[The blog’s three year anniversary recently came and went without fanfare, a further casualty of the 4 month dearth of output from yours truly. All I can say in defense of myself is that I’ve had a lot going on, from health issues to emotional hardship which has sapped my motivation to write lengthy essays for a limited audience of strangers. That, plus The Acts of Mary has become a much more involved and complex project than I originally anticipated. In the process of outlining its plot, I’ve spent a great deal of time researching many forgotten religious movements of the ancient Middle East, which has taken up a great deal of my spare time. If you’re a loyal reader whom I’ve left hanging these past ~18 weeks, please forgive me for my writer’s block. I apologize for my shortcomings.]
I’ve gained weight over the pandemic and it’s caused me a great deal of conflicting emotion. For you see, I have always been attracted to larger bodies the same as I am to slimmer bodies. I feel conflicted about this particular kink, since at the end of the day (no matter how loudly certain groups petition otherwise) obesity is unhealthy and usually a sign of character flaws like laziness or poor impulse control. A preference for brunettes, a predilection for BDSM, a polyamorous arrangement, these are consensual, harmless understandings between adult lovers. A dalliance with obesity means encouraging your partner (or yourself) to engage in a lifestyle that puts them at risk of unpredictable and potentially permanent health issues. The stigma fatness carries among the populace is a further complication; while it may be appealing for a masochist to bear such a burden in the abstract (or for a dom to inflict it), the dynamic has social consequences outside of the bedroom beyond either partner’s control.
The internal conflict between admiring and resenting all things fat has therefore inspired me to write a sort of semi-confessional, semi-satirical, self-flagellating erotica in two complementary pieces. It conveys genuine self-loathing at letting myself go, deep frustration at my own self-destructive perversions, yet exaggerates these to a degree which (I hope) is comedic in a black comedy sort of way. I debated whether to share this at all, but I’m proud of the prose (especially in the first piece) and I thought maybe it might be exactly what another weirdo out there was looking for. Putin could nuke us all tomorrow, plastic is killing everything including ourselves, life’s too short to self-censor, amiright?
It’s probably inevitable that at least a few larger members of my audience will take offense, but believe me that was not my intention. I am poking fun at myself as someone who has struggled with weight off and on throughout my life, especially recently. This is my way of confronting the fears I have regarding what other people might think when they see me as, or with, a fat woman. I am not trying to disparage others who struggle with their waistline. My goal is to self-motivate for healthier habits, while lessening the sting of everyday fat-shaming I may face in the meantime by taking it to the heights of absurdity. If you’re fine with your body, or find motivation to better yourself in other ways, I applaud you. This, the process of writing where it hurts, is my attempt to do likewise.
Plight of the Pig
I. The Insatiable Hunger
What is a fat woman? To fetishists she is the sacred cow of Juno, the forbidden desire of overripe fruit. To doctors, she is emblematic of the whited bovine bred for slaughter, a pampered creature destined to die miserably on a stone cold slab. To Judeo-Christians, she is the personified golden calf, a sacrificial goddess of excess who leads men astray. To philosophers, she is the neutered ox who embodies the slavery of domestication. Artists portray her as an effeminate attrocity who chose the trough over the trowel. Scholars compare her proliferation to the corruption of all beauty in the post-industrial world, the sickness of society seeping into the individual. And to the casual observer, she’s nothing but a bloated bosom, belly ‘n’ butt.
In her own words, a fat chick is a disparaged mind locked in a parasitic malaise with its domineering “gut-brain.” The gut-brain is a hivemind of her cumulative intestinal fauna, demanding sustenance at all times. Every time fatty gives into their call, she empowers them further. A buffalo’s most distinctive feature to others will always be her big tubby belly, a fact she is keenly aware of at all times. This will be the most significant relationship in the flank-skank’s life, both abusive and self-loathing. The flesh-mound stomach serves as an inescapable badge of shame, for it shows everyone whom the pork-bearer meets that she is a glutton who lacks any control over her lower instincts. A gut-slut’s stomach is her mistress and she is a slave to its carnal pleasures even above her own dignity.
A fat lady’s shapely tummy is full of a semi-solid/semi-liquid substance that can only exist in the unique pressure and temperature conditions of her gravitational field. In this way, a ham-planet is quite literally able to bend chemical physics around her, as a black hole bends space-time. And like a black hole, any tasty morsels that should enter into a chunkster’s reach, her “event horizon” if you will, are unable to escape. Despite contrary assumptions, the plus-size crumb-gobbler is still capable of agility brought on by an adrenaline rush if food is near. Her initial lunge is enhanced by the inertia of her weight so that nothing living withstands the impact, the overwhelming crushing force of gavity in its greatest possible condensation. Ironically, these fantastical properties will create a lifestyle that’s so miserable, it leaves the thicc-chick desperate to escape her own orbit for the remainder of life.
