chapter 1

My high school and college friends were possessive of my identity. To them, I was the same Matt that I had been since age 10 — affable, athletic, loved science and nerdy movies. And, of course, I only dated thin women who turned heads. Perfect ten bodies, modelesque faces. 

This stifled me, caging me into their perceptions like a straight-jacket. New interests or attitudes were ignored or laughed off. Most importantly, I felt that I could never admit that my romantic interests were all hollow. 

Only one true desire spun out of the primal part of my brainstem.

I wanted a fatty.

Pillowy flesh. Gluttonous eating. Unchecked growth. To climax during sex with thin girls, I had to picture myself spoon feeding chocolate ice cream to an obese beauty. My internal fantasies became more obscure and more intense. The women of my dreams became larger and larger. I began to play images of the fattest woman I that I could envision on a loop in my head; far too fat to leave her bed. She was surrounded by food trash everywhere, smiling and binge eating to her heart’s content. Crumbs of burgers and pizza were scattered across the milky flesh of her giant naked stomach, stretching forward over her legs. She winked seductively as she placed a slice of pizza, bacon and a burger patty between two doughnuts and quickly crammed the messy sandwich down her throat. “I love savory and sweet together,” she would say in hushed tones, then beckon me over to rub her stomach and feed her more.

You see, reader, I guess that I was kind of a freak. I could never share a fraction of this kink with my friends or family. I didn’t feel comfortable bringing a romantic interest who was even ten pounds overweight around them.

This whole charade felt increasingly tiring. It wasn’t true to myself. Even more importantly, it wasn’t fair to the women that I dated. Many of them were lovely people. Yes, they were very conventionally beautiful. But they still had feelings like everyone else. Sensing my lack of true attraction seemed to shake their confidence and leave them worse off for having dated me.

This wasn’t sustainable or desirable, but I didn’t know how to break out of the thin prison of my own making.

I got close to my breaking point after my girlfriend of a year broke down crying. “You rarely ever want to have sex…” she said.

I was silent.

“Is there something wrong with me? I try to dress nice for you… I try to ask what you want, but you’ll never talk to me about it. I really feel like shit, Matt. I really do.”

I had turned this poor beautiful girl into a mess of insecurity. Something needed to change.