chapter 3

We went back to her place. It was a typical twenty-something's flat: tiny with a damp problem and she was probably paying way too much for it but she had made it as cosy as possible and filled it with homely touches.

"You must really love to cook," I said, looking at her bookshelves groaning under the weight of hundreds of cookery books.

"Well, yes," Katy said. "But I don't pretend to have any special skill at it. I'm sure you would consider me a rank amateur if you tried my cooking. I'm an eater first and foremost. And a greedy, voracious one at that."

"Wasn't it Julia Child who said that people who love to eat are always the best people?" I said.

"Yes! I love that quote," she said "But so many people are so stupid about food. They attach this weight of guilt to eating and want to divide food into "good" and "bad". Self denial might have it's own exquisite agony for some people but I've never been the type. I can't be bothered with people who virtuously count out five almonds and call it a snack or live on nothing but kale based smoothies for a week and think that they're better people because of it. If it tastes good then enjoy it. What's the worst thing that could happen?"

"You could get fat," I thought.

We chatted a little more and, honestly, I could have listened to her talk for hours but it was getting late and the tiramisu still lay untouched.

"I think you're stalling," I said.

"Huh?"

"You said that you always have space for dessert," I said with a note of challenge in my voice.

"And I do. I'm just trying to pace myself. You know, make sure I'm ready for round two. But..." She looked at me, throwing back her own challenge. "I better take this off before I explode out of it."

I wondered if she knew how arousing I found the idea of the straining seams of her dress surrendering to her bulging belly.

She removed the overstuffed dress and her eyes met mine, dark and dazzling. She gave me a knowing, amused look as I took in the sight of her body.

Her breasts slightly over flowed from her bra and the swell of her belly, still taut as a drum from all food she had feasted on in the restaurant, partially hid a pair of underwear that looked tiny on her. Everywhere from her love handles to her inner thighs there were red stretch marks on her blossoming curves.

She opened her mouth and obediently I brought a spoonful of lusciously creamy mascarpone mousse and bitter coffee sponge to her lips. I wanted to fill her up, to stuff her full of food until she was ready to burst but I fed her slowly, allowing her to savour every bite of the decadent dessert.

She was only a little more than half way through the tiramisu when she groaned and pressed both hands against her achingly full belly. "Ugh. I'm so full. I think I'll burst if I take another bite."

Still I brought another spoonful to her lips. "Has all your promise come to nothing? Surely you're not full already. Are you, piggy?"

The word had tripped thoughtlessly from my lips and I knew there was no way to unsay it, to swallow it back into my stupid mouth.

She froze for a moment and slowly chewed and swallowed her final mouthful of dessert with effort.

"Say it again," she said at last, my own earnest desire reflected in her eyes.

"Piggy."

"Mmm, yes. Tell me how fat I've got. Tell me what a greedy girl I am. A greedy, growing girl."

She shivered as I traced my fingers along the stretch marks of her belly and I knew that every part of her was tingling with the erotic gluttony of what we were doing.

"You have been eating well, haven't you? How much have you gained and in how little time?"

Another mouthful.

"How does anyone get so fat so quick? Are you really such a hungry girl or are you just a greedy blimp who can't control herself?"

Another mouthful.

"Let's see if we can't turn this cute little tummy into a big, hanging pendulous belly."

She whimpered as I slipped my hand into her underwear and was greeted by a gratifying rush of wetness.

Another mouthful.

"They're all looking at you in disgust, piggy. Wondering how anyone could just let them self go like this."

I tore off her underwear and she cried out as I pushed inside her.

Another mouthful.

"Do you think they can't see you shamelessly gorging yourself, making a pig of yourself in fancy restaurants? Do you think they haven't noticed that you've eaten your way out of all your clothes?"

She climaxed as she devoured the final bite. She sat back panting, a helpless blimpette beached by her own gluttony.

"I saw the way you stared at my belly but I had no idea you were such a perv. But it's OK." She kissed my cheek and then leaned in to whisper in my ear. "I'm a freak too."