As the piglet reaches peak obesity, her girth dominates every thought and decision from leaving the sty until return. Seats may be too narrow, or break, under her plus-size mass. Booths at a restaurant, or turnstiles, might be too tight for her muffin tops to squeeze through. Even the clothes on her back, ever-shrinking and less stylish with inverse proportion to her waistline, can fail. Seams split at the thighs, the act of bending over rips even the most reinforced cloth, and nothing can cover her great belly of shame. These instances of her goblin-gut breaking loose represent the sow’s mistress reaching maximum saturation level. From then on, it demands to be acknowledged by all as fully subsuming its host to become the dominant partner in their parasitic relationship. If a pig’s tummy could talk, it would constantly remind the feedee that she will never be loved or respected by her peers, for her place is always in the sty stuffing herself. Her every action is now in service of Mistress. Anytime a sow should forget her position, the adipose empress will see to it that she fails in her every endeavor. With subsequent transgressions, the matriarchal center of mass grows larger and advertises its slave’s further diminished status to the world. Every flight from the pigpen is more demeaning than the last…
II. The Mating Call of the Female Whale
If the belly is a mistress, then the great large ass is an invitation for a male master to further demean the creature. Indeed, a fat girl’s butt is wide and bulbous like the full moon in order to show nearby mates that she is available at all times. To be a sow is to be everyone’s bitch. To justify the excess space she inhabits, a hog calls “The better for you to squeeze, my lord” at nearby men. And if he should reply: “Sorry, I don’t understand pig squeal,” it is her duty to waddle away for his laughter instead. Being a fat woman is not a calling one aspires to, but it remains an important job in a fallen world. They are chosen by the Gods as a physical reminder of the material world’s imperfection, the living definition of sloth, so that man associate Heaven alone with comfort. Chunkies serve as a Swine-like Suadela, attracting all the dregs and creeps into one convenient sphere of orbit, like a tumor for Thor to smite. In the fulfillment of this social niche, hammies are the untouchable caste of the post-industrial culture. Therefore, a porker’s lot in life is to absorb an exponential amount of indignities in proportion to her surplus girth–some might say “as punishment for it.” The price of gluttony is to be God’s punch line for the pleasure of mortal men.
A fat-ass can best categorize her life into various milestones as her waistline comes to match that of mega fauna. It starts with children laughing as she waddles past, and adults on the bus asking “friend of yours eh?” when driving by a field of mooing cows. It ends with hospitals preparing hippo-sized medical equipment when she arrives. Between these two extremes, a Cow’s worth plummets from that of a lady to something more akin to the livestock she resembles. Sometimes sleazy guys sneak a pinch in passing, but only to make their friends laugh, or out of desperation, or feederism. If she should challenge them, or even try to solicit a date from it, they make oink sounds to drown out her unimportant pig-grunts. One man finally takes pity and whispers in her ear: “You should learn to take what you can get, tubs. A thrill’s a thrill, but nobody settles for a farm animal.” And why should guys consort with someone who lacks self control anyway? Why should man concern himself with the thoughts of a pig?
A sow’s greatest consternation will always be slim women, for they remind her of the delicate splendor she relinquished in pursuit of food. The grace of a petite woman’s sashay became the clumsy gurgling waddle of a blob-monster. Her bouncing mounds of wonder were eclipsed by a comically large jiggle-sack that would make even the most chauvinistic man reconsider his attraction to the soft flesh of women. She became a twisted mockery of the female form, God’s greatest work of art, for short term dopamine. As punishment, the awestruck gaze of admirers slowly gave way to looks of disgust or derision. Instead of asking her out, guys tell her to cover up so as not to “advertise her disgusting lifestyle and set a bad example for the children.” In times like these, a sow resents women for not joining her in Lysistrata-inspired solidarity, forcing men to be with fatties if they want physical touch, so that all sisters might enjoy unrestricted food and sex simultaneously. But this is an impossible dream, for even in such dire circumstances, men would sooner turn to homosexuality or asexuality before bestiality. Unlike sows, men have some self control over their lesser impulses.
The reason fat bodies get so unwieldy is because God itself is trying desperately to stop them from continuing their gluttonous sin. Every labored, jiggly step, is a reminder that fatsos are an aberration of nature. Eventually a hefty body is so hampered by gravity that she finds herself unable to go through doors, or falling through muck pits unable to get out. A swine struggling to wade through what was once her native habitat is sure to attract an audience, but no assistance. The children point and say: “Look at that piggy wallowing in the mud!” Some throw donuts in the butter-ball’s path to spur her onward. Town elders use her indignity as a lesson for the next generation. “Mush-bags like her are just too sluggish to adapt to the world around them, son,” a loving father proclaims to the world. Another points all eyes back to the sinking sow and says: “Remember kids, her failure symbolizes the inevitable demise of all that is too bloated for too long, such as bureaucratic governments or the entelodonts she descended from!” These strapping lads would never stand by and allow a real woman to suffer such unpleasantness but, of course, a bovine is not really a woman anymore, is she?
