I half expect to hear “AGAIN?!!? WHAT THE FUCK!?!” from our neighbors, but it never comes. Whippet crackers are noisy business. Especially when you’re cracking 360 individual chargers and consuming them recreationally.
“Wooooaaaaahhh…” Jessica says, the nitrous warping her voice, making it sound several octaves lower than it normally would.
“Hahahahahaha...” We both laugh before taking another haul.
I’m playing it cool, but inside me, my organs are involved in a bloody civil war. My head, stomach, and eyes are vying for control of my body’s pain sensors, each part of me insisting they’re the one in the most agonizing pain.
“I HURT THE MOST.”
“NO, I HURT THE MOST.”
“YOU NEED ME TO SEE, I HURT THE MOST.”
Unprovoked and without warning, my stomach drops the nuke. Just as I exhale a cold hit of nitrous and render myself severely impaired.
“Oh… FUCK!” I shout, staggering to my feet and stumbling for the bathroom.
Everything twirls, swirls, and shifts as I evacuate a toxic mixture of whiskey, cocaine, cola, and stomach bile into the toilet. The high dissipates quickly as I wretch violently, dry heaving as my skull threatens to implode in on itself.
“You alright in there?” Jessica asks.
“Yeah… Fuck...” I say as I catch my breath.
I pull myself up to the sink and run cold water over my hands, splashing it onto my face. My eyes are bloodshot and my face is pale. I hold my face down to the faucet, taking a few good gulps of disgusting tap water which I instantly regret as it all comes shooting back up.
Yellow-tinged water erupts from my stomach. I didn’t know I had any moisture left inside my body, but as tears gush from my eyes, I realize I was wrong. I dry heave for a few more minutes before staggering to my feet and stumbling out of the bathroom.
“You alright?” Jessica asks again.
“Yeah, I’m OK…”
Typically mornings like this are bittersweet. It’s like “Yeah I feel like I want to kill myself, and my body is rejecting hydration and sustenance, but at least I had a good time last night. At least I got laid last night.” This morning is nothing but shame and self-loathing. I wanna crawl into this toilet and drown.
I brush my teeth, gagging as I scrub the phlegmy bile from my tongue and nearly restart the whole process over again. I douse my eyes with eye lube in an effort to quench their red, cracked, thirst. My contacts dig into my dry retinas as I blink the sting away.
I’m always anxious. I’m always so fucking anxious. I’m anxious because I was up all night drinking and doing blow. I’m anxious because I failed my partner as a man. I’m anxious because I’m Harry Miller. I wanna do more blow, but I can’t handle the drip right now. Instead I take two tiny sips of water, feeling it drizzle all the way down my ravaged esophagus to the empty pit of my stomach.
“Does Harry want a belly rub?” Jessica asks me.
“No thank you… God I’m so fucking hungover…” I reply.
“You smell like a brewery…”
“Ha… Look, uh… About last night…”
“What about it?”
“Hahaha… Wooooooooow… OK…”
“It’s OK. Seriously! It happens.”
“Not to me it doesn’t.”
“Well hey, now you know.”
“I’ll get some dick pills next time…”
“How much gas is left?”
“Let’s see… We got… Two, four, six, eight, ten, twelve, fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty… Twenty four!”
“Listen to you! My little hippie crack head…”
“Just don’t get strung out on this shit, alright? I’d feel so bad…”
“People don’t really get addicted to this, right?”
“Ehhhhh… I suppose it can happen. But you won’t get sick if you don’t have it. Look at me. I’ve been addicted to every fuckin’ drug in the world. Except benzos. A good rule of thumb is that if I can do this shit recreationally without getting a habit, you’re good.”
When the whippets are finally killed off, we pack up our things. My stomach eventually settles to the point where I can do a line without yacking. My heart races and my emotions start to numb as the cold drip slides down my throat.
“Aw! I forgot I brought these!” Jessica gasps, holding up a pair of jeans.
“Huh?” I reply.
“These jeans are super, super, tight. I wanted to see if I could pop the button on ‘em for you…”
“Ooooh… Fuck! That would’ve been so hot…”
“Do we have time?”
“Yeah. It’s 11:30.”
“Yay! I’m gonna try ‘em on…”
Jessica peels off her leggings and slips into the jeans, the fabric already constricting tightly around her thick calves as she slides into them. Watching her jiggle and wiggle her way into the tight denim immediately excites me. I stand up, my boner bulging out of my basketball shorts obnoxiously.
