You’ve never been able to control yourself around food. If someone was ordering in pizza; if there was ice cream in the freezer; if there was a buffet within driving distance, you were there — going back for a fourth slice, finishing off the quart, or double-fisting fully-loaded plates. If you couldn’t be eating, you’d be thinking about food. You’d spend breakfast planning lunch, lunch planning dinner, dinner planning midnight snack. And there’d always be something around to keep you satisfied in between meals.
So it’s never been any surprise that you were always somewhere between chubby and fully obese. With a diet like yours, anything less would have been a nutritional mystery. Your full, protruding belly complete with love handles, thick thighs, and flabby arms might grow and shrink within certain limits, but they were always there. And your friends and family always sort of just accepted that as the natural state of things — it had always been that way, you’d never picked up on any subtle hints or suggestions that you might want to dial it back a little, and even your own attempts at dieting never stuck for very long.
But even so, you usually found yourself enjoying food most by yourself — away from the prying eyes of your more or less judgmental social circles. You didn’t have to worry about what people thought if you took yet another helping, if you had a second (or third) dessert, or if you went through a whole two-liter of soda by yourself. There was nobody around to comment about it. Nobody to judge you. Nobody to make you think about what was going to happen if you kept eating like that.
That was really the thing that made you want to be on your own so often, wasn’t it? Freedom from all that scrutiny. It was better if nobody was around to comment on you having to size up your pants again for the third time in as many months. You didn’t have to worry about someone hearing you be out of breath after a short walk to the garage for another pack of sodas. You could flop out on the couch in your underwear, let your belly and tits and side rolls hang out, and not have to care what someone’s reaction might be. You could be genuinely yourself. And you could eat just like you wanted to, when you wanted to.
That is, until the walks to the garage became absolutely exhausting. Once cooking dinner became a workout, and going shopping at the plus-size store became a marathon, you knew this wasn’t going to be sustainable. You needed someone who understood what you were going through; who didn’t care about the weight; who would just be willing to give you a little hand when you needed it.
That’s where I came in. You loved having someone who could run your errands, cook your meals, and bring you snacks as much as anything else about our relationship. And I’ve always been happy to oblige. At first, you thought it was strange that someone would find your double chins, or your growing fatpad, or your stretchmark-covered belly and thighs sexy. You thought there had to be some catch you weren’t seeing, something I wanted out of it other than just being with and admiring you. But eventually your belly bulged out of your 3xls, then your 4xls; then moving your almost 500 pounds of soft, wobbling fat anywhere became an utter ordeal. You stopped looking for reasons to be suspicious of my motives after that — not that you had much choice. But maybe you should have looked a little harder.
See, I always knew food was your weakness. I knew if there was a snack around or a tasty meal just around the corner, you wouldn’t be able to resist gobbling up the growing portions I set out for you — and often, asking for another helping, even after you’d demolished a plate that I thought would be more than you could handle. Even as your legs bloated and the gap between both thighs and calves filled with hanging blubber; even as your ass turned into a bulging portable seat for your swelling frame; even as your belly and chest grew heavier, wider, saggier with every meal, you could still be counted on to wolf down your personal buffet with relish.
Not even true bariatric mobility problems fazed you. I would have been ready to swear that once you needed an extra-wide wheelchair to get from the couch to the kitchen, you would have at least stopped to catch your breath and realized you were heading down a one-way street, and at least thought about it for a second. Not you; if anything, you hit the gas and never looked back. You couldn’t hardly stand up, and certainly couldn’t move yourself; but you were perfectly happy to have me roll your jiggling lardpile of a body from room to room if it meant you got to stuff that hanging, distended belly of yours with a tableful of food every meal. It was then that I realized just how much of a blind spot food was for you, and how much the desire to satisfy that next craving or taste that next delicious dish could make you ignore anything else. You were willing to accept getting however fat you got, and to give up whatever being that fat required of you, just so you could stuff your piggy face.
So babe, I really don’t think this new arrangement is going to be that hard for you to get used to pretty quickly. Sure, being in the bed all day is going to get rid of the last physical activity you’ve been getting; but you were pretty much getting that by accident, anyway, don’t you think? And look at these legs, each about 45 inches around with ankle rolls — ankle rolls! — pushing on your feet. These aren’t getting you anywhere anyway. Not to mention, your belly must be at least 600 pounds all on its own; with the way it flows out past your knees, I wouldn’t even be able to find your you-know-what if I didn’t enjoy diving under there every so often. And do you really think you’ll be able to deal with a knife and fork for much longer with arms so fat, they weigh about 100 pounds apiece? The fat where your biceps should be practically smothers you as it is anytime you try to lift your arms over your head. No, much better that you get set up here in the bedroom, where none of that matters.
And just think of the feeding tube as a matter of convenience. Why waste time in between meals having to reach for another snack and struggle to feed it to yourself when you can have a delicious shake at the ready 24/7? I really don’t think it’s going to make that much of a difference in how many calories you’re getting every day to be able to eat literally constantly. But that’s why we have the scale rigged up on this reinforced bed frame; we’ll be able to track how you’re doing a lot better. And it goes up to 2,000 pounds, so we’ll absolutely, positively never need anything that’s higher capacity to weigh you. Definitely. For sure.
No need to look worried, gorgeous. I’m here for you. I can tell you, immobile or not, you’re just as sexy as the day we met. And I’ll make sure of one thing: you’ll never go hungry again for the rest of your life.
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