"OK Tanya, I'll see you tonight at 5:30. You've got the clicker on your right arm roll, and your NetGloves should be all logged in to your favorite accounts. I left three gallons of pot roast, gravy, and potatoes in the entree tube, a gallon of pureed peaches in the fruit tube, and a gallon and a half of blueberry cheesecake for you in the desert tube, and your drink tubes should be stocked. I just changed the kegs yesterday." As she did every morning, Tasha climbed onto the arm of the couch, laid out across me, and swept aside the tubes to plant a wet smackeroo on my mouth.
"Love you sweetie."
"I love you too. Have a great day. Don't miss me too much, k?"
"I won't. Thanks for hooking me up."
"No problem. Hey I GOTTA go--I just saw the clock, and I need to be at work for at 8:45 am client."
"Ok love you."
And with that she went out the door and I was alone in the house.
When we first met, I was actually one of her clients. I went to see her about my overwhelming guilt about food. See I had grown up in a family where we were to never sneak food and my parents were very frugal, even at dinner time. By the time I was in college and on my own, I found that I could eat whenever I wanted, and I kind of did. But as it began to take its inevitable effects on my body--for me the freshman fifteen was actually a freshman 50. I'd ballooned up to 175 by the end of the year. My breasts had ballooned as well, from a 32B to 36D, and I had gone from wearing a size 4 to size 12. That was when I started to see Tasha, because I was just feeling worthless.
I remember my first time sitting in the psychologist's lounger, looking down at my fat thighs stuffed into my only pair of Dockers that still fit.
She was Dr. Fiala to me then. She began, "I want you to know you're safe here. Whatever you tell me in this room is for you and me to work out together, and as your counselor, I will keep your strict confidence. Now tell me, why are you sitting in that chair? Why did you decide to come here?"
I just sat there for a few minutes in silence. Then the words just flowed between the tears. "I feel guilty whenever I eat. I feel terrible. Like I'm a terrible person," I sobbed.
"Now let's think about that. Everybody needs food to live. Guilt usually means you're doing something wrong. I wonder where you got the idea that eating could be wrong."
"My parents were strict, especially my mother. She wouldn't let us eat ever between meals. Even as children, if we did, we got spanked. So we never did. And at the dinner table, the portions were small and exact. At school, I would eat what extra I could, but my mother always made disapproving remarks if she ever noticed even a hint of pudge on me. By the time I graduated high school, I was up to 125 pounds, and I hated myself."
"And your chart says here you are 5' 6"? I don't have the chart in front of me, but something tells me your BMI was on the low side of normal. But now you've apparently put on weight."
"Yes, this last year I've had the freedom to eat in the dormitory buffet, as much as I want, but I've hated it. Yesterday, I was 175."
"Well, that's a lot to gain in under a year. The BMI scales would say you're overweight, but still a far cry from being fat, by today's American standards."
"I'm not fat?"
"No, you're not fat. And I see quite clearly that you're NOT happy. Tell me if I've got this right. Every time you eat, you beat yourself up. And you eat frequently. You do this because in the past, you were not able to eat as much as your body naturally craved. Is that it?"
Of course she understood. She was a psychologist. "Kind of. I mean, my parents weren't that bad, really. But I do beat myself up, and not only when I eat, but also whenever I notice my body, or when I notice anybody seeing me."
"Do you think you deserve to feel miserable like this, ALL the time? Or ANY time, for that matter?"
"I guess not."
"And I do think that it's quite possible your parents were not that good to you. Perhaps they even were bad. I've met many people in this office who came to realize that they gave their parents carte blanche of forgiveness, but that it didn't serve them. We'll see if your case is different. For now, I want you to come back in a month's time. I want you to treat yourself with respect. You deserve to feel good about yourself, and I want you to reflect on that." I left the office feeling like a burden had been lifted.
For the next week, I ate as usual, and each time the guilt came, I began to see it as an extension of my mother's control over me, and I began to have questions. At the same time, I felt a rift forming on my side of the relationship, and didn't know whether Mother and I would see each other in the same way again. Perhaps this was what becoming an adult was about.
I ended up seeing her only two more times. On my second visit to her, she said something that made a profound change for me.
"You have told me now at every session, more than one time each session, that whenever you swallow food, you feel like a failure. That whenever you notice this body you call "fat" you feel like a failure. Somebody planted that logic in you at some point, and I think it may have been your mother. I want you to unlearn it directly. I want you to pull up your shirt for me, and look at your abdomen. Actually, I want you to pull up your shirt for yourself. Now you told me that in the last month, you've gained 15 pounds. Look at your belly. At 190 pounds, you are what the medical industry calls 'Obese.' That's a horrible term, and doesn't tell much because it describes most Americans, but it does tell me that you're on your way to being fat. I want you to look at your abdomen, then tell me what you see, and tell me what you feel."
