A Tale of Two Daniels

Chapter 1 Dan

‘My new manager calls herself a feeder,’ Danny said through a mouthful of macaroni cheese.

‘Is that so?’

I hoped that he couldn’t read anything in my expression. It always strikes me as odd, normal people calling themselves feeders. When they say feeder, they really mean that they sometimes bring biscuits, chocolate or donuts into the office to raise people’s morale. They have no idea what mantle they have accidentally attempted to claim. Feeders, real ones like me, are a whole other animal. We are dedicated, controlled, precise and in my case, discrete. I would never dream of announcing myself the way Danny’s manager has done. How gauche. How foolish.

No, Danny doesn’t know of my predisposition. Even now, four years into our relationship and at least ten stone heavier, he has yet to draw any real conclusions about who I am and what I have been doing to him. Of course, he knows he’s fatter and has gained weight since we began dating. I hear no end of it (to my great pleasure) when he steps on the scale, attempting to peer around his gut and then moans in anguish as I announce yet again that the numbers have gone up. Last time those numbers were twenty-four stone. He didn’t like that one at all. Cried into my shoulder on the settee for a good half an hour until I suggested that some chocolate chip waffles and vanilla ice-cream might sooth his anguish. And they did, of course, Danny can never resist my cooking. With good reason too.

As long as I can remember I have wanted to fatten someone up. No one in particular, I just like the idea of having someone to feed, over-feed in fact, to the point that they start to waddle wherever they go, their breaths become laboured and their belly so round and protuberant that people all around them stare and laugh and marvel at their gluttony. To that end, I honed my cookery skills into a fine art, pursuing deliciousness and decadence with single-minded vigour. My friends and family wondered if I wanted to become a professional chef and were rather shocked when I took a boring and unglamorous job as a freelance coder. But this too was calculated. It meant I could work from home, my hours were flexible and that when I found him, my perfect target, I could dedicate as much time as possible to making him into the big fat obese man of my dreams.

It took me a couple of tries to find that man. Early dating experiences seemed to arouse suspicion or contempt. Some men making what they saw as the difficult choice to leave me because I was too much of a temptation. Others accusing me of sabotaging their ‘hot’ bodies to trap them with me. I let them leave. I’m a patient guy.

And right enough, along came Danny. It was funny at first, meeting another man named Daniel. Funnier still that he agreed to date me in spite of the obvious absurdity of two men with the same name getting into a relationship. But we soon worked it out, as the eldest, by two months, I would go by the more grown-up Dan and he would keep the youthful Danny.

Plus, there was no danger of us being confused due to our physical appearance.

I’ve always been naturally slim and a fairly acceptable five foot nine on my best days when I remember not to slouch after a long day coding. To keep myself toned I go to the gym twice a week and take an hour’s jog every morning before breakfast. It’s important that my body contrasts to that of my partner’s to further emphasise the damage done by overfeeding. Danny isn’t quite as tall as me, five foot seven, though he seems shorter now, pushed down under the weight I have heaped upon his suffering frame like so many forkfuls of fattening food. He was already a little overweight when I met him, fourteen stone and counting, and during our first date he griped openly about his ‘weight problem’ and how working in an office had ruined his figure. He called himself the poster boy for twink death and giggled shyly as I gave him my best compassionate smile.

‘These things happen as you get older,’ I told him. We were both twenty-six at the time. Not really that old in the grand scheme of things, but it was of vital importance that he did not get any notions about his capability to lose weight. As far as I was concerned, he should accept life as a fat boy and one that would be getting a lot fatter too, if I had anything to do with it.

After six months of dating, we moved in together. He didn’t gain weight as fast as I would ideally have liked, but then life is not an ideal and I did not, at any cost, want to arouse suspicion in him. It should be a natural process as far as he’s concerned. The slow but inevitable creep of adipose tissue.

As a rule, I never chastised or teased him. Fat-shaming rarely, if ever, results in weight loss but it could very easily drive him from my clutches. Instead, I have been sure to be his rock, make our home his safe space where much of that safety and comfort comes from doing very little exercise, snuggling on the settee and eating plenty of delicious, highly-calorific and over-plentiful food.