III. The Perpetual Humiliation of Heifers
Fat eventually outweighs femininity and once that happens, suitors become scarce. Porky’ll speak and men’s eyes wander to more attractive sights, while women size her up as a non-threat with visible delight. Suddenly, she’s not taken around on a beau’s arm thru a crowd. She’s pushed and pulled into dingy backrooms where no one can see the filthy act. The men who still fuck her are ashamed of their attraction to fatness and of themselves for surrendering to it. They offer money when it’s over, and she explains: “I’d have done it for free, you know.” To which the man laughs and says “Yeah, I’ll bet. No, that’s hush-money Sooey. I’ve got a reputation.” Nobody wants to admit they succumbed to their lowest instincts and fucked a pig, much less advertise it. But a fat girl can’t hide from her ignominy; she carries every pound of it at all times for the world to see and judge. “Why would you want to go out for dinner when we have everything you need right here?” Men say. “Your master” pointing to himself, “your mistress” pointing to her belly, “and your trough!” pointing to the fridge. To be seen with a fat girl is social suicide; it signals the male is either a feeder or a failure.
A beef-boulder eating an entire pizza in one sitting in a mall food court is sure to attract the attention of regular humans around her. This time, a group of teenage boys crack jokes and stare. She pretends not to hear, but they know she does, and with increased anxiety comes increased sloppiness as she scarfs down the last four slices. Sauce drips onto her shirt, and grease dribbles down her chin from the haste, but she will not surrender any of her treasure no matter the social cost. Eventually, the plump pudding-pouch gets up to leave, and to her horror the teens follow. The chunk-skunk tries to hurry away, but her clothes, always a hindrance, are too tight on her swollen frame. She knows if she moves too forcefully, they’ll tear and the humiliation will be complete. She feels the unflattering frock she squeezed into that day riding up in the back. She feels her massive butt cheeks poking out against her porcine panties, refusing to be contained. The laughter of her pursuers is deafening as they methodically stalk their prey. Finally, she’s too winded to go any further, huffing and puffing as her social superiors encircle her before a crowd of onlookers. She tries to be submissive in order to placate the boys, hoping this will end the degradation as soon as possible: “I’m sorry, I know nobody wants to see a sweaty hog like me eating in public. I’ll just order delivery from now on.” The handsome youths wait a long time before answering, letting the girl dangle in pained anticipation of what they might say, growing as pink as a swine all the while. Finally, their leader speaks. “You would compare yourself to the boar: a fierce, adaptable predator able to take down large game? Nonsense. You’re just a marshmallow. A soft pudgy ball of congealed goo, an artificial construct of processed sugar and gelatinous fat!” Some of the crowd go into hysterics, others give a look of pity, most stare with morbid fascination as if she were a carnival freak.
This constant threat of public ridicule explains why butter-bellies are so eager to take what they can get. Since the high status mates are only interested in women they can be proud to show off, that often means presenting herself to the omega males who might simp for her. A sow in heat tries her luck in the incel communities, homeless shelters and halfway houses before netting a begrudging hookup. Unfortunately, her pork-flaps prevent the diminished shafts of these lesser men from making contact. In this scenario, a desperate land-whale might offer the jelly rolls of her fupa just to salvage some diminished pleasure from the affair. The first time it happens, the slovenly creature tries to spin this additional disgrace into a flirtation: “That’s the nice thing about being a big girl, I have extra pockets to put stuff in!” she declares. The man looks revolted and asks: “Oh god, do you store food in those things?” Realizing her mistake all too late, she answers: “No…” To which he replies: “You know what, I’m just gonna find a sock or something.” With that, she’s taught to stay silent. Flirting, foreplay, pillow talk, romantic chemistry…those luxuries are just too good for a greedy-feedee like her to expect.
In this way, a lady turns entirely to lard and no amount of sugarcoating will sweeten the deal for any man. There is a window of time when a ham-creature can still fornicate by offering to turn around or sit on a guy’s lap so he can pretend to defile a respectable woman. But even this opportunity closes when the fattie grows so corpulent that she can’t reliably guide his mighty lance into her fuck-hole anymore, and the flesh-mounds are a significant hazard to it besides. That’s when even the most desperate of suitors starts kicking her fat cheeks off to say “sorry blubber-butt, I draw the line at whales!” The less forgiving among them throw chocolate chip cookies in the other direction when they see the wall of adipose coming. Even with the knowledge that she’s performing a humiliating stunt, she chases after the food like an excited dog for their drunken applause. But, mistaking their brief amusement at her expense for attraction, the blob-goblin lays down in front of the men. To their horror, she claps her thighs and hands both with a wide open maw, begging for more treats like a seal. To this, the most handsome of the studs steps up and approaches the lardo with a sigh. He sticks $50 in fives down her throat, saying: “There’s some snack money if you get out of sight–we’re here to fuck women not circus elephants!” Another man grabs her XXXLarge thong as she lumbers away in shame toward an ice cream platter. He hopes it might snap against her skin like lashings to a pack animal. However, the poor fabric is stretched too tight against her meat-canyons already, so it gives way to this additional strain. The fateful porterhouse loins are left in the man’s grasp, like a swine-Cinderella slipper, to the raucous laughter of all.
