To Her Heart's Content

Chapter 1

I did it again. I went out to dinner by myself after work, and I ordered two whole entrees for myself. That’s two steaks, two sides, three bread rolls, each one warm and buttery enough to melt against my tongue. The first steak was the filet, so soft it barely needed chewing. I dragged each bite through a pool of garlic butter and creamy mashed potatoes until the plate looked licked clean. I washed it down with half a bottle of sparkling water before even thinking about the next one.

The second steak—a ribeye—came sizzling, peppered and glistening, with a side of fries and creamed spinach. I moaned a little at the first bite. I couldn’t help it. The fat, the char, the richness—it coated my mouth in a way that made me dizzy.

The waiter hesitated when I ordered both entrées. He even asked me if I wanted the second entree to go. I just smiled and told him that I wanted it all, and I wanted it now. I made sure the couple seated near me could hear. I wanted them to hear.

They didn’t make a point of staring at me, but I caught the man glancing more than once over his wine glass. His date leaned in to whisper something, her eyes flicking in my direction like I was doing something obscene. In a way, I suppose that I was.

That’s the thrill: the tension in the air when people try not to stare. The low murmur of judgment in their throats, the little sideways glances that think I won’t notice.

I know exactly how loud it sounds when I cut into the meat, how obvious it is when I suck grease from my fingertips, how indulgent my sighs become as my belly begins to swell and press against the buttons of my blouse. I know how it must look—me, alone at a table for two, demolishing a meal that could’ve fed three or four people.

I know that I look like a big, fat and greedy pig, and I love it!

The more they gawk, the more I want to perform for them. The hungrier I become. It's like their disapproval feeds me, makes me bolder. I want them to see what I am—what I’m becoming—and know I don’t care. That I enjoy it.

By the time I finished the last bite of the second plate, I could feel the pressure building under my ribs, my waistband digging deep into the flesh of my belly. I leaned back in my seat, hands resting on the mound I was carrying, and let out a soft, involuntary hiccup.

I wasn’t done, though. Not even close.
There’s a bakery around the corner called Faulkner’s. I already knew what I’d be getting. I waddled through the front door and I ordered a dozen assorted pastries at the counter—four raspberry croissants, three Boston cream, a couple of thick maple bars, and a half-dozen macarons just for good measure. The girl behind the counter raised her eyebrows and asked if it was all to go.

“No,” I said, without blinking. “I’ll be dining in tonight.”

I took a small table near the window, eased my girth into one of their tiny café chairs, and got to work. The raspberry croissants went down first, flakes clinging to my lips and cleavage. I didn’t stop to brush them off. Didn’t stop for anything. I licked cream from my fingers. Sucked icing from my thumb. I felt like a one-woman buffet massacre, demolishing everything in front of me while people walked by on the sidewalk, gawking at me through the glass like I was some obscene art installation.

There’s something about being watched when I eat that flips a switch in me. It’s like I become something bigger than just myself; I become a spectacle. A living, breathing display of unbridled gluttony. I can feel their stares—their disgust, their curiosity, their fascination—and it only makes me want to stuff myself even more.

By the time I got to the maple bars, my stomach was taut and groaning beneath the table, pushing hard against the waistband of my slacks. I knew I’d be aching for hours, but I totally didn’t care. I kept going, biting, chewing, swallowing, moaning softly through icing-sticky lips.

When I finally leaned back, a slight hiccup escaping my lips, I caught the reflection of myself in the bakery window—smeared lipstick, flushed cheeks, huge, rounded belly pressing forward like it was begging for attention.