Katy told me that she had gained 30lbs in 6 months. She said that the first 10lbs had been accidental, the result of stress eating from the worry of having no regular income but secretly she had delighted in her new softness. The other 20lbs she had gained since she had started working as a food critic.

"I decided to really let loose and indulge my appetite," she said. "I decided that if I was really going to finally get fat then I was going to enjoy every second of it. And I have."

I discovered that we were alike, she and I. We both had overbearing mothers, compulsive yo-yo dieters who projected their own body shame and fat hatred onto us. I had often thought that perhaps my attraction to fat women and my desire to see them grow bigger was a kind of subconscious rebellion against my mother's fatphobia. But mothers always get a raw deal, always portrayed as the ghastly Colossus that looms over our psyches and casts a heavy shadow. So perhaps I should dispense with the lazy pseudo-Freudian pop psychology and say that I believe that we are born with our desires.

I told Katy about being fascinated by the inflation scenes in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and The Nutty Professor as a child without quite understanding why and having... "feelings" reading the Goosebumps book Say Cheese And Die Again. A children's book with a silly plot that would have been completely forgettable - if it wasn't for the fact the main character was cursed to swell to an enormous size. I told her about finally discovering the word "feedism" as a teenager through some skeezy Channel 4 documentary but it had brought me no comfort. It only made me feel guilty and confused. I felt a disconnect between my own feelings and the freakshow tone of the documentary with its portrayal of all feeders as creepy, abusive manipulators and all feedees as gullible and insecure prey.

These were embarrassing admissions that I had never told anyone but Katy understood and in return she told me about stuffing her clothes with pillows as a child and delighting in wearing outgrown clothes. She told me about the excitement of gaining weight, the secret thrill when someone would notice and remark upon it and the strange emptiness she felt when she caved to the expectations of others and dieted back to an acceptable size.

I had always been a realist - some might say a cynic - when it came to love. I did not see humans as the wounded, two legged creatures of Plato's Symposium wandering the earth in search of some predestined perfect other half, desperate for love to make them whole again. I saw human relationships more as a collection of particles haphazardly bouncing off each other with no grand plan. Having a fetish can be a lonely thing and I had so little expected to ever find anyone who shared my kink that it was difficult not to let silly romantic notions like "meant to be" creep into my mind.

But there was more to our relationship than that. She was so bold and beautiful and getting bigger by the day. I felt bored by my own banality by comparison. It wasn't until I spent time with Katy that I realised how little I was enjoying life. Before I met her I thought my single mindedness was a strength but I realised that I had poured so much of myself into my job that I could barely see anything beyond the four walls of the kitchen and all the pleasure in my life had dwindled away to nothing.

I had become a chef because I loved food and wanted to share that passion with others but somehow I had lost sight of that. Chefs are the worst eaters I have ever met: we spend all day surrounded by food but have so little time that we never stop and savour it or just enjoy it for its own sake and when we go home exhausted the last thing we want to do is cook.

With Katy food was once again alive with sensual pleasure. She would take me out to eat endlessly, not just in the starchy fine dining restaurants that she had to review for her job but farmer's markets, incredible street food vendors, dingy hole in the wall restaurants that I had never heard of but served amazing food. Everything and anything so long as it was delicious.

"There's room for everything in life... And in my belly." She would say, messily eating chicken wings with her fingers or wiping sauce from a dirty burger loaded with cheese and bacon from her chubby cheeks.

Sometimes she would cook for me. She would clatter around in the kitchen with big pots and pans and make a God awful mess but then out of chaos she would emerge. She looked so adorable with her cheeks flushed, her hair in a disarray and her apron splattered with stains that my heart would melt and it scarcely mattered how edible the end result was or how much washing up there was to do.

But mostly I cooked for her and I found it was much more enjoyable and rewarding than my job. Perfectionism is the enemy of pleasure, whenever I created a new dish at work I could only enjoy it for a moment before scrutinising its deficiencies. Was it too sweet? Did it need another texture? Would another chocolate compliment the flavours better? Katy didn't care much for perfect. She just wanted food that was honest, tasty and cooked with love.