IV. The Leeching Lipid-Lumps
Chum-magnets often release a distinctive odor known as the “meat sweats”–or, in some cultures, the “cheese musk”–when they get too hefty to wipe or bathe properly. In a primitive natural setting, this behavior would protect her enticing bacon-bottom from predators, since she can no longer run as fast as the herd. These foul fumes inadvertently attract a multitude of flies, which then lap up the juice of her lipid layers and lay eggs in the folds. The flies, in turn, attract larger insects and small birds, who attach themselves to the underbelly of a wandering behemoth for transportation. Like the sauropods of old, ancient ham-beasts were an ecosystem onto themselves, complete with mobile decomposers aboard the land-barge. Unfortunately, in a modern artificial setting, this elephantine mechanism has the effect of repelling mates even further. They wretch at her yeast-stench, as instinct screams at them not to waste valuable sperm on the evolutionary dead-end. Her pheromones are overpowered by the force of a thousand unwashed greasy nights, basting in her own blubbery creases and crevices. While the virile men she covets might keep notches in a bedpost, a sow carries sediment from all the foods she’s ever eaten in her fat ass as accidental “trophies.” So with all that in mind, a manatee propositioning a suitor might hear him say: “I wouldn’t even let the dog fuck ya, Stinky! He deserves better than that, to say nothing of myself! Maybe you should migrate north and try a walrus!” The blubber-belly meekly responds with her old self-rehearsed mantra: “I am proud of my body…” Before the man shoves a slice of cake in her mouth to plug-up the fat-logic. As the cow starts chewing the curd, he demands of her: “Is your body proud of you, who lacks the self control to take care of it properly? Have you no shame at all, you broken down beast of burden? Of what use are you to the world?”
Beyond a certain point, there’s just so much to a chubster’s body that it becomes everyone’s business whether they wished to ridicule her or not. At the dinner table, the choice to get an extra helping of three burgers is subjected to criticism. Family members bemoan: “If your unseemly mass must extend into my peripheral vision wherever I look, then I should damn well have the right to complain about it!” At the supermarket, the choice to get four bags of chips is an invitation for a beautiful woman to step in and put them back. “You don’t need all that extra food, Chunky, looks to me like you’ve had enough for one lifetime already.” The hippo-girl could argue manners to her accuser, or perhaps defend the individual’s right to choose their own destiny…but why bother? Ultimately, this is a desirable woman with health science and social status on her side. What is the porpoise in relation to that? Nothing but a hulking slob–a collection of adhoc adipose deposits, each a testament of regretful decisions. How silly she would look, loudly demanding her right to go on being a slop-goblin in front of all these chuckling people gathering. It’s then that she realizes the beautiful woman has preferential access to mates as well as the modern watering hole. For the first time in natural history, the larger massive creature retreats before her smaller dainty counterpart and the biological mockery is complete. “Don’t let me catch you here again–not until you’ve lost the first 50 pounds!” the alpha-female calls after her.
Once she internalizes her rightful identity, and accepts whatever lowly station in life the real people see fit to give her, a fatty can still be useful to the world when her weight is properly applied. When a woman starts breaking furniture under her massive load, it is God telling all that she has had more than her fill of leisure in life with all the extra meals. She then ceases to be a delicate object of beauty, the kind men like to show off around the house. From then on, Chubby is just another piece of industrial equipment which isn’t allowed around polite company. For their safety, children are kept away from the dangerous crushing mechanism that is her ass, same as they would be barred from handling a blowtorch or power saw. Every now and then, preteens might sneak away to catch a peak at the oddity, and the portly-one would shake her mammoth-like flab in a threatening manner at them. This behavior is a swollen-sow’s natural defensive posturing. It’s meant to communicate to trespassers: “I have the mass of a small moon in this mallet-bag!” It is also an estranged soul’s desperate warning to the next generation that they must not submit to their inner Mistress.
Engorging stomach-monsters are the spawn of Beelzebub and Mammon made Flesh, they serve the One Master of Gluttony and have Nine Names in Three Faces: 1) the Great Pig of Shame, the Porcine-Sized Appetite, and the Swine Succubus under the Face of the Sow 2) the Mammalian Methane Mine, the Lady Gaea for the Flies, and the Maggot Matriarch under the Face of the Horsefly 3) the Castrating Cow, the Self-Hating Heifer, and the Belittled Bovine of Beleaguered Bulbousness under the Face of the Sea-Cow. In this way the Dominion of Dung infested Earth, Water and Air in rebellious theomachy against the Empress Isis, who is Mother Nature. Thus, fat girls are, in totality, the Stain of Satan on Earth: a foul grease which feeds the flames and can’t mix in the Water of Life.