“Oh, shit! Look who it is! Look who decided to join us! Hey buddy, how you been? Missed you!” I say, motioning toward my dick.
“Hahahahahahahaha, oh my God… HMMMPPPPHHH!!” Jessica laughed and grunted as she heaved her jeans over her thighs.
Jessica got the jeans all the way up to her waist before she stopped and just stood there, panting from all the exertion as her belly divorced the button and fly permanently.
“You’re really out of breath, aren’t you?” I ask.
Jessica just smiles and nods, putting a hand on her belly. Her genuine joy at outgrowing a pair of jeans, an experience that would humiliate and disgust 99.9% of women, is so sexy to me. Watching her get bigger and bigger, all the while maintaining that beautiful smile of hers, makes me so happy. All her hard work is paying off. I’m so proud of her.
Are you listening to yourself right now? What fucking planet are you on…
I shake my inner monologue from my head as Jessica sucks in her tummy and struggles to get the jeans buttoned. She grunts, huffs, and puffs, to no avail.
“They fit fine last week… You can take some pictures for your spank bank if you want…”
“Don’t mind if I do…”
I snap a few pictures of her standing and sitting with her belly hanging out triumphantly over her jeans.
“Ooooooh Dunkin Donuts…” Jessica says as we drive.
I throw the blinker on and pull in.
“Hahahaha, oh Harry, you don’t have to…”
“Mmmmm yeah I do. I’m your feeder. What do you want?”
“Hmmm… There’s so many donuts…”
“Cool, so we’ll get a dozen. You want sandwiches or bagels or…?”
“Hahaha, oh my God! No… Just the donuts, thanks.”
“Ok… God, look at how excited you are. You’re so fuckin’ cute…”
I tickle under Jessica’s double chin as she smiles.
Jessica wolfs down three donuts before we arrive at her house.
“Well… Besides the uh… Technical difficulties, I did have a good time last night.” I say.
“I had fun, too. Let it go, Harry. It’s not a big deal. You’ll get ‘em next time.” Jessica replies.
“Alright. Thanks. See you soon.”
We kiss and Jessica gets out of my car, waving at me before she waddles over to the long staircase leading up to her house. She lives on the second floor, poor thing. She’s gotta haul ass up two huge flights of steps before she can relax.
I go right to bed upon returning home, waking up groggy and confused at 6:30. I have a message from Jessica on my phone. It’s a video…
I play it. It opens with a close-up of Jessica’s face just as she closes the front door to her house.
“Hey, Harry! I know you’re not feeling good, so I figured I’d make a little video to cheer you up. Whoooo… Whooooo… Sorry. I’m like, wicked out of breath, because I just had… To walk… Up… Whooo! Oh my God… Ok… I had to walk, up that flight of stairs behind me…. Whooooo… Whooooo…”
The sounds of her huffing and puffing and gasping for breath capture my attention and immediately make me stiffen up. It’s a bizarre sensation, because as much as it turns me on to see her so winded after doing something so simple (reinforcing how heavy and out of shape she’s become), it also hurts me a little. I hate seeing her have to exert herself like this. I hate seeing her struggle like this.
“I’m sure you’ve heard me complain about these stairs before, they suck… But I know how much you love seeing me get all out of breath, so… Enjoy!”
Jessica smiles as she holds the camera at the least flattering angle she can manage, from below. She pulls her t-shirt up just a bit, just enough for her belly to peek out just the way I like it.
“Whooooo… Oh my God… I fucking…. Hate… Stairs…”
Her breathing started as heavy nasal breathing, but after she’s halfway up the stairs, it has unraveled into heavy, oral, gasps. It reminds me of when I was fat, and I used to try and hide my heavy breathing around other people when walking up stairs or doing anything physical. As Jessica reaches the top, she’s smiling, but visibly very winded.
“Whooooo… Hope you… Liked that, Harry! I’m gonna go eat these donuts, now… Bye!”
Having just woken up, I already had a hard-on. Now I’m really fucking horny. I watch the video four more times before I cum. As soon as the jizz leaves my body I’m overcome with shame and self-loathing…
“So, after I dropped her off… She um… She made me a video…” I explain to Isaac a few days later.
“Mhm…” He replies, listening attentively.
