Appetite For Dysfunction (Part I)

I’m drunk as fuck browsing Feabie, a dating site for feeders, feedees, chubby chasers, and fat admirers. Dudes that like fat girls. Girls that like fat dudes. Fat people that like fat people. Skinny girls that, for some fucking reason, genuinely want to become fat. Guys that like making these skinny women monstrously fat…

My life is shit. I’m back at home. I’m 25. My parents hate me. I’m 25. I’m living at home. I’m just a few months clean from heroin and crank. I’m fucking miserable. Every night I eat a handful of melatonin and chase it with a night cap of Evan Williams, dreaming of having the balls to chase my entire Suboxone script with a fifth of that bottom shelf swill and do my parents a favor for once…

“You can drink, Harry, but no more fuckin’ drugs, understand me?!” My mother’s words swim around in my head as I pour myself a shot of fire water, pounding my chest as it burns my esophagus and numbs my cravings for the finer things. Spikes, spoons, and Nike shoes.

I’m so fucking lonely. I absolutely deserve to be lonely, though. I’d never try and argue otherwise. I deserve every inch of this tiny, congested, room I swore I’d never go back to when I was 19. And yet now, here I am. Halfway to 30 and I’m back. What. The. Fuck…

I have no business being in the dating scene. My life is in fucking shambles. There are so many obstacles one must accept when they try to date me…

“Haha, well, actually, I’m not exactly in school right now… I uh, I kinda dropped out…”

“What did I do in the mean time, exactly? Hm, well, um, that’s a good question…”

“Soooooo, I used to have a drug problem…”

“Well I’m kinda living at home right now…”

“I’ll be honest with you, if it weren’t for the state, I wouldn’t even have health insurance! You got the bill, right?”

“Yeah I have a cat, that’s why I have so many scars up and down my arms. He’s a mean little bastard.”

“Eye contact? What do you mean?”

BING!

“Oh shit…”

Several inches of dust and cobwebs dissipate into the air as they’re shaken off my inbox.

What’d I say to her again?

“Hey, you seem fun. If you ever wanna get shithouse drunk and fed a proper meal, get at me.”

“Hehe, OK, that does sound fun…”

I chuckle and pour another shot as I browse her profile. She’s in her early 30’s, and her profile says she weighs 220 pounds. A bit slight for my tastes, but she identifies as a feedee, which means she’s willing to change for the right man…

I don’t know why I love fat women the way I do. I’ve always been this way. The big bellies, the big tits that sit on top of them, the big fat asses and thighs that rub together with each awkward, labored, waddle, good gravy do I fucking love that shit. I sound like I’m being shitty, I know. I don’t go for them because I think they’re easy (I’ve actually been shot down a fair amount by women more than double my size), I have a genuine sexual attraction to them. I don’t really have a limit as to how big I’ll go…

Cumming makes me feel good. Like most things that make me feel good, I feel a compulsion from within to do it as frequently as humanly possible, and take it to its most destructive extreme. I think this is where the feedism stuff comes in. I always told myself I’d never get into it, but I also told myself I’d never snort coke…

I’d never do meth…

I’d never do heroin…

Yeah…

Her name is Jessica. She’s cute, with a bookish sort of look to her that I don’t usually go for. Talking to her I quickly realize that she’s anything but bookish. This girl has been around, not that I give a fuck. Her sexual history is as lengthy and perverted as my drug history. Swingers parties, threesomes, ass eating, all sorts of crazy shit. So you know she’s got some crazy stories.

I haven’t been with a woman in a very long time…

We make plans to go out the following Friday night. I’m nervous. I’ve never been with a feedee before. I should explain for those who have properly working genitals: a feeder (me), is an individual who derives sexual pleasure from the process of feeding and fattening their partner. A feedee is the individual they feed and fatten. The feedee derives sexual gratification from overeating, or “stuffing”, as we in the community refer to it as. The feeder will encourage his or her feedee to eat until they’re literally about to pop or vomit, and are congratulated and showered in praise when they clean their plate.