Call of the Cow
I. The Insatiable Lust
Fat admirers fall so far outside the norm that some have a hard time understanding where they’re coming from. Who would willingly throw in their lot with a fat woman, an object of popular ridicule in our society? How does one choose a mate whom others associate with laziness and gluttony? What justifications must he tell himself, for directly supporting an unhealthy lifestyle? When did the specific subcategories of hogging and feederism emerge, and is there a reason fat attraction seems to manifest itself in such a crude manner?
It would be incorrect to assume that every fat-lover’s feelings began from self-flagellating inadequacy. Nevertheless, it is inevitable that such thoughts will affect the relationship on some level at some point in its duration. To fat-philes, perhaps a big belly really is just more soft flesh to play with, a cute extra face below the head: with wide-eyed mammaries and a navel agape with curiosity at the world. A big girl’s extra surface area ensures the eye is drawn to her among a crowd of superficial beauties, looking like a comfy blob one might sink right into. A malleable sack of fluff, her extra curves designed to ensconce his extremities, like the vagina to his penis. Some men genuinely find themselves attracted to the underdogs of the world, and feel the same love for chunkies as one might for a helpless stray puppy. Nevertheless, so strong is the social pressure to date slim that he will never fully convince others that his choice of mate was not borne out of desperation. For most men, the struggle for wealth is the price they pay to be worthy of their mate. For fat-admirers, it’s the price to buy the respect of other men to justify their choice of a low value mate.
Anyone who has ever dated a woman with an X or three before the L on her clothes knows the anxiety of introducing her to friends or family. He is acutely aware of the momentary shock and bemusement before their expressions recover to the expected pleasantness. He awaits with baited breath the comments like: “she’s kinda big is she?” and “are you sure she’s really right for you?” To most men, defending their woman from scorn is the greatest demonstration of strength. But to stand up for a porkbelly is like supporting the obesity epidemic, laziness and gluttony all in one. It is a no win situation, a sure fire way to look foolish and needy, an admission of misplaced priorities. For surely, there is no logic in loving an objectively unhealthy body. To love her for her curves is to encourage physical harm, and to acknowledge this contradiction is to admit your own love is a force for ill in the world. The weight of these thoughts is as significant as the burden on fatty’s knees and ankles.
The irrational pangs of lust were historically personified by the great demon, Asmodeus. This devil, itself free from the vulnerabilities associated with romantic attraction, likes to turn one of nature’s greatest joys into a source of discord for mankind. That is why he sees fit to curse certain men with a self-defeating attraction to the piggies, as Poseidon plagued Pasiphae with bestiality. The mischief of Asmodeus is complimented by the influence of Lucifer himself, who embodies pride. That’s because men are aware of the hit their reputations take when caught in public with a marshmallow on their arm. So, much of mens’ subsequent dysfunction is due to their efforts at reclaiming some form of honor despite their shameful fetish. This is why genuine fat admirers often avoid being seen with their loves, why feeders often treat their marks like toys, and why the practice of hogging came into existence. Men who like larger women are thus cursed to serve two irreconcilable masters: social standing and sensuality. The results are often messy and demeaning to all concerned.
II. The History of Buffalo-Hunting
Hogging, a practice where men compete to bed the fattest woman they can find, has its roots in the ancient religion of Mithraism. Mithras, who embodied manhood and strength similar to Hercules, is most well known for wrestling a bull to death. What’s less talked about is that he then went home and “wrestled” a cow between the sheets to celebrate. The exact reason he graced a meat-mound with his divine cock remain unknown to modern theologians. Maybe Mithras got bored and wished to try different body types after bedding countless nubile women, or it was another way of grappling with a fearsome beast larger than himself. Either way, adherents of Mithraism venerate their hero for creating this sport, and for providing every desperate man an excuse to break his dry spell on an easy mark. In ancient times, initiates into this mystery religion had to bring the horn of a bull and the panties of a heifer they’d conquered to be accepted into the fold. The men would marvel at the enormous waistlines of their trophies, contemplating the nature of a creature who has the delicate softness of a lady with the hulking frame of a monster. The ancients even had a name for these abominations–the Gynotaur (Woman-Bull).
In the Medieval empires of the orient, leisurely decadence and culinary spices led to the propagation of corpulent women. Portliness was celebrated as a sign that a girl was well-maintained and properly domesticated. It was this thinking which led Sultan Ibrahim of the Ottomans to send scouts across Turkey looking for the fattest woman they could find. They brought back a lady weighing 330 pounds, whom Ibrahim referred to as Şeker Pare (“sugar loaf”) and made Governor of Damascus. According to some sources, his obsession with the obese began upon close examination of a cow’s vagina. In China, a concubine named Yang Guifei was the favorite of the Emperor Xuanzong. He saw her bathing, her supple cheeks reddened and moist, and from then on was seduced into decadence by the rubenesque woman. It should be noted that both kings were ultimately driven to ruin at least in part because of their irrational taste in romance. As far as fat female rulers go, examples include Catherine the Great of Russia, Queens Victoria and Anne of Britain, and Queen Ati (or Itey) of Punt.