“And it’s of her… And she’s um… She lives on the second floor of this house, and she has to go up these two really long flights of stairs to get to her place… And… She knows that… I… I really, really, like it when she um… When she’s out of breath. From doing something relatively easy, y’know? Because it sort of… It shows how fat she’s become and how far she’s come on this journey with me…”
I rub my hands over my face. This stuff is all so hot in my head, but when I verbalize it, it disgusts me. I have to pull the words out of me with all my strength. Jesus Christ, I’m such a piece of shit…
“So… She’s going up the steps, and she knows just what angle to film it at, to make herself look as fat as possible. And it, um… It really, y’know, gets me excited. So I, uh, I… I… Take care of myself, and almost immediately upon finishing, I just feel… Fucking terrible…”
“Because I’m listening to her health deteriorating… And instead of being concerned, or sad, I’m turned on.”
“What’s the whole, end game here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, once you reach that goal, I think you said for now it’s 300 pounds… What happens after that?”
“I don’t know… I mean… I don’t think I’m gonna wanna stop. I mean… I know, I know, I’m not gonna wanna stop at 300. But… Y’know… I’m not saying… I’m not saying, that… In a way that would imply… That she doesn’t have a choice in the matter. Because like, honestly, I lose interest as soon as she doesn’t want to anymore. I don’t like the idea of her doing this just for me. I want her to want to be fat too. But the way she’s been… Y’know… Talking about it… I don’t see us stopping at 300 pounds.”
“It seems like, from what you’ve told me. She’s well aware of the potential risks and consequences that come with this.”
“I know, but… I care about her. Or at least I say I do.”
“Well… You can care about someone while you enable them. In fact, some might argue that enabling someone’s unhealthy behavior means you care about them a lot…”
“I almost feel like… Like I should stop seeing her, for her own sake. Part of me says, that if I genuinely care about her, I should stop seeing her. Because then, at least, I won’t be complicit in her killing herself. I know that’s an extreme way of looking at it, but she wouldn’t be as compelled to overeat and get bigger if I wasn’t there encouraging it.”
“How old is she again?”
“31… And y’know, that’s another thing… Like, I understand… I understand that, worrying about the health stuff, in my 20’s… Is kinda silly… But it still worries me… Like I’m not gonna be young forever. Let’s say I meet a girl and we really click, and we fall in love… And she’s also, y’know, morbidly obese. Which, if she was with me, she would pretty much have to be…”
“What if something happens to her? What if she… Y’know… Decides she wants to get healthy?”
“What do you think you would do, if that happened?”
I sigh, swallow, and stare at the floor. “Honestly?”
“Yeah, honestly. Harry, when you’re talking to me about this stuff, I want you to do your best not to beat yourself up. I want your actual feelings, even if you think they’re wrong or bad. So just tell me, what you would do if you met a girl and fell in love and she decided she wanted to lose weight?”
“OK… I would… Well, the first thought I would have, right off the bat, is how much.”
“As in, how much weight would she want to lose?”
“Yeah. But, but, but… I wouldn’t actually ask her that. I’d find a roundabout way to ask it, because
I’m a fuckin’ scumbag…”
“Woah, woah, woah… Explain.”
I take a deep breath. “Because, my answer should be, ‘That’s wonderful, and I support you 100%. I want you to be happy and healthy, and I think it’s great that you’ve decided to take some steps to improve yourself.’ But instead of that, I’m immediately filled with this… Dread. Like, she’s losing weight. She’s not gonna be attractive anymore. It’s so selfish…”
“So how would you respond to it? Positively or negatively?”
“I would lie. I would lie, and I would tell her, y’know, that I support her and I want her to be happy. And that it doesn’t bother me that she wants to lose weight, because I want her to be happy. And I like to think I would want her to be happy, but… Inside I would be really sad.”
“So, you would tell her you support her.”
“Yeah. I think I would tell her that she can do whatever she wants to do and that no matter I’d support her. Because the fuck else am I gonna say? But, um… Y’know, like I said before, I think I would find sneaky ways to sort of get a feel for how much weight she wants to lose… I wouldn’t sabotage her in any way, I’m not like that… I’m really, I’m not like that. I swear to God. I’m not a fucking monster…”
“Is the worry that, if she loses the weight, she’ll be more desirable? That she’ll go off and find someone else?”