I trim my beard and put on my most flattering button down shirt and jeans on, along with some cologne from an ancient bottle I haven’t used in years. I hate the way I look. I used to be fat (ironic, huh?), and I hated it. Now I’m skinny fat from not doing drugs anymore. My head is oversized and shaped like a lima bean. I have pointy ears and I can’t see. Contacts are the only thing that keep me from looking like a pedophile. Regardless of what any woman says about me, I know the truth, that I’m completely revolting physically, and not much different from an emotional or personality standpoint…

I sure could use a bump of crank right now. Something, anything, to convince me that I’m not literal trash. I sigh and hop in my car…

“Hey!” Jessica squeals as she wraps me in a hug.

“Hey, how ya doin’?” I ask, smiling.

She’s bigger in person. Very nice…

We drive to a southern themed steakhouse in a neighboring town. I am treading water conversationally as my heart races around in my chest like I just pumped a quarter gram shard into my vein.

“I’ll take a Jameson and coke.” I tell the waiter.

Jessica orders some kind of fruity gimmick drink. We’re sitting in a booth, and her tits are resting heavily against the table, demanding my attention.

“So, you wanna get an appetizer?” She asks sensuously.

“Anything you want, get it. I don’t give a shit how expensive it is. Only rule is you buy it, you eat it. OK?” I reply with a smile.

“Ok!”

I love to provide for my woman. I guess I’m kinda old fashioned in that regard. As the feeder, as the male, it’s my duty to bring home the bacon (LOL). I don’t want my woman lifting a finger. She needs her calories, she needs her food, she needs my encouragement to get bigger and bigger.

Fatter…

Heavier…

Sexier…

“So, have you always been…” I smile as my voice trails off.

“Fat?!” Jessica replies.

We both laugh as the waiter puts our drinks down on the table.

“Can I get you folks some appetizers or anything?” He asks.

“Yes, we’re gonna get an order of fried pickles, some nachos, and one of the samplers, please.”  Jessica says.

I raise my eyebrows as my dick starts to stiffen up in my jeans.

“Alrighty! Coming right up!” The waiter says.

“Where were we?” Jessica asks, pulling her wavy black hair out of her big brown eyes.

“Um… We were talking about how you’ve always been big…” I say back, draining my whiskey at an alarming rate.

“Oh yeah! Yeah, I’ve always been a big girl. At my heaviest I was around… 350?”

“Ok. How big do you wanna get?”

Jessica smiles, exposing her adorable little double chin. “Well, my first goal is 300. But I think it would be cool to get over 400… Maybe 420, ‘cause I’m a pothead…”

“Pot? As in, reefer!? You degenerate!”

“Hahahaha, fuck you!”

“Nah, I’m just kiddin’.”

“You don’t smoke?”

“Ehhhh I used to. It just doesn’t do it for me anymore. I get anxious when I smoke now, it’s weird. It’s good that you smoke, though. Gotta keep that appetite going…”

“Mhm…”

The whiskey melts away my social anxiety and I’m able to make and maintain eye contact. Jittery sober Harry has been overthrown in favor of the smoother and less self-loathing Harry the Drunk.

“Aren’t you gonna have some?!” Jessica asks me, pointing to the appetizers in front of us.

“Ha! Yeah… I’m sorry, I just…”

“Got distracted?”

Jessica smiles, winks, and pops a fried pickle into her mouth seductively. “Mmmm… I fuckin’ LOVE fried pickles, oh my God…”

I smile and dunk a buffalo wing into blue cheese dressing. Jessica’s confidence radiates from her body, I love it. She doesn’t give a fuck what people think. I love that kind of energy, it’s so sexy.

We learn a lot about each other as the meal progresses. She’s in between jobs right now, and has a friend crashing on her bedroom floor, which makes having sex regularly rather difficult. She’s willing to forgive the fact that I’m living at home. She doesn’t care that I used to be a criminal, nor that I used to shoot heroin and meth. In fact, she’s partied quite a bit herself.

“You never had sex on coke?” She asks, mouth agape in disbelief.

“Fat girls don’t do coke!” I reply, shrugging.