In the American Old West, attraction to heifers was much more discrete. The resident fat chick at a brothel would usually be kept outside in a back corner of the building, leashed to the trough with the other mares. This was done in case she desired feeding, but more importantly, it allowed men to get warmed up to impress the prettier prostitutes inside. This way, guys could get it up with a useless hog, in the shadows where no one would see, then come in looking well hung and finish in a worthier mate. There were no names exchanged in the process, just as no man would trouble himself chatting with the chattel around her. If the swine should dare speak, men were told to plunge their shafts deep into her feed-hole and make lip smacking sounds in mockery of her pig-squeals. If anyone ever mentioned her at all on the inside, it was always in terms of “just stick what you want in front of her fat maw and she’ll get the idea. She doesn’t need much goading to stuff things in there!” But more often than not, everyone was happy to keep quiet about their dalliances outdoors. To use the tubby girl was like using the toilet: everyone does it, everyone knows other people do it, but nobody wants to hear about it and to be caught on it is humiliating. Sometimes a mush-mound might peer through the window at the better people therein, before the brothel madam shoos her away. “We want our patrons to feel amorous, not nauseated!” she’d yell through the glass before closing the blinds. The chunkies who endured this mortifying existence were known as trough-tramps, or cow-girls until the latter term was re-contextualized by the Buffalo Bill show.
Nowadays, it is not uncommon for fraternities and military servicemen on base to make a night of “cow-tipping.” For some, it’s an excuse to couch their shameful fat fetishism in a friendly drinking game among the guys. For others, it’s an acceptable momentary loss of pride to practice their technique and build confidence for the beauties another day. And to others still, it’s a well-deserved role reversal; after continuously going above and beyond to impress women, they enjoy having a desperate one fawn over them for a change. (Even if she is a goblet of grease-flaps.) In the same way young men happily do stupid shit at college parties for the sake of a funny story, so too will they debase themselves with a chubby. The next day, everyone has a laugh at each other for the disgusting depths they were willing to sink to in order to get their dick wet. Everyone mocks the woman they were with, how pathetic she was, how she gave such an energetic blow job “knowing she may never get it again.” Of course, they all exaggerate the number of drinks it took them to go through with it. The exact details of this ritual vary from group to group: some take a picture of their fling asleep in bed after the fact, some have their buddies rush in on the act in progress with a camera, others keep the bra of their mark as proof. Any sympathy for the sow’s humiliation is tempered by memories of hot girls who had nuclear-rejected them, toyed with their hearts, or played hard-to-get. In the minds of its perpetrators, hogging is mens’ revenge on womankind by mocking its uglier members in the same way women are often cruel to awkward guys. And so the war of the sexes drags on…
Guys who actually enjoy the company of a hippo are what is called “fat admirers,” as previously established. Despite evidence to the contrary, some refuse to believe that such an aberration of normal standards could even exist. They dismiss all who date the differently circumferenced as desperate losers settling for the bottom rung of society. In at least some cases, they’re absolutely right. But there can be no doubt about the sincerity of feeders, a special breed of fat fetishists who get off to the idea of stuffing their partner until she gets bigger and bigger. While their genuine attraction to chubbies is indisputable, their motives for doing so are ambiguous. Is it an egalitarian embrace of all body types, regardless of social stigma…or a nefarious scheme to enact control over the insecure and physically immobile? Often it is the latter. A feeder encourages his food-slave to keep gobbling up every last over-rich cupcake in the pan, leering at the way her belly bulges with each bite. He gets off watching her struggle to perform everyday tasks, enjoying the way she grows more lethargic every day. He marvels at his distorted creation as she balloons up like the plerergate caste of honeypot ants. In extreme cases, his ultimate goal is to induce a learned helplessness in the piggie he owns. Every new pound means dating prospects diminish along with her confidence which, combined with her many previous bouts of degradation through the years, ensures she never tries to leave. Since the lard-lubber has long since dismissed any criticism of her weight as “fatphobic shitlord micro-aggressions,” she ignores the warnings of friends and family regarding the unhealthy relationship dynamic.
For a feeder seeking a mark, there is a quick way to attain one. Sows, like their four legged cousins, eat literal garbage to satiate their large appetite. Often restaurant employees will notice discarded food in the waste bin that mysteriously vanishes soon after a fattie has passed by. Or perhaps a slop-sack offers to pick up some food that’s fallen on the floor to “help out” but it never seems to appear in the trash. It’s an open secret what’s going on, but proving it involves catching a porker in the act, as she reaches her hand (or even her face) into the garbage. If a man should be lucky enough to witness this forbidden marvel of nature, he has a rare opportunity to tame a wild sow. His first instinct may be to blackmail the chubster by revealing her actions to others. This is folly, for fatties have no sense of interpersonal shame. Instead, he should simply proceed to empty out the cans into the outside dumpster and watch her grovel. She’ll plead with him: “Please sir, I haven’t finished yet! Just one more bite and I’ll do whatever you say!” This is the fastest known way to transfer ownership from the Mistress (her belly) to her new Master.