“Nah. Because if she loses the weight, I won’t give a fuck if she finds someone else. Because she’s not gonna be attractive to me anymore. Which is insanely superficial, and shallow…”
“Is it, though? What if she was thin and gained weight, and you were, as you say, ‘normal?’”
“Yeah, no, you’re right… I mean, fuck, if you meet someone and you’re attracted to the and they change the way they look in a drastic way… But, here’s the thing about that. If she puts on weight, I can hide behind the whole health thing. Normies have that crutch. ‘I don’t care what size you are, but this lifestyle is horribly unhealthy.’” I say in a mocking tone.
“You’re being quiet.” Jessica says.
“Sorry. How’s your food?” I ask.
“It’s OK. Honestly not as good as I thought it’d be.”
Things have not been the same between us since New Year’s. I don’t know if I’m just looking for things to dislike about her so I can stop seeing her, or if we’re just becoming comfortable enough with one another to start being shitty towards one another.
“So you’re gonna take me out and then just not talk to me?”
I drop my fork and rub my temples.
“Y’know… When you say shit like that to me… It doesn’t make me wanna talk to you…” I say.
“What’s it make you wanna do?”
“It just kinda sends me into this anxiety loop. Like ‘I’M NOT TALKING, I HAVE TO TALK, I HAVE TO SAY THINGS, I HAVE TO TALK.’ And I panic, and I get fuckin’ nervous.”
“I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”
“I’m always nervous…”
“Yeah. You really are a bag of nerves.”
I fake a smile and sip my drink.
Things start to fall apart rather quickly. Our dates become less intimate, more transactional. We don’t talk as much. Resentment grows from within me. Never one to communicate my issues with literally anyone, I let them fester and grow into anger and rage. When this happens, it’s usually a small or inconsequential thing that sets me off and opens the flood gates of shit I’ve been mad about for a while but never had the balls to address.
“You’re being quiet.”
“Y’know that doesn’t fuckin’ help, right!?”
“Telling me I’m being quiet. I know I’m being fucking quiet.”
“Alright, Jesus! What’s your problem?”
“I don’t know…”
We eat in awkward silence for a few minutes.
“It’s gonna be fuckin’ weird now, isn’t it?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Because I fuckin’ snapped at you, it’s gonna be weird the rest of the night.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, actually, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What is it with you lately?”
“I don’t know…”
“You do know, though. You just won’t talk about it…”
She’s right. I’m being shitty.
But it’s not OK. I pick at my chicken sandwich. Jessica cleans her plate. I pay the bill and take her home. We don’t talk for a long time after that. She deletes me on Facebook. I start texting other girls.
Life goes on.
“Do you regret the way you handled it?” Isaac asks me.
“Ehhhh, kinda, I guess. But it was a mutual thing. We weren’t getting along…” I reply.
“She’s still gaining, as far as I know. Which I’m kinda happy about, I guess…”
“Well, I would feel bad if I helped this girl pack on all that weight and then just dipped. Knowing she’s happy how she is, and still wants to get bigger, makes me feel better…”
“I’ve been making myself sick with this shit for so long. The consequences, I mean. I think I’m ready to just say fuck it. Do what I do best.”
“And what’s that?”
“Fuck the consequences, fuck the long-term, feel good now. Feeding and fucking and fucking and feeding, going hog fuckin’ wild. Not giving a fuck about diabetes, heart disease, whatever the fuck. Those are old people problems anyway.”
“Hm. Y’know, you make that sound so easy, but something tells me it’s not.”
“No shit. But I feel like… By agonizing about this shit so much, I’m letting life pass me by. These are the prime years of my life. And I’ve already wasted most of them. If a girl’s gonna be fat, like that’s what she’s gonna do, why not fuck her? Why waste my time beating myself up over shit that I might not even live to see become a problem?”
“You’re not implying that you wanna hurt yourself, right? That’s not what I’m hearing right now?”
“Relax, I’m not gonna off myself. I’m just saying… I could relapse and die tomorrow. Who the fuck knows what’s gonna happen? If a girl’s gonna be fat as shit and wants to be fat as shit, why shouldn’t I love her while she’s fat as shit? I’m 26. I got like, what, a little less than 20 years before we’re in heart attack territory? I’ll worry about that shit then.”
“You say that. But do you believe it?”
I sigh. “No. No, I don’t…”