Sweet Surrender

Chapter 1

They say you never forget your first love. For me, that love was food.

Okay, perhaps that’s a bit dramatic—but not excessively so. Growing up fat in a world that didn’t know what to do with girls like me, I learned pretty quickly that comfort didn’t come easy. Kids teased me, adults pitied me, and the world around me just seemed to treat me like an afterthought.

“Ellen,” my mother would nag, “you really need to slow down and stop eating so much; there’s more to life than just food.”

What my mother couldn’t understand, was that at that time of my life, there really wasn’t anything more important to me than food. Food never judged me. It always welcomed me with open arms, soothed me when I was hurting, and made me feel full when everything else felt empty.

College was where things started to shift. I went to school in New York City, and for the first time, I wasn’t the only big girl in the room. I met other women who looked like me—young women who were beautiful, confident, and they refused to hide anything about who they were. They were strutting their stuff in fishnet stockings and low-cut crop tops, laughing loudly in public, taking up space like they were born to.

I was totally in awe of these women, and I knew that I wanted to be like them.

I started going to plus-size mixers and body-positive meetups. I found my people—women who knew what it was like to have strangers make unwelcome comments on their eating habits and portion sizes, about their bodies and the way that they lived their lives. We didn’t just talk about our weights though; we talked about liberation, about finding your own joy, and about the thrill of living unapologetically.

For the first time in my life, I felt truly seen—like I belonged somewhere.

It was at one of those events—a rooftop mixer in the East Village, warm summer night, music bumping low through crackly speakers—that I met Brighton.

He was a few years older than me, and. he had this scruffy sort of charm to him. A bit rough around the edges, he had the kind of vibe that made you feel like he’d lived a whole other life before stepping into yours. Shoulder-length hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, sleeves rolled to his elbows, rings on his fingers. His eyes were a little wild, but there was a kindness about them as well, a focused sort of energy that made me feel warm and comfortable around him. It was as if he could see right through any remnants of a facade I had left pent up around me—and certainly seemed to like what he saw.

I caught him staring at me across the cheese platter, which I thought was funny, because I had just polished off three mini cannoli and was debating whether to go back for a fourth. Most guys would’ve looked away, or at least pretended not to notice the big girl scarfing down cannoli. Brighton didn’t flinch, he just smiled at me with that electric smile of his.

We ended up standing near each other by the rail. I was sipping ginger ale, trying to look chill and cool in my sleeveless dress—light blue, clingy, way more revealing than anything I ever would’ve worn a year earlier.

“So you like cannoli,” he said to me with a wry smile. “What else do you like?”

“How much time do you have?” I chuckled nervously. “It might be easier to list the foods that I don’t like.”

That made him laugh too, and then he said, “I like that—I like a woman with a big appetite.”

That’s when he told me outright that he wasn’t just a guy who was into fat girls, he was a feeder—and he wasn’t shy about it.

Over the course of our first conversation, Brighton told me that he was a musician, living and working the club scene down in the Village. Then he let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he loved my curves, my softness, my big belly, and the way that I went in for second and third helpings of everything without hesitation. He told me that he liked seeing people let go and enjoy themselves.

“The world tries to control us and keep us small,” he said to me. “A beautiful woman is like a flower, and flowers were meant to grow.”

Looking back, I probably should’ve been more skeptical. Brighton was smooth—a little too smooth. He seemed like the kind of guy who knew the exact right words to say, and he had the kind of smile and dreamy-looking eyes that made you forget you were supposed to be guarding your heart. He had a musician’s swagger, like he’d written a thousand love songs and lived every one of them.

So yeah, part of me wondered if I could really trust him. Was he for real, or just playing out some fantasy? Did he actually see me, or just the shape of me?

He’d laugh at all of my dumb jokes, tilting his head while I talked like he was genuinely fascinated. He didn’t look past my body—he looked at it, adored it, like every soft inch of me was something precious. Something about him was simply irresistible. So when he asked if he could take me out sometime, I hesitated for exactly half a second before handing him my number.


We started dating casually at first. A couple dinners, some late-night romps through the city, a lot of texting that started off innocently enough and always veered just a little naughty. Brighton wasn’t like other guys I’d dated—or, if I’m honest, like any guy I’d even met. He was charming, intense, and surprisingly open about what he wanted.

“You’re so hot, Ellen," he told me over a table covered in pasta and wine and a plethora of desserts, “and you’re going to be even hotter once I’m through with you.”

I was mid-bite of tiramisu and nearly choked. “What are you going to do to me?”

He looked at me with a devilish grin as he lifted a fork loaded with tiramisu to my lips. “I’m going to make you get fat.”

I leaned back and gave him a look. “But, Brighton… I’m already fat. Like really, really fat.”

He grinned, calm as ever. “Indeed, you are… but you could always be fatter.”

I didn’t know whether to be offended, flattered, or both. Part of me wanted to throw my napkin at his face and walk out. Yet another part—some secret, curious part—felt a jolt of something electric. I’d never had someone say that to me so openly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Was it crazy? Probably. But I couldn’t help smiling.

“You’re wild,” I told him, shaking my head.

“Maybe I am,” he said, raising his glass, “but I think you like wild.”

I clinked my glass against his. I wasn’t sure what I was signing up for. I knew one thing: I wasn’t ready to walk away just yet.


Our relationship blossomed quickly, and Brighton was all in from the beginning. He’d show up at my dorm with takeout from my favorite diner, or text me pictures of gourmet donuts he’d picked up “just because.” Every time we went out, it was a feast. Every time we stayed in, it somehow turned into one, too. He said watching me eat was like watching art in motion—like he was witnessing something sacred.

