chapter 1

Part i
I couldn't breathe. I pressed my forehead against the cold bite of the window, rain streaming down the rigid pane, heat of the coffee cup I clutched warming the thin skin on my hands. I drummed my grey-purple nails on the porcelain, my rings clinking on the cup as I set them back down. My heart was racing. I was so disgusted with myself, I don't think I'd ever felt so goddamn guilty. I was sick to my stomach, every ordinarily timely inhale shortening to a quick staccato.
"You have got to be kidding me," I muttered to myself. I had a wicked headache.
What had I done to him? Did I hurt him? What happened after I left? I mean damn it was hot don't get me wrong...until he started throwing up in the bathroom, sick from the massive amount of...god I just wanted to forget the whole damn thing...and I was the one who encouraged him. Everything was fine, I mean relatively. But he started looking exhausted, his pale blue eyes glazing over, hands growing weak. Something had caught in his throat, and he started coughing, pudgy hands lethargically trying to cover his mouth. The coughing turned to gagging, and before I knew it he had sprung out from the table, half-running and half waddling to the bathroom. I remember feeling the panic settle in, the words 'what's wrong?' catching in my throat. Should I have gone after him, comforted him, helped him?
Jesus. But I couldn't have stayed. Stay an extra hour, and it turns into the night. Stay until the morning and shit gets messy. This was a fetish, after all. Love wasn't part of the equation, and neither was staying, comforting, or vulnerability. I heard the door slam shut, his knees hit the tile floor, heard the wretched sounds of his gags and coughs as his body rejected what I'd subjected it to.
At first I ran after him, bare feet padding on the linoleum, mind consumed on helping, compassionate complex settling in. The smell of Chinese takeout was strong even outside of the kitchen. The door was closed, but I could see that the light was still on in the bathroom from the glazed windows on the door. I could see a blurry figure still clinging miserably to the side of the toilet bowl. I wanted nothing more than to go and help. But as soon as I was about to take a step further I saw another door- the door that went to the garage. And I took it.
I didn't even help him. I ran for the back door, heart racing, head pounding, wanting to throw up myself because I was about to run out the door like a cheap hooker, copping out like some ass who was afraid of commitment after a one night stand. The drive home was excruciating.
It's been close to two weeks since then. Maybe this whole encouraging thing wasn't such a good idea. I want the indulging, but not the leaving, the lack of connection, the distance. Most of the gainers I met were juvenile, most of them enjoying getting off on themselves after I left, and those that didn't treated me as someone they worked with. Although I'm just as guilty because I gun it after the eating is over. I was so embarrassed by what I inevitably couldn't stay away from. Usually at the end of the little rendezvous me and Mr. Anonymous would part awkwardly, me turning blush red as we parted, mortified, walking out like a scared dog with its tail between its legs. I hated myself for it. What happened to romance? But what the *** did I even expect?
I was supposed to meet someone later tonight who I'd met online. We started to email and he seemed sweet- at least from what I could tell; but they all do. He was from some small town in Long Island close to the beach, he came from a big family- he had 4 brothers and an older sister. He lived alone in an apartment, only about an hour away from me. He sent a picture of himself to me- only of his face- he had sandy blonde-brown hair, a lean face, hazel eyes and thick eyebrows. Despite the masculinity of his demeanor through text and email and by the ruggedness of his features, there was something about him that emanated youth. I knew that he was into gaining and wanted someone to encourage him, but he was skimpy on details about his appearance, and the picture he sent me of himself was only of his face and shoulders, unlike most who were eager to send me pics sporting love handles and beer guts and softened pecs. It seemed to me that he was very thin and was embarrassed about it- I never asked him his weight but he never told me either, unlike most of the men I'd talked to. He seemed shy.
We'd decided to meet at his apartment, and he told me not to knock but to let myself in so his dog wouldn't bark like crazy. He also told me to come at 9:00 p.m. It seemed a little late, especially considering my drive time to get to him, but it was a Saturday night and I figured I had nothing to lose. He didn't even want me to pick up any food on my way there, which also seemed weird considering the sole purpose of us meeting was for him to eat.
The drive to his apartment made me nervous. The gears in my imagination were turning. Was he a serial killer? What did I even know about this guy? Was I stupid? If I didn't feel comfortable with this person then why the hell was I willingly trailing my ass an hour out of the way to meet him? Not to mention it was pitch black outside. I opened my window at the next stop-light, letting the lingering smell of BBQ tickle my senses, letting the chirping cicadas lull my fears, the car radio reducing to a whisper. "A Simple Twist of Fate" came on the radio, and I turned up the volume almost as loud as it went. I loved the cool air- the freshness of it always revived me after a night of encouraging where the only thing I smelled for hours was grease and takeout. Getting in the car late at night and opening the windows and playing music breathed new life into me, even when I was so tired I wasn't prepared for the long ride home. There were only about 15 minutes left to drive.
I pulled up to the side of the street where he lived just as the time hit 9:07. I pulled down the mirror to make sure my eyeliner still looked perfect, and that my hair survived the wind that billowed through the window on the drive there. It was always good to check just in case. I got out of my car and walked into his apartment building, walked up the winding stairs, and took a deep breath before turning the knob that belonged to the ordinary door of apartment #187.