More commonly, the long con that feeders use to lure in their future slaves is flattery. After all, it’s something that tubby girls aren’t used to, so they will find themselves subconsciously unable to see the red flags. Where everyone else constantly harasses them with unasked-for diet tips, prods to go to the gym together or lectures about her health, the feeder provides encouragement to follow her path of least resistance. Instead of a side-eye when she gets a second rotisserie chicken at Boston Market, he asks if she wants more potatoes as well. With anyone else, a fat girl stuffing herself silly is an embarrassing spectacle, a visual indicator of moral decay in the first world. But with her new partner, she’s made to feel as though chowing down on an Arby’s combo meal is a great accomplishment. “Atta girl!” he shouts with salacious glee. “I bet you’ve saved room for dessert though, right?” And the long-maligned chunk-chick happily answers “Of course! You know I’ve got a lot of space in here to fill up!” He caresses her big rotund mountain of chum as though it were a precious jewel, where to anyone else the prospect of touching pig-flesh only induces retching. For many a fatty, it may well be the first time she’s heard anyone call her “beautiful” in forever. With every compliment, the feeder breaks down the natural defenses obese women have built up through the years of mockery. She begins to associate his presence with a comforting sensation previously reserved for food alone, and the desire to preserve this one positive bond is insatiable like her appetite. It is for this reason that she ignores every warning sign, from his discouragement of attempts to get healthier, to his lustful stares when she shoves another twinkie in her mouth. It is better to be looked upon with attraction rather than admonishment, so fatties endure the burden of binge eating for their mates. Both of their lives, through gluttony and lust, revolve around the veil calf’s ravenous hunger. She begins to feel imprisoned not just to her own lipids but also his libido as the last vestiges of dignity are stripped away.
The feeding continues until the butter-belly is immobile, where even she knows she must diet, but by then it’s too late. The infinite potential of a human being, with its sapient mind and dexterous appendages, is slowly reduced to a bed-bound flesh-heap whose sole function is to gorge for the sake of someone else’s pleasure. After he orgasms, the feeder leaves his pet alone in her tomb for hours at a time, unable to move due to the ravages of gravity, her purpose fulfilled. The master is free to purchase whatever food he wishes her to eat, and she must comply or go hungry until she relents to his will. He feeds her with a spoon as though she were a helpless baby, he hydrates her with soda through a funnel-hose as though she were plumbing equipment. Any complaints, any groveling for smaller portions or medical intervention, is met with his absence for hours if not days while she wallows in her own filth. When the feeder returns. he’ll ask: “Are you ready to be a good girl now, and eat your pig-slop?” To which she desperately answers “Yes, sir. Sorry I was so insolent earlier.” Her master smiles and says “That’s okay, Sooey. Just as long as you remember your place from now on,” and shovels it in the feed-hole before she might reply. “You sure are lucky to have me, you know,” he continues “it’s not like anyone else would tolerate changing your dirty diapers.” Between chews and swallows, the fatted calf chokes out a reply: “You’re right sir. I am nothing without you. Thanks for putting up with my dirty, sweaty body. I know nobody else would ever do it.” The feeder’s laughter fills the room, so loud he doesn’t even notice her sobs. This is a fatty’s final form, a whale out of water, an insult to the human figure that was created in God’s own image. She is helpless to choose her own destiny anymore, which is only fair considering the series of unfortunate decisions she made to get to this point, and would no doubt continue to make if given freedom again.
IV. Goddesses of Glucose
One might ask how a man could become so vile as to perpetuate harm onto the woman he claims to love. But remember this is a demonically inspired lust, born from the many gnawing influences at work in his mind. He hates the fact that a person on the bottom rung of the social ladder, helpless against her own base instincts, can have so much power over him that he would sacrifice his reputation. He then takes it out on the very source of his inner turmoil, controlling her as he cannot control himself. As he hates himself who wants to be respected, so too does his prey hate herself yet wish to be loved. They cannot escape the negative effects of their own existence, just as Morgoth instilled his strife irrevocably into the very fabric of the world. In this way, the efforts of Asmodeus and Lucifer drive the loins against the mind, and a house divided cannot stand. It is here, in the hearts of man–the holy of holies within the temple of the body–that the devil waged war with God.
One future feeder might have gotten his start by witnessing a particularly large belly dancer at work. A man transfixed by woman’s bouncing bovine bosom and protruding bottom, the simplest of pleasures in an era overburdened by artificial encumbrances. For a moment there were no taxes, no social obligations, no parking spaces to hunt for, nothing but the sensual curves of a woman. And yet, he walks away from the show feeling slighted nevertheless. He is jealous of the simple way in which women are allowed to earn their keep in life, by just looking pretty, while he must struggle with confidence, success and standing. He ruefully contemplates how even the ladies that let themselves go, who defy traditional expectations of beauty, still attract men. The injustice of it all drives him to a semi-lustful, semi-resentful obsession with sows. Fat women receiving placation, let alone romantic propositions, are the ultimate example of the imbalance between men and women on the dating market. His feederism is his revenge against a broken system that’s partially the result of natural urge and modern comfort.
