chapter 1

At 300, they're steadfast, pushing you to feed them as much as you push them to eat. At 400, they're growing faster than you could have hoped. At 500, theres no need to encourage them, the food is taking over. At 600, it's not just the food that controls their life, it's you. At 700, they realize their future, and try to back out. At 800, they've accepted their fate. At 900, you have to hire help to care for them. At 1,000, you find them dead from ripping off their oxygen mask.

So, you have the ambulance carry them out. You replace the bed. You hide the medical equipment, and throw away the half eaten cake and the tins of frosting. You post a picture from last week on grommr, your last piggy, freshly shaven, legs barely covered by a king sized blanket, gut spilling over the sides of the bed, piggy little eyes obscured by fat cheeks, and mouth covered in the chocolate cake he's stuffing into it. Barely recognizable as human. You caption the picture "who wants me to do this to them?" And the responses come. In a week, after two or three wasted plane tickets, you'll have a new piggy ready to blow up. You'll tell him the truth, that it's harder than any manual labour to keep up the stuffing. That in the end, the piggy can barely breathe. That their heart and joints hurt even when they're barely moving. That they always try to back out when they realize that there could have been more to their short little life than fulfilling the desires of their boner. That being stuffed from both ends isn't all anyone needs. But they think they're special. They think only they are so motivated by greed and gluttony and lust that they'll enjoy every moment of it. They think untreated diabetes and gasping for breath just sitting up either won't happen to them, or will turn them on. But you know.
It's not wrong, to bring them there, again and again, is it? They beg for it. Every time. Nobody gets to be a blob unless they have. Their door was never locked, the food was always stuffed into their mouth by them. Even when they said they wanted out, it just took a few little jerks on their fat covered members to get them to finish their plate and seconds and thirds. There was always a choice until it got too real, but then it was too late.

Are you a monster, or an angel? Hopefully the next one lasts more than four years. It's hard starting over and realizing that you can lift their gut with one hand instead of a hydrolic lyft.

Reposted from my Grommr profile for your enjoyment