chapter 2 (pt. 3)

If he couldn't uproot his fetish's cause, then perhaps he could treat the symptoms.

"Is there anything I can do that will make my fetish subside?" Eric inquired, leaving Dr. Thrace silent in contemplation.

There comes a point in everyone's lives, where they are truly tested. Where they are presented with a choice: a right option, and a wrong one. In the exact moment of Eric's question, Dr. Thrace had such a decision. Behind door number one, Dr. Thrace could respect her patient's wishes by providing an honest answer, therein making the ethical choice expected of a psychiatrist. Yet the possibilities behind door number two would no doubt prove wickedly enjoyable and so much sweeter. Were Dr. Thrace to follow her handsome, increasingly corpulent patient's expressed wishes, she might lose the opportunity of a lifetime, and Eric might soon be fitting into his size 32 "slim-fit" Levis once more.

Following, perhaps, a modest amount of consternation and guilt, Dr. Thrace went with what she wanted. Dr. Thrace chose door number two.

"Eric, did you ever smoke cigarettes as a teenager, or, rather, did you ever get caught smoking cigarettes?" Dr. Thrace inquired, laying the foundation for the greater framework of her twisted motivations.

"Nah, my parents were pack-a-day smokers. I swore I'd never touch the stuff."

Oh God, Dr. Thrace lamented, goodie two shoes to the bone. Eric was so straight laced; you would never have suspected the sexual miscreant hiding beneath the surface of this all-American boy.

"Well I did," Dr. Thrace went on. "When I was fifteen, my father caught me smoking down the street with my friends. So, later that day, he sat me down, brought me an unopened pack of cigarettes, and he made me smoke each and every cigarette inside. I was so sick, I practically puked my guts up by the time I was finished! It left such a bad taste for smoking that I could not even look at a cigarette again for years after without feeling nauseous."

This story was a complete fabrication, but the stereotypical and fictitious story served as a metaphor for the course of action Dr. Thrace wanted.

"So I should take up smoking?" Eric asked obviously in jest, but in all seriousness, still unclear as to where Dr. Thrace was going with her metaphor.

Dr. Thrace rolled her eyes and sat her notepad down onto the desk.

"I'm saying that if you want to put your fetish in check, perhaps one option you could explore is to 'exercise' it out. If you indulge your fetish to such a sizable extent, if you smoke the whole pack of cigarettes, in time, you may grow so tired of too much of a good thing, your fetish MAY subside."

Virtually all empirical research available suggested completely the opposite of Dr. Thrace's proposition, and she knew it. Dr. Thrace also knew, though, that Eric was on a precipice and all he needed was a little push to come tumbling down. While Eric could not achieve arousal without his "kink," his fantasies still very much focused on human interaction. Someone had to gain weight, or someone had to make him gain weight. Food, in and of itself, was not sexual to Eric.

On the other hand, if Eric were to really start to let himself go, if he pigged out and kept his belly perpetually stuffed, he would begin to sub-consciously associate sexual gratification with consumption of calories. From there, it was simply a matter of Pavlovian conditioning. If taken to the inevitable extreme, it would reach a point where simply the act of eating food would turn Eric on, and the more he were to eat, the greater his arousal would become. Dr. Thrace knew that if Eric crossed that threshold, he would be done for. He would become a full-fledged feedee, not chubby, but fat, with no hope of ever going back.

"What you need to do now, is smoke the whole pack." Dr. Thrace fiendishly suggested in an otherwise innocent inflection.

"My wife isn't going to like that," Eric forecasted.

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her," Dr. Thrace justified.

"No, I couldn't keep secrets from her like that." Eric insisted.

Dr. Thrace could've pointed out how hollow Eric's words rang, given that he had kept the very existence of his fetish secret from his significant other. Dr. Thrace, instead, opted for a less a confrontational approach at manipulation.

"Eric, does your wife care more about a few pounds, or your long-term mental well-being? Just tell her it's the 'Doctor's orders!'"

Eric's instincts correctly told him the 'Doctor's orders' would only lead him down a perilously slippery slope, but at the same time, Dr. Thrace was handing Eric a tantalizing blank check. Dr. Thrace's rationale provided justification to go even farther down the rabbit hole. Recognizing Dr. Thrace's advice as flawed, was one thing. Dismissing the pleasures her sirens' song promised, was another thing entirely. He had been waiting for a push down this slope for some time. Eric could have resisted, but instead he gave in.

"I see your point, Doctor. I'll talk to Stephanie."

Dr. Thrace smiled, confident she had already won. This one was going to get BIG.

"One more thing before you leave," Dr. Thrace added with a twinge of anticipation even she could not hide. Pointing to a digital scale in the corner of the office, "We need to see how much you weigh."

Eric was in no rush to reveal how heavy he'd become, still self-conscious when confronted with how much he had gained. "I thought you were a psychiatrist. Now you're a physician?"

"Your situation is somewhat unusual and calls for less conventional methods of psychiatry. When we meet again for your follow-up, I expect a modest increase in your weight. But, in time, when our strategy takes effect, your weight will reach a plateau and start to come back down on its own." Dr. Thrace, of course, was lying through her teeth, but she couldn't help herself. In the coming weeks, she could not wait to see the numbers on that scale climb.

"Makes sense," Eric said.

In reality, it didn't make sense to Eric at all. Eric instinctively appreciated that if he followed Dr. Thrace's advice, he would likely find himself in a deeper and deeper hole, from which he might never be able to pull himself out. Looking down at the digital scale as it proclaimed a new personal record of 203 pounds, Eric dismissed his concerns by rationalizing that he was already knee deep in that hole already.

The numbers on the scale pleased Dr. Thrace, but she made sure her patient couldn't see it. "How many pounds does that make now?"

"I'm not sure, 10 pounds, give or take," Eric severely downplayed.

Dr. Thrace had already reviewed Eric's records prior to the date of his consultation. She knew Eric had in fact packed on upwards of 30 pounds, but she saw no reason to antagonize him. Not yet anyway.

"I see. Let me walk you out."

Closing the door behind her patient, Dr. Thrace turned and plopped down onto her sofa, kicking her heels off and crossing her legs. Dr. Thrace was practically dripping in anticipation, envisioning how delightfully plump her piggy was going to become.

"This one is going to be so much fun." Dr. Thrace whispered.