You sit awkwardly on the stool, legs wide apart to accommodate your sagging belly, and look around the room. The other canvases from other sessions leant against walls, their painted surface facing away.
You were the last person, you thought, who would serve as a muse to an artist. Yet here you are, back again in the artist's studio. The smell of turps tickles at your nose, along with what you knew to expect by now. The smell of rich creamy pasta drifts into the room as I walk in with a cheerful spring in my step and a couple of plates balancing on my arms.
"Now remember," I say, giving you the first plate and arranging the rest about your feet. "I want the rawness, that primal passion. No holding back."
You nod as I skip backwards to where I set up my easel. Still, a cloud of doubt washes over you and you open and close your mouth a couple of times. I know what you want to say but don't have the guts to. This is making me fat. We have been trying to get this picture perfect for months, shouldn't you change subject? But you don't dare. No one had ever paid you this much attention in your life.
My eyes are firmly fixed on you as I hastily sketch out the body I know so well, yet always had new rolls, new inches to depict. My eyes flicker back to my canvas, and satisfied with the general outline of your pose upon the seat, I simply say "Go."
And go you do, scooping up handfuls of fettuccine drowning in creamy rich sauce and pushing them between your lips like your life depends on it. Your hands are dirty but you reflexively rub your belly is it begins to protest at this now thrice-weekly onslaught, smearing sauce over rolls as you tip back the plate to finish it off.
"Yes, yes, don't stop now!" I say, exhilarated as I throw oils down as quickly as I can to capture the moment.
You smack your lips and lean down for the next plate and quickly get started, the last plate wobbling on your lap as you noisily scrap the pasta into your mouth. Your hips, littered with red and raw stretch marks, jiggle too as you relax into the flow of pushing in food, chewing and readying the next mouthful.
"Come on," I direct, never enjoying when you do this. "You're an animal, not a production line. Don't wait around with it your hand, put it in or enjoy what is in that greedy mouth. I wanna see that hunger! I want to see you savour it!"
You let out a small moan, never enjoying it when I said that. Still, you do as I direct and allow yourself time to close your eyes and really focus on what you're doing. You were eating enough for a dinner party of six, all for the sake of a demanding artist who painted things he'd never let you see. But at least it paid well, somehow. You swallow and open your eyes and grab the next mouthful, tipping your head back with a flourish and a shake, fat swaying beneath your chin.
"Good, good, you've got it darling," I encourage. In truth, this painting is almost done in terms of your body, I was just looking for that money shot and here it is. I only have to refine and capture the arms and face now which wouldn't take me too long. But you still have four plates to finish and then there was of course the observational sketches I liked to do as well.
You slurp up the last from that plate and lean down for your third and I get to hear that adorable huff as your already filled stomach got in the way. Your hands are well and truly coated in sauce which oozes between your fingers as you pick up your new handful of carbs and grease. You do the same as before shaking your head, really letting the feeling of what your body is like now sink in. You think about the things I told you when this project began and let out a small whimper as it dawns on you what I had been doing but still you chew, the food serving as a comfort in this moment.
You think hard, remembering the reason I had I told you to remove your mirrors. What was it, some rubbish about over-analysis of the self and enforcement of perceived beauty over natural being? You had only caught glimpses of yourself in shop windows, distorted and unclear, these past four months. He wants me fat, you think, still piling in the pasta despite the realisations. You lick the creamy sauce from your lips as you think harder. Is it so bad, being a little chubby? You got £500 a week for eating, but then another realisation creeps in. Your chewing slows and like in a trance you get the next plate.
"Hey, hey, where's that energy?" I say, brow furrowed. "You can't be full already, Monday we managed cake as well for the sketches!"
You open your mouth to speak and instead let out a long rattling burp, followed by a small hiccup. "I did this..." you mumble, prodding your tummy.
"What's this now?" I say, rolling my eyes and not in the mood for a dramatic loss of my most promising muse yet.
"I thought I was getting fat from doing this... but I just thought," you say, eyes becoming wider. "I spend all the money you give me for this, on food!"
I put my hand over my mouth, in a small attempt to stifle a laugh, but I can't help but chuckle. You had been plumping up quicker than expected. Your appetite had grown too, going from three plates to six in the last few weeks. "So, you've been practicing at home, good to hear," I praise. "Now, go on, carry on eating for this piece."
