to see you!”

Marley’s hug is light, quick. Friendly. That ship sailed years ago and left me docked in the friend zone.

But it’s really not a bad zone. We’re a good group. The others make space for me at the brunch table. Marley moves over. All five of us go through the song and dance of how good everything looks, reading off the menu—acai bowls, toasted sandwiches, eggs benedict. A breeze drifts from the water, through the open door, across the back of my neck, and I swallow a burst of nostalgia for the life I’m still living. The colors are bright, the air is fresh, the people all look and speak and act normal. It’s surreal, and I feel out of place.

Because no one knows.

I’m good at this. I laugh, and I make them laugh. I get the eggs and a black coffee. I have gossip, ideas, plans, news. They’d never know I’m blinking against the sunlight after days and days of grease and sugar and tightly drawn curtains. They’d never know the hem of my shirt is covering an uncomfortably straining button. Or a waistband that’s pressing in painfully but that I wish, feverishly, would press in a little more.

And then hours later, I latch the front door of my apartment and my double life instantly rears its head. We went for a jog around the lake after brunch but I wonder how much longer I’ll be able to do that. The thought makes me hard—straining suddenly and urgently at my Dri-Fit running shorts.

In the shower, I feel all over my new belly as soap runs down my body in rivulets. It isn’t a belly. Not really, not yet. No one’s noticed—it’s barely noticeable even to me—but it’s more than I’ve ever had. Just knowing I’m really doing this is enough to have me frosting the shower tile in seconds. Shamefaced and exhilarated, I rinse the wall, and then the conditioner from my hair.

/ / /

I wander my apartment in a low-slung towel, drying in the slants of afternoon sun while I scroll through a delivery app. The anticipation is already beginning to bubble—so new yet already a well-established addiction. A secret which won’t be secret for much longer, whether I like it or not. I had barely five minutes of lucid thought—my brief gasp of post-nut clarity before thoughts of heavy hot sagging fat dragged me back under.

Pizza, tiramisu, bacon… I skip past anything green, looking for fried, for cheese, for sugar and fat. Bouncing hard on the balls of my feet, desperate to feel my little indiscretion jiggle, but there’s not enough of it yet. I choose a burger place, add to order, add to order, add to order, add to order. My cart blows out with excess, I know I shouldn’t be doing this. There’s a small voice shouting at me from somewhere above the water level, begging me to stop while I still can, but I’m too deep. Caution can’t reach me here. Place order. I wince at the subtotal but ignore it. There’s no dollar value I wouldn’t pay for my new body—the body of my dreams, the body of my nightmares. Money is the least of what I’m paying for this to happen.

It arrives in two straining bags, and I can’t even look the delivery guy in the eyes. The moment the door closes, I’m a whirlwind. Closet door open, mirror, chair. I bring a bottle of whole milk from the fridge, getting closer and closer to heavy cream every day. Trade the towel for underwear—not for modesty, but because they’re starting to dig in. I want to feel the shameful bite of a waistband that used to be loose. I groan as I lower myself to the chair, already aching. Clouds of hot salt and grease billow from the bags as I open them, smelling like obesity. Smelling like my addiction.

The first burger explodes satisfaction through my body. I get it down fast, too fast, just for the thrill of it, the excitement of being too greedy. I part my legs, longing for a soft, heavy gut to drop between them, but I use the longing as motivation—grabbing at the subtle new softness, shaking it roughly as I devour the second burger.

By the third, the smell is no longer inviting. The grease is off-putting. I’ve had enough, my stomach aches. I want to lie down, I want fresh air, water, anything but more food.

This is when the real work starts.

I unwrap the burger, trying not to look at it, trying not to breathe in. I close my eyes and build a mental image—a reminder of why I’m putting myself through this: a belly that fills up my lap. Dimpled, cellulite-coated thighs that rub and force me into a waddle. A fattened face, constantly flustered, cushioned by a lewd and wobbling double chin. My panic, my embarrassment, my thrill, my constant overwhelming obsession as clothing strains, stretch marks emerge, rolls thicken out, buttons burst, and people say, “Oh my God, is that you!?”

I devour the third burger in a few desperate bites.

/ / /

“Hey!”

It’s raining this Sunday for brunch, and the cafe we chose is quaint and old and a bit French, with large windows and planters filled with wildflowers. A mint green bike leans against a lamp post outside, the basket on the handlebars slowly filling up with water.