Naturally, I was getting fatter—softening, spreading, growing in all the ways Brighton loved—and believe me, I noticed. Not that I was exactly petite to start with, but my clothes started getting tighter. My belly was getting very plump and round, my thighs were thickening, and my walk took on a kind of sway I hadn’t noticed before. I’d catch my reflection in windows as I sauntered about campus, and I could barely recognize the plush curve of my silhouette. It was a bit alarming, but I had to admit, I didn’t dislike what I was seeing.

Brighton, on the other hand, made me feel like I was the most beautiful girl in the world. He kissed every stretch mark like it was a love letter. He’d rest his hand on my belly after dinner like it was something he’d built himself. Some of my friends at school and at the bashes used to half-jokingly ask me if I was sure that I wasn’t pregnant, the way that Brighton would beam with pride as he publicly caressed my growing gut. The more I let myself go—letting go of control, letting go of any arbitrary feelings of guilt, or of the fear that someone might have something cruel or judgemental to say about my escalating size and weight—the freer I felt.


By the time winter break rolled around, I was noticeably bigger. My jeans didn’t fit. Neither did my coat. I’d picked up a few flowy new pieces to hide the bulk of my added weight—or, depending on the day, to highlight it, depending how bold I felt. There was no denying that Brighton had been feeding me like I was a queen, and I was really starting to look the part.

Back home in New Jersey, my mom gave me the usual side-eye at the dinner table, but said nothing. My dad just kept piling mashed potatoes on my plate like nothing had changed. It was my sister Katie who finally said what everyone else was thinking.

We were sitting on my childhood bed, half-watching old reruns on the little black and white TV set that had been in my room since I was ten, when I brought up Brighton. I hadn’t planned to—it just kind of spilled out of me. I told her how we met, how sweet he was, how happy I felt when I was with him. Then I hesitated, chewing my thumbnail.

“There’s something else,” I said. “Something you might think is weird.”

Katie raised an eyebrow. “Weirder than the guy in your poetry class who wore leather pants in July?”

I laughed. “A different kind of weird. Brighton’s… into feeding me. Like, he gets off on watching me eat, and he wants me to get bigger…. fatter.”

She didn’t laugh this time. Her whole expression changed—went from curious to cautious in half a second.

“Ellen,” she said as she shook her head. “What are you doing?”

“I know what you’re gonna say,” I cut in, “but it’s not like he’s forcing me to do anything that I don’t already want to do. I like being with him, and I like how he makes me feel—and let’s face it, I love to eat!”

Katie, who had never been as heavy as me, but had never exactly been thin, just looked at me and sighed. “I’m not judging you. I just want to make sure you’re not letting someone use you. If this guy really likes you, then he’ll accept you for who you are, and not someone that he’s trying to turn you into.”

I nodded, but something in me tightened. I didn’t want her to be right, but I couldn’t shake the little knot forming in my gut. Not the kind of ache that follows a heavy meal, but the quiet twist of uncertainty curling inside me.

“Just promise me you won’t let this guy walk all over you,” she said, poking my flab lightly with a single finger. “Don’t let this guy turn you into a total porker, then turn around and run off with some other chick he wants to fatten up.”

I looked at her with widened eyes, a bit shocked by what she was saying. It’s not as if that thought hadn’t crossed my mind. Still, hearing those words come out of my sister’s mouth was startling.

“Those guys have been known to do stuff like that,” she added. “It’s as if you’re a conquest to them; they’ll feed you and feed you, get you completely addicted to overeating and make you depend on them entirely. Then, when they get bored with you, they’ll leave you all alone, immobile and helpless, while they move on to their next conquest.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked incredulously. “Have you ever dated a feeder?”

“Once,” she said. “It was this guy from Pennsylvania I met online. I started going in for his praise of my curves; it was intoxicating, addicting. Then I started hearing stories from some of his friends about the women he’d dated before me, how he would wine them and dine them, then love them and leave them—always leaving them several hundred pounds fatter than when he found them. I just decided that was something I didn’t need in my life.”

“I had no idea,” I said, glaring at her with astonishment. While my sister was only about a year and a half older than me, the paths she had taken in life were vastly different than my own, and apparently she had been experienced far beyond anything I had realized.

“I just don’t want to see you get hurt, sis.” Katie placed her hand gently on top of mine as she looked back at me with a look of sisterly-love. “Please, just promise me that you’ll be careful.

“I promise,” I assured her, but deep down, I didn’t know what I wanted more—to prove her wrong, or to believe that she was right.


I’d spent the rest of my break playing a game of tug-of-war inside my head. Some days, I told myself Katie was right, that I needed to take a step back and set some boundaries for myself. Other days, I’d scroll through our texts, remembering the way he looked at me—like I was some kind of a goddess—and I’d think to myself, “What’s the harm in being adored?”

By the time I got back to the city, I still hadn’t made up my mind. I figured I’d play it cool, see how I felt the next time Brighton and I were together. Brighton called me the night I got back, his voice breathless and buzzing with excitement.

“We got signed!” he said. “The band—we got a record deal!”

I was stunned, I didn’t know what to say. I was happy for him, of course, but I really wasn’t sure how to react. All I could wonder to myself was, “Will I ever see him again?”

“That's incredible,” I said to him finally. “When do you leave?”

He hesitated. “Tomorrow.”

My heart sank. “Tomorrow?”

“It’s fast,” he said. “They want us in L.A. for recording, promotion—the whole deal. We’ll be on the road by the spring.”

He promised we’d stay in touch—texts, calls, video chats. I wanted to believe him, and I told him that I did. Deep down, however, I already knew how these stories tended to go.

The following day, I went by his place to see him off. He kissed me goodbye on the front steps of his building, said something vague to me about fate and about timing and whatnot, and then he was gone.

Just like that.

No explanation. No closure.

In the silence that followed, all I had left was my appetite—and the gluttonous habits that he had helped me to create.