“You’re not partying with the right fat girls, hahaha…”

The waiter collects our plates and brings out our food. For me, a bacon cheeseburger and French fries. For her, a porterhouse steak with a baked potato. The spark of excitement in her eyes as she looks down at her food is just the most adorable god damn thing I’ve ever seen. The gusto with which she tears into the juicy steak and brings a big piece to her plump lips is just… Sigh…

“Ugh…” She grunts as she finishes off her baked potato.

“You got this, c’mon, I believe in you.” I encourage her.

“I know, I know. I’m a woman of my word. I’ll finish. But I’m gonna need a good, thorough, belly rub after this…”

“You got it.”

Her belly is so full, but she keeps eating. Partly because she wants to please me, partly because it pleases her. Gluttony, hedonism, excess, too much is never enough. All pleasure, all the time. My dick drools against my inner thigh as I watch her chow down, struggling against her body’s instincts as she closes in on the last few bites.

CLINK!

“Atta girl! I knew you could do it!” I say.

“Ugh… Oh my God… I need a belly rub, stat.” She moans.

“Soon as I pay the check…”

Once I pay the tab she gets up, her belly just barely visible from underneath her tight t-shirt. She catches me staring and smiles as she pulls it back down.

“Do you mind if I smoke in your car?” She asks.

“Not at all.” I reply.

“You’re the best…”

Jessica cracks the window and ashes her cigarette as she puts her seat all the way back. She smiles and uses her free hand to roll down her tight leggings and free her belly, allowing it to spill out into her lap, expanding with each heavy breath she takes. She pulls her t-shirt up and pins it underneath her tits, smiling as it just sits there, bloated and stuffed to the brim.

Begging to be touched, begging to be rubbed…

“You wanna touch my belly, Harry?” She whispers.

I just smile, reach over, and start massaging the soft, warm, flesh while she smokes. She moans and puts her head back as she exhales smoke. My dick pulses in my jeans as I jiggle, pat, and play with her belly. We lock eyes, close them, and start to kiss. Groping and grabbing every inch of her bountiful figure, I feel a sense of sexual freedom I’ve never felt before. I’ve never indulged this side of me outside of porn.

“Is that a Five Guys?” She says, squinting through her glasses across the parking lot.

“Indeed it is. Who wants ice cream!? Huh?” I ask, jiggling her belly playfully.

“Mmmm I think I do…”

She leans on me as we wait in line, and we trade a few chuckling glances as we stand there.

“You have beautiful eyes. They remind me of… Blueberry pancakes.” She says.

“Always with the food, Jessica…” I reply.

“Hahahaha, wow, OK… Fuck you too…”

“Ah I’m just fuckin’ around…”

“I know. You’re funny.”

“What can I get you?” The kid behind the counter asks.

“I’ll have a large vanilla shake… And a small fry…” Jessica says.

“Small?” I whisper.

“Yes, small. I just ate three fucking appetizers and a steak. And you didn’t even help me!”

“I’m just the supplier…”

“Hahahahaha…”

After getting Jessica her food we return to my car, and she once again pulls her belly out from the confines of her leggings. She smiles as she grabs her tummy from each side, letting it all hang out with pride.

“You make some room in here, or what?” I ask, patting her stomach as I open the paper bag of fries.

Jessica nods eagerly.

My dick is like a fucking St. Bernard, slobbering pre-cum on the inside of my boxer shorts as Jessica relaxes, hands on her belly, waiting to be fed. I realize the windows are in my car are all fogged up now, and that I’m breathing like an asthmatic Michael Myers as my trembling hands pull a few fries out of the bag.

“You want me to dip ‘em?” I ask, motioning to the shake with the fries.

Jessica nods.

Dipping the fries into the ice cream is a new level of gluttony.

“Mmmmmm…” She moans as I bring them to her lips and hand feed her. There’s a tingly, electric, sensation going through my body that I’ve never felt before. I don’t know if I’m ever gonna be able to fuck a regular fat girl again. This is like going from snorting heroin to shooting.

“That’s a girl… Such a big piggy…” I say in a tone that can only be described as pornographic and off-putting.

HICCUP!

“You make the cutest god damn noises when you hiccup, you know that?” I tell her as she swallows yet another couple of fries.