As I shake the raindrops from my umbrella outside the front door, I’m deeply aware of the intimate cling of my shirt to my rapidly forming new belly. I didn’t have to wear something this tight—I still have plenty of looser shirts. But something had happened to my mind over this month since our last brunch. Hiding away in my apartment and eating, and eating, and eating, and finally, inevitably, fattening had made my constant heady state of lust a difficult thing to shake.

Careful neutral smiles come across the faces of everyone at the table… or maybe I’m just imagining it. There’s no real way to tell a convincing fake smile from a real one, especially when 80% of my brain capacity is stuck on the feeling of the cold buckle lovingly nestled beneath fresh fat plumping over my belt. It’s electric in its newness. I twist to put my umbrella in the stand by the door. My t-shirt pulls, smacking with audacity. It clutches my tender new gut, my erogenous zone, publicly.

This is going to be the world’s longest brunch.

/ / /

The mascarpone pancakes are still heavy in my belly when I take the long way back to my car. There’s a chicken shop nearby, and I’m full, but that’s no reason to get complacent.

The moment I’m around the corner and I’m sure I’m out of sight, I relax my belly over my waistband. My spine hisses, my belt groans, but my abdominal muscles breathe a sigh of relief. It had been impossible to suck all the way in, especially after a daringly large brunch, but even holding my new gut part way in had felt like an hour-long plank. It had been the real looks, the curious eyes, and actually being like this in front of people I know which had tempered my courage a bit. At least enough to attempt as much difficult sucking in as I could manage. 

But the thrill of being noticeably fat in public is still new and hot and burning, and without the limiting presence of my friends I’m instantly overcome by the tidal wave that’s been pulling me under so often lately. I make a subtle adjustment, pulling my belt below my stomach, making sure the whole thing’s pushing over, nice and vulnerable. The wobble that follows each footfall diverts so much oxygen away from my brain I can’t think. I push my stomach out, feeling thin fabric stretch too obviously across sensitive skin. Sensitive fat. My belly is so tenderly on fire that I can feel the cold leather of my belt nudging at the underside. The only thing that keeps me from coming right there is the thought of buying a second meal to force into my already pancake-heavy stomach.

The shop is a small hole-in-the-wall, and at 1:30pm it’s just opening and empty of other customers. I step inside, willing my flush to disappear for just long enough to order a few thousand more calories, but my face throbs, my head spins, and it doesn’t stop.

“Hi…” I swallow, autopilot taking me at least part-way towards acceptable as the guy behind the counter wipes his hands on a towel and comes over to take my order. Talking to someone, the outwards strain of my belly feels much too provocative, but the saboteur in me won’t let me suck it in. I vaguely fantasize about trying to rest it on the counter, but that thought rages through me with such violent potency that I force the idea from my mind and my eyes up to the menu.

It’s not really big enough to rest on counters yet, anyway. That’s why I still have so much work to do.

The words almost don’t look English—all I can think about is the six inches in front of me which used to be filled with nothing and is now filled with belly. I shouldn’t have worn this shirt. The second I get home and nut and get that brief breath of clarity I’ll realize how inappropriate it was, how far too tight, how wrong—

“I’ll get a chicken burger,” I blurt, face so hot my eyes blur. “12 pack chicken tenders. Large fries. Large oreo shake. Uh… thanks.”

I tap my card then flee to wait by the wall, out of the way, uncomfortably half mast and trying to look normal. High up on my cheeks, a flush is burning, throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I desperately want to see myself from the outside, and at the same time, wouldn’t dare to look even if I could. Every jiggle is ultra-conspicuous, too new and exciting to be overlooked, but I’m starting to get so overstimulated it could pass for madness. I make myself breathe slowly, focusing on the parquet floor, trying to calm down…

But I don’t want to calm down.

If I do, I might just realize what I’m doing. One of those cold flashes of clarity might just last a little too long and convince me to stop doing this to myself. I might come up for air and decide that there’s a little too much nightmare in this dream state, and lose my taste for this hot, dizzying shame.


“Can you make that a 24 pack?” I call out before I have time to think. The key is not to think, I decide. My cheeks pulse, a tremble of excitement in my jaw. “Thanks.”

[to be continued...]