With her watching me, I looked down, and saw that it was actually soft and the belt of my jeans cut into it a bit. "I see fat. I feel fat."
"Yes there is definitely fat there. But the last time I checked, 'fat' is not a feeling. How do you feel? Does seeing your fat belly make you angry? Sad? Afraid?"
After a few moments though, I replied, "Yes. All three I think."
"I want to know what makes you mad."
"That my mother did this to me. Not that she made me fat. But that she made me have so much of a complex about it. That she doesn't even know what she's done, but that I live with her in my head every day."
"Is she paying rent there? I invite you to kick her out." I laughed in response. "Now tell me what makes you sad about seeing the fat on your belly."
"That I've been letting myself live in this state of despair. For my friends, it's different. Actually, I just realized that because of this guilt, I don't have many friends, and that makes me sad too. And mad."
"That's quite a loss, for the last however long, your enjoyment of life has been next to nil, it sounds like. Tell me about your other feeling--what are you afraid of, then?"
"I guess I've been afraid of what my mother would think. And I've been afraid of what the world will think."
"Well there are millions of other women out there who are bigger than you. Some of them are really afraid of what others think of them, and let OTHERS control them by seeking validation. But some of them don't. They self-validate. Now look at your abdomen again. Tell me who can tell you what to think about it? Can just anyone? What if your mother were a stranger--would you let a stranger hold sway over what you thought of yourself, over your own enjoyment of life?"
I realized that since pulling up my shirt, I was still holding my belly, almost cradling it in my hands. And for the first time, I wasn't self-conscious. "No. I probably wouldn't."
"People are seeing you now. They're seeing this body of yours as it is. What do they tell you?"
"They don't really say much of anything, I guess. But they look at me."
"Oh, they look at you. What are you afraid that they might be thinking?"
"That I'm a whale. That I should cover up more."
"You're wearing long pants and a long-sleeve shirt, and it's over 70 degrees outside. How would you cover up more? No, actually that's not the point. That's what you think they're thinking. For all you know, they are looking at you because they LIKE what they see. Has that thought crossed your mind?"
"No, and it might take some time to digest that."
"Here's your homework assignment for this next month. In order to unlearn your old attitude, I want you to develop a new one. Are you ready to do that?"
"I am trusting you."
"Okay, all those times in the past when you've felt like a failure, I want you to renegotiate your attitude. Look down again at your abdomen." My shirt was still pulled up, and I was now resting my hands on it gently, with the fingers folded together. "When you see yourself as fat, I want you to see success."
I was shocked!
"Cultures across time, it is the royalty who have grown fat. It is a sign of abundance. And it IS a sign of success. The people who put that notion of failure into your head only wanted to control you. And in the process, all the joy has been taken from your life. And as a corollary, I want you to see that each time you swallow, it is not failure. Again, it is a sign of success. In caveman times, and in times of famine, to introduce food into one's mouth and swallow it down was a cause for celebration. That you live in a dormitory with a buffet could be a celebration, but you are not living into that. You do what you do and have no joy. How would seeing what you've been doing as a sign of success change your life?"
Later, Tasha told me that was the first time she'd seen me smile. "I would be free to love myself. And free to be myself."
"Now, go. Make another appointment with Valerie at the front desk and see me in a month."
Over the next month, I began to transform. I ate as I wished, and as I swallowed each bite, I began to feel self-confidence and even satisfaction. A few times, I even gave in to gluttony, and devoured platefuls, enjoying the newfound sense of bliss. By the time I returned in June, I had gained another 20 pounds. I had bought new size 18 clothes, and felt comfortable in them, but not drowning, and Dr. Fiala commented immediately that it looked like my attitude correction had been good for me. I said it had, but that it was "improving" my waistline and everything else.
"I thought the change might help you to be more comfortable, and we'll see how long it takes to level off," She said.
"I don't honestly know. Since I crested 200 pounds a couple weeks ago, I've come to realize that I am definitely fat, and have been coming to terms with it. Perhaps I am a natural fattie, and Arlene just squelched it all these years. I could definitely see gaining a few more pounds, and at the rate I've been growing, I don't see it happening otherwise."
For the first time, I noticed Dr. Fiala become a little red in the face. "That's interesting," she said. "I didn't expect that to be honest."