Another prospective fat-lover may have gotten his start when his “buddies,” made fun of him for his girlfriend’s size. What should have been such an empowering milestone was mired by unwanted criticisms, ribbing, and doubts of his ability to get a “better” lay. He came to associate his infatuation, and perhaps the concept of romance itself, with shame, self-loathing and diminishment. What was once a simple body preference now morphs into a fetishistic desire to be humiliated by his girlfriend, and to humiliate her in turn. Perhaps he gets off having her squeeze into narrow booths or sit on wobbly chairs so all may see her embarrassment. He projects his masochistic feelings of inadequacy onto his girlfriend, getting off to the way others look down on her, wanting to join them and remind her that she is still below even himself. The woman’s identity is buried, like her frame, behind the impenetrable wall of adipose tissue he obsesses over. All that remains is the object of his fetish, the source of all his joy and shame combined.
Then, of course, there are those who just want a target to act their domination fantasies upon. It just so happens that fatties, whose self-esteem has been worn to the nub by the rest of society’s well-advertised beauty standards, are the easiest mark among women. Combined with the obesity epidemic they also constitute a wide net to select victims from. This variation of predator has no mitigating attraction for stout body types, in fact they feel nothing but contempt for their prey. They even justify their goal of total submission using appeals to our baser animal instincts. A feeder of this breed might point out the way his tubby prisoner ravishes a cheesesteak as though she were a wild animal gobbling down a small rodent before it could get away. The speed of her consumption, the greediness of her endless feasts, the primitive moans and breaths as she shovels it down her gullet…it’s absolutely beastly. Why not, he reasons, treat such a creature with the same forceful domestication as we do livestock? Whatever his justifications, this man feels even less shame than a piggy stuffing down a whole Chinese buffet in public. Ultimately, people of all sizes are sick sad sinners and to observe their behavior is to lose belief in any kind of objective morality…but these are the worst of the worst.
Welcome back, Cassandra. No need to apologize for shortcomings. That’s just life intervening, the way it does. Good to see you posting again! Plenty of food for thought here (no pun intended). 😉
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Well written, very complete essay on everything related to Fat erotica. We have talked about this quite a bit, but it is nice to see you again writing about your thoughts. I enjoy your fine use of language to express your views. I do not share your interest in fat people , except for my interest in and admiration of you. Glad to see your writing again!
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Was it terribly uncomfortable to write this? Beyond the catharsis of getting it off your chest so it can stop burning your pineal gland – I would imagine. I would peradventure so, given how arbitrary and fickle is the hermeneutic of physical esteem for women. And now snarky and blasé society is with neurodivergence.
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Yes and no. I’ve always struggled with my weight. My parents overfed me early (2 or 3 helpings of dinner and sometimes seconds on dessert) and then both they and kids at school made fun of me for my size growing up. Then in college and for years afterward I slimmed down and kept it off, feeling validation in doing so. I gained a lot back just before and during the pandemic, which inspired me to finally write down all my thoughts, fears and fantasies about it.
I genuinely think the female form looks beautiful both skinny, fat and in-between. But I’m aware of the shame and levels of plausible deniability (ie hogging) that can go into pursuing larger women. And as someone who’s into BDSM and humiliation, that added veneer of embarrassment that comes from being (seen with) a fat woman appeals to me as well.
It was a great feeling of relief to explore these thoughts in writing. I find that’s the case for me with all other topics as well, even controversial issues which I have a lived perspective to offer. I was initially worried about what people might think of me for this and a few other posts, but then I remembered life’s too short and being “safe” doesn’t attract attention or move the needle
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I think I understand. Nothing to be gained beating around the bush. I like fat women. Always have. It’s something I’ve made an at times awkward peace with, having undergone an convoluted morality check, having to convince myself I’m not a monster. (I was mocked roundly as a child.) I was helped somewhat by undergoing an objectively redundant quest to appreciate the Gravettian Venuses and understand their mysteries, which I believe informs prehistoric paganism and echoes in surprising ways even today. This gives me religious validation and confirms my outstanding preferences, yes, but nobody can say my dumb ass invented the Venus of Willendorf. Do, science I guess. I find BDSM fascinating, but as an outsider. I take no pleasure in humiliation, either in giving or getting. Personally. I don’t care what adults with informed consent do, unless it alters some kind of scale to natural law, or biological destiny. I definitely understand the fear of judgement, in a different way probably. Anyway. Autism over. 😉
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Sorry to necro. I’m linking this. I didn’t write it. But it’s a sweet and tender ode and lays out how I feel better than I can, and I’ve tried.
I lied. The autism is never over, it’s terminal. I promise I won’t spam you often, as it’s more than likely a lowbrow thing to do and; like asking clients for money, makes me feel dirty; but whatever. As you say say- life’s too short. But here’s this, since I’ve already yeeted myself down ye olde rabbit-hole.
Like with my phone carrier service, text STOP if my inane prattle becomes too much.