My rule, however, does not preclude others from teasing my dear Danny. On the contrary, I adore visiting his parents and two older siblings. Luxuriate in their scornful glances, words of concern, barbed comments and roving hands urgently grabbing at rolls and flab as if to gauge the expansion of their hapless, dumpy Danny. And although I’m an excellent cook, I will still take him out to eat on occasion. Particularly places where the portions are generous and the seating, usually a booth, is not. Now, at twenty-four stone and with a jutting gut, there are places we go where after he has sat, a roll of flab spills over onto the table. Someday soon, I hope, we will find one that he cannot fit at all.

When he reached twenty-stone, eighteen months ago now, public comments became a more regular occurrence. Teenagers and children, both prone to speaking before thinking and lacking in empathy, are the most frequent. Although middle-aged ladies have joined the chorus now as well, taking the name of God in vain, tutting and shaking their heads. And that’s just strangers.

People at his workplace have been even crueller in the twisted faux-polite way that only experienced practitioners of office politics can be. Offering him diet tips, asking if he really should be eating the packed lunches that I lovingly prepare for him, inviting him to the gym or on a walk at lunch breaks, questioning the suitability of the office furniture to support his increasing size and harking back to the slim waif he was when he started there aged twenty-three. They wonder where that Danny has gone and why this Danny has let go so readily and shamelessly.

Of course, Danny is ashamed. He is hurt by such comments, questions himself, curses his body and his gluttonous appetite. Then comes to me for comfort, cuddles and cookery. As he feasts, I too gain sustenance from the re-telling of all the teasing and humiliation he has suffered. Then I pile his plate again, tell him I’ll always love him no matter how big he gets, that he’s safe with me and that there’s plenty of ice cream in the freezer for afters.

So, it goes tonight.

‘Yes, a feeder, that’s what she said. Then she looked at me, smiled and said, though perhaps not everyone in this office needs feeding.’

‘Gosh, how awful.’

‘Can you believe that?’

I could, of course, believe it because he looked and indeed was the very definition of someone who was not in need of further feeding. I didn’t say this to him, obviously, and did as I always had done in such situations; I filled his plate again. I’d made my interpretation of comfort food: macaroni cheese, smooth, buttery, cream-filled mashed potatoes, pork chops seasoned with paprika, herbs and fried in garlic butter, curly kale and tender-stem broccoli, also swimming in butter and garlic. And my personal favourite desert to make, chocolate orange pavlova, a calorific masterpiece of whipped Cornish clotted cream, sticky, gooey, sugary meringue and rich, indulgent chocolate. It sat in the middle of the dining table atop a cut-glass cake stand observing us both, patiently waiting for its time to shine.

But when I refilled his plate, Danny did something he’d never done before; he refused.

‘What’s the matter, honey?’ I asked, as innocent as an angel.

‘I’ve had enough,’ he grunted and pushed the plate away.

‘But there’s still so much to eat.’

I looked forlornly at the serving bowls and dishes on the table in front of us.

‘Well, why don’t you eat it?’

I chucked and looked down at my empty dinner plate where a small pork chop and meagre serving of vegetables had once sat.

‘Oh, you know me, chuck, I’ve the appetite of a sparrow. Love to cook but hardly have the stomach to eat it.’

He was frowning at me, then at his own much larger stomach resting on his thighs and pressing gently into the edge of the table.

‘That’s why we are such a perfect fit,’ I continued. ‘I love to cook and you love to eat.’

He shook his head at that, his frown deepening.

‘Well, now I’m done eating.’

‘Fair enough then, chuck. I’ll wrap this all up for you because no doubt you’ll get peckish later on when...’

‘No!’

His chubby fist came down on the table setting the crockery and cutlery rattling and making me sit bolt upright in my chair. I’d never seen him angry before. His round face was flushed, his shoulders trembling setting his moobs and blubbery biceps jiggling in concert.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s wrong?’ he repeated, still angry. ‘What’s right? Four years we’ve spent together, four years of supposed bliss and all that’s happened is I’ve turned into a great big tub of lard. And you think I love to eat, Dan? I hate it! I hate how fat I’ve become because of it and I hate that all I can do to feel better is eat even more and get even fatter.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. I know you love me but this relationship just isn’t healthy. I’ve got to put myself first. I’m sorry.’

I watched in awe as he rose to his feet, already out of breath from the effort. He went to the front door, pulled on his big jacket, grabbed his wallet, phone and keys and left.