"Well, " I pulled my shirt up again, this time the fatness was undeniable as my belly hung down as a qualifiable muffintop, rolling onto my beltline. "Well, a lot has changed as a result of this attitude switch. Not only am I fatter, but I've begun dating. Kind of. I have my first date coming up this Friday evening. With a girl." I noticed her eyes had widened a little when I pulled my shirt up, and her face got even redder when I mentioned the date.
I didn't think much of it other than that she was having a tough time with the awkwardness of the subject matter. But as our visit came to a close, she said it seemed like our work together on the food issues was done. She recommended that if I wanted a general counselor, I could talk to Valerie, or call the office to get referrals. I was a bit surprised, but too grateful really for the changes to be upset.
Not two months later, I received a phone call from her. "Hello Tanya? I know this may be a little irregular, but I'm calling to find out how you're doing since our last visit."
"Well, pretty good really. I guess you could say I've really come out of my shell. I'm okay with my body, even though its grown to 260 pounds since our last visit. That date I told you about didn't go very well, but I'm feeling more self-esteem and trying, unsuccessfully so far, to meet somebody who gets me."
With a bluntness that I later came to realize I would identify as one of her trademarks, she just came right out and said it. "Would you like to get together for coffee sometime? I know that it may not be so professional to ask that, but I just wanted you to know."
I could hear the tension and worry in her voice, and found it sweet. And at the same time, felt a surge of "WOW!" go through me. Here was this professional woman ten years older than me, pixie-thin, who knew me as well as anybody, and found me desirable enough to want to go out on a date? The sense of adventure in me brought my reply. "I would be honored. How about Saturday breakfast at Sabrina's?"
We've since been together for 12 years. Needless to say, my weight never did "level off." At first, the thrill of "succeeding" carried over into our sex life, and I began to see the simple act of eating as sexual. By the time we'd been together a year, I was almost four hundred pounds. I still miss the sex from that period. She wore the strap on, and would rub her hands desperately all over my adipose body as she banged me from the front, from behind, or the side, all the while I was eating and the fat all over my body quavering.
Eventually, the specter of immobility reared it's head. We talked seriously about it, but I didn't want to stop. I gained three hundred pounds our second year together, and by the middle of our third year, I was grounded. We made the necessary changes to our home and our lifestyle. Instead of going out, we had friends come to visit (and they always brought potluck, knowing that was their ticket in the door). We changed the plumbing so I never had to get up, and got assistance every other day to help me wash and change my position, which was the only time we could have sex. I recall laying on my front, with a mattress of fat spread out all around underneath me, and with my legs spread as far as they would go, she would climb on top of me and enter me from behind. With each thrust, my whole body swayed forward and backward across the thick layer of fat on the floor. Even then, I was eating. With my hands going from the bag of marshmallows to my face, and with Tasha shouting "Success!" with every thrust, the orgasms would begin to come, harder and harder until my body would shudder.
Now, no longer can we even do that. I sit on this custom made steel industrial strength bed, with a vinyl tarpaulin for my sheet, and running water from a hose between the heavy rolls of fat, and massaging oils onto body parts almost unidentifiable so cushioned with fat. I sit with my feet spread as far apart as they can go, and still my beanbag chair thighs touch far past my knees.
Now, looking through my NetSpex out at the room before me, I see mostly me, and the suburban street view out our living room picture window. First, I see my cheeks, occluding my lower view. Then behind the food and drink tubes within reach of my mouth, between my cheeks, I see my chins piling up and my uncovered breasts and belly beyond that. My belly covers my thighs almost completely, and I only feel their boundaries when they're being washed. My belly leads to my flanks, which are now over four feet wide. My arms I can see when I turn my head. The upper arms are like beanbags unto themselves, filling all of the untaken space from my flanks and my breasts. They flow past the elbows, making my lower arms half hidden from view, but if I lift them, I can see my hands. For years now, I've been unable to lift my upper arms, or really move any part of my body, except for the limited mobility of my lower arms and my head. With another thousand pounds, I imagine I will be unable to move anything, as my head is beginning to be wedged between the rolls of fat on my neck, my shoulders, and my chin, and my lower arms are becoming sufficiently voluminous and cumbersome that I rarely even move them. Besides, I can control most things with the flick of a finger on my NetGloves anyway, so being able to reach the remote nearby is only a convenience.
As I activate the vibrator attached to my vulva, buried deep beneath feet of fat, I begin to swallow down as I suck on the mashed potato tube with gallons to go, I look at the digital readout on the wall--2650 pounds, I calculate my BMI at 427--I look down at my the top of an arcing belly that flows through my feet to the end of the bed, which I can no longer even reach with my hands for all the fat that impedes me. Buried in a body that now anybody would call most definitely fat, as the waves of elation start to arrive, I moan to myself, "Success!"
"Love