The private exhibition

Chapter 3 - part 3

When I told him that I wanted to lose weight, he simply smiled and shook his head. He told me that there was no need for me to trouble myself, that he liked me perfectly well the way I was.

"You don't have to do this, you know that, right?" he said, giving my bulging belly a patronizing pat. "I know how you like your little treats. There's no need for you to deprive yourself or to wear yourself out if you don't want to."

Even so, I persisted. At first, as my diet got off the ground, he seemed supportive. He even painted me in my exercise gear. That painting is one of the many pieces that hang on the wall before me. It shows me with my feet firmly on the ground, a determined look on my face as my belly oozes out over my waistband. At the time, I found it inspiring; as I look at it now, I can't help but to feel as though it's mocking me.

Needless to say, my diet didn't go as well as I'd hoped. Over the last few years, I'd grown far too sedentary to adhere to any exercise regimen and far too hungry to stick to any diet. The whole thing was doomed from the start. My failure is depicted only too well in a series of drawings that hang on the wall before me, right beside the painting of me in my workout gear.

The first of these pieces shows me huffing and puffing, worn out after a short jog, my belly hangs out of my shirt and beads of sweat run down my brow as, desperately, I try to catch my breath. The second shows me gazing like a miserable puppy at a slice of cake that I know I can't have. In the third, my blubbery bottom sticks out behind me as I lean into the fridge, my eyes are closed in a look of pure bliss as I stuff one slice of cake after another into my fat face. In the fourth, and final piece, I find myself struggling to squeeze my fat, cellulite-riddled ass into my hopelessly tight workout pants. Looking at it now, I can't help but to admire the effort he has put into capturing the gooey softness of my lard-laden backside, not to mention the impotent frustration on my face as I'm forced to realise just how far I've let myself go.

Together, these pieces paint an all too accurate picture of how helpless I was in the face of my own appetite.

After all my many failures, I soon got dejected with my diet. As my body continued to grow, what little willpower I had soon began to wane. Knowing that he had me just where he wanted, he started to feed me more than ever. He found it only too easy to tempt me with sweet treats and meals laden with calories and carbs. Then, when, inevitably, I gave in to my gluttonous urges, he would stroke my soft flesh and gently tease me -- reminding me, in a tone so soothing and hypnotic, of all my failures, of how far I'd let myself go. He made me feel so very safe and cared for, so very hopeless and weak. Soon, I'd given up any thought of losing weight.

As my figure continued to expand, I started to avoid his old drawings. When I did look at them, I couldn't shake the sense that the woman portrayed there was laughing at me, ridiculing me with her self-assured smile and her winsome eyes. Still, if I couldn't look like her, then I could, at least, eat to my heart's content.