“HICCUP! Aw, thank you!” She replies.

“C’mon… Just a few more bites…” I say as we near the end of the ice cream and fries.

“Ooooh my God, I’m so fucking full… HICCUP!” She replies.

“I know, I know. But you only got a few more bites, c’mon…”

She sighs and smiles at me. “OK, OK. Just for you…”

When she finally finishes, she’s ready to burst. “Ooooooh Harry I’m so full… I can’t put my belly back in my pants, hahahahaha…”

“I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you.”

Jessica lets out a moan that sounds like a 60/40 mixture of pleasure and pain. Her eyes are glazed over in ecstasy as she lounges back in the seat, belly bulging out shamelessly in front of her. Big, heavy, breasts sit atop it, sloppy and round. We start making out again, and I run my coarse, calloused, hands all over her soft body. After that she lights another cigarette and I put the defogger on.

“How quick can you cum?” She asks me.

“I don’t cum.” I reply.

“Pfft, yeah, OK, Superman…”

“No seriously. The meds I’m on, I can’t cum.”

“What? The heroin pills or whatever you take…”

“Nah, Zoloft. It’s an anti-depressant.”

“Oh! Well I know all about those… What’s the problem? You can’t get hard? You don’t wanna get hard?”

“I can’t cum. I get hard, but my dick is like… Numb. Trust me, I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”

“Hmmm… Well, I don’t wanna give you blue balls. Or get stuck sucking your dick for an hour…”

In an effort to appease my parents, I got on Zoloft. Thing is, I’m not depressed. Well, I am depressed, but not due to a chemical imbalance in my brain. I’m depressed because I’m 25 and broke and a loser and a (non-using) junky and a career fuck-up that hasn’t made a good decision in well over a decade. It makes sense for me to be depressed. I deserve to be depressed. Somehow my parents can’t wrap their mind around that. I think it’s because I’ve been such a monumental and catastrophic fuck-up, particularly as of late, that they can’t process that they produced a shit kid. They need something to pin this on.

That’s not to say I’m blaming my parents for me being a terrible person. They did produce my sister, after all, who is the complete opposite of me. She’s successful, she finished school, and she’s tougher than me. She refuses to take no for an answer and is focused on her goals. Unlike me, who sucks.

Jessica and I quickly start going out regularly. We text every day, and she tells me what she’s eating and how much. Our dates begin at a restaurant and evolve into tours of different fast food joints, stuffing her with whatever she wants until she’s short of breath and can hardly move. Having embraced my role as her feeder, I start bringing her bags of her favorite snacks and treats to munch on when we’re apart.

I take her to Torrid so she can get new clothes. It’s all so hot. She’s blowing up right in front of me. Within a few months she creeps up to 250 pounds. A new milestone.

This calls for a celebration…

After a good stuffing at the same steakhouse we had our first date at, we get back into the car and head over to a bakery.

“Where we going?” She asks me.

“I’m getting you a cake. For hitting 250.” I reply.

The look of childlike joy on her face at the mention of cake warms my frigid, black, heart.

“Oooooooh can we get a tres leches cake?”

“Absolutely. Whatever that is…”

“It’s so good, oh my God I’m so excited! Thank you, Harry!”

“You’ve earned it. My big piggy…”

I jiggle her belly as I drive to the bakery. Jessica is quite literally like a kid in a candy store as she browses all the desserts. She ends up going with the tres leches cake. I pay for it and we leave.

Jessica doesn’t have much privacy at her place, and neither do I, so we find a secluded parking lot and I open up the cake. It’s a caramel colored sponge cake sitting in a pool of milk and cream. Jessica wastes no time getting her belly out, giving it room to breathe as I take the top off and dig in with a plastic spoon. I start hand feeding her, smiling as my dick threatens to tear through my jeans.

“That’s a girl… Eat, eat, eat, eat… My hungry, hungry, hippo…” I say as I pick up a spoonful of cake and bring it to her lips.

“Ooooh it’s so good but it’s so filling…” She moans before taking another bite.

I smile as I bring another bite to her mouth and yank it away right before she can eat it.

“Hey!” She yelps.

“Hahaha, I’m only joking. Here…” I reply.