Again you think about saying something but instead you shove in the food with new vigour. You had been practicing. You think about the nights at home on the sofa, tipping back your plate of second helpings from Sunday dinner. You felt good doing that there, why not feel good about this here? At the end of the day, someone admired this body enough to paint it so often. You can always lose the weight later, so everyone else will admire it too.
Previous plates wedged under your belly, you grab plate five and six together and pour them in to your mouth like you were starving, and not for the sake of me this time. But because it felt good for you to do so.
I can't be annoyed as I rush to grab a new canvas, after all, this is what the project was all about, running into the warm, soft smothering arms of obesity. I urge my hands to work as quickly as I can, manipulating the oils on the canvas, trying to capture this pure and true display of gluttony. This was it, this is the one. Well, for now.
The sounds coming from you are like a wild beast, snorting, slurping and panting as all the fettuccine and sauce disappears into that mouth. What I can't capture literally, your mind I'd finally broken, I depict in abstract through colour and metaphor.
You sit panting, dirty hands clutching your belly and uttering something unintelligible. While I walk backwards, hands around my mouth, shaking my head in rapturous disbelief.
"I'm going to make your body famous, darling," I breathe, lifting the canvas from the easel. I cock my eyebrows. "And you are going to continue to sit for me, aren't you?"
Your face is pained and you are wiping slop over the stretched skin as you do your best to calm your aching stomach down. "I don't know, -ughhh- I'm gonna be morbidly obese by the end of the year if I continue this-" You finish your speech with three burps and a sigh. A smile infects my lips, how couldn't it?
"I don't know about that," I mutter under my breath. Louder I say, "Would you like to see what we have done together, right from the start?" I gesture to the canvases littering the studio.
Your curiousity piqued, you had to say yes, after so long of seeing none of my works. You manage a nod and continue rubbing your bulging belly as I rush off to the far corner of the studio.
"...Here's where we started," I say, turning the canvas.
It shows a shy figure, hand tentively holding a few strands of pasta to their mouth, looking nervously at the viewer. Your body in the painting was rubenesque but not what anyone would call fat. You tilt your head, that was the body you last saw in a mirror so it felt familiar, it felt right. That is until you feel the ache in your stomach once more and look down at your belly. Okay, you tell yourself, don't freak out when I'm a couple of inches bigger in today's painting. I'm fat, but not fat-fat.
I had already dashed off for another canvas while you observed the first, leaning against the back of the easel.
"And then there's this," I say, spinning around the next.
You purse your lips, and a slow low burp makes its way out as you took in this new view of yourself. A little bigger than you thought you were but not by much. You had gone and bought a few new pieces of clothing recently because you'd been plumping up and found that higher sizes than expected were the ones that fit. But you know, some brands run small, right?
This version of you sits with their legs wide, looking more tired than anything. A chubby hand grips a plate raised to your lips, already thick with sauce, while the other hand is plunged into soft flesh on your hips to steady yourself.
"That's good," you smile. "At least I'm not super fat, just a little tubby. I can still slim down for your next project."
I shake my head. "Darling, you are obese. You're already there. And its going to be real hard for you to slim down. But if you must go, go you must."
"W-what?" you say, brows creased and eyes imploring. "I didn't know obesity starts so small. God, you really can't enjoy yourself with food."
"No, this was two months ago," I correct. "And I think you'll find, if you do continue this project, fatness is truly in the eye of the beholder."
"You mean... I really am a 2 XL?" you exclaim, trying to scramble to your feet. However you sit back down quickly with a groan, your belly not able to handle sudden movements. "And this project isn't over? You want me to eat more?"
I grab the pair of today's pieces and pose proudly, showing you them both. "Don't you want to see what your body will look like next?"
In the first of the pair of pictures your head is tipped backwards, revealing the thick second chin protruding from your neck. It is your neck more than anything. Thick layers of flab make up your sides, all piled higgidy-piggidy on top of one another, decorated with raw stretch marks. The second shows you mid-chew, two plates held high by blubbery arms. Your belly looks like old laundry piled up, deep creases where rolls run into the next. Its framed by your legs which sag over the sides of the stool.
You look to me, smiling bright, and then back to the paintings. Your eyes scan the surface, trying to work out what I see in displays of gluttony such as this. And then you see it, shiny and wonderful. You nod and smile back at me.
"You still on for sketches?" I grin. "I made red velvet today."
"I-I do need something sweet, I think," you say coyily, not ready to admit what you are.
But my whole studio is dedicated to it. And you were only waiting for permission and someone to see it.
Kinktober List by fatguarddog
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