We take a break as she nears the last quarter of the cake. I rub her belly, massaging it until she lets out a few satisfied burps, freeing up some much needed space in her gullet. She smokes, huffing and puffing and bloated to the brim.

“We’re at the home stretch… Think you can finish?” I ask her.

“I think so.” She replies, her voice subdued from her overindulgence.

“Oh Jessica, Jessica, Jessica. 250 pounds! 250 god damn pounds! I’m so proud of you!”

“Next stop 300!”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Oooooooh, Harry… I’m so full!”

“You can’t stop now, you’re so close!”

“Mmmmm…”

“There we go… You did it!”

I open the car door and throw the empty cake container out into the parking lot before turning back to Jessica and kissing her, rubbing and grabbing her soft flesh as we make out. She’s getting so big, I’m so proud of her. Looking at her, gut spilling out in her lap, smoking a cigarette, I should be repulsed. Biologically, I should be repulsed. Socially, she should be embarrassed to be this way. What we’re doing right now defies nature. It’s not good. But it feels good.

“I love how confident you are…” I say as I gently rub circles over her belly.

“Aw, thank you! It’s taken me a long time to get here…” She replies.

“You’re getting so big… What are we gonna do with you, huh? Huh?!”

Jessica chuckles as I jiggle her belly. “I know! These are my last leggings that fit. Being fat is very expensive…”

“I’ll take you to Torrid this weekend. You’ve earned it.”

“Yay!”

“So, has anyone commented on your weight? Friends? Family?”

“Well, my family is used to me being fat. My friends… A couple of them have expressed concern…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, y’know, not in a mean way. But… When you tell someone you’re gaining weight on purpose…”

“Right…”

My boner begins to wilt as reality sinks in.

“You know that if you ever get uncomfortable about this you can stop, right?” I say abruptly.

“Yeah, of course!” Jessica replies, shooting me a strange look.

“Ok.”

“I must say, I’ve taken to the feedee lifestyle. I literally just sit around and eat all day. I know I should be looking for work, but…”

“Ah, you don’t have to do that! You got me… I’ll take care of you. No matter how big and fat and sexy and huge you get…”

“Haha! I’ll be like one of those fat people on Oprah that can’t even get out of bed.”

“Hahahaha, wouldn’t that be crazy and totally not sexy?”

“You’re a sick fuck, Harry.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Wow, breaking out the Dad jokes…”

We giggle and make out a bit more before I bring her home, kissing her one last time before she waddles back to her apartment. It’s not until I’m back on the highway that I realize how absurd this whole arrangement is.

Yeah you know you’re getting off to the fact that you’re killing her, right?

No… No, I’m not. I’m getting off to how big and fat she’s getting.

And being big and fat is scientifically proven to kill you.

Yeah, well… She’s a grown woman, and she can make her own choices.

That doesn’t make it right, though. What you’re doing is essentially enabling her to make horrible choices that will have catastrophic consequences on her health in the future. Without your participation and encouragement, her ability to continue on with this destructive behavior would be severely impacted.

Fuck off…

I’m actually not gonna fuck off. Because you claim to really like this girl, and yet you’re deriving sexual pleasure from her declining health. It’s like enabling a junky and masturbating when she shoots heroin. It’s literally the exact same thing as that. You’re a piece of shit, you’re a piece of shit, you’re a piece of shit, and you’re a murderer. A horny murderer. You’re a piece of shit.

ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, SHUT THE FUCK UP!

What happens if you really fall for her? What happens if you guys end up in love? Are you gonna keep killing her? Encouraging her to kill herself? What the fuck is wrong with you?

I don’t know…

Aw yeah, baby, show me your insulin pump. Oh, that’s right, after the stroke your right arm don’t work so good no more. No matter, we don’t even have to have sex, because I’m such a fucking weirdo that I’d rather tend to an immobile pile of lard than have sex and reproduce with a fit and attractive young lady…

You’re not making me feel any better.

Good. You shouldn’t feel good.

So I should just not be intimate with anyone? Just be asexual?

How about you just be fucking normal? You ever think of that?

Once or twice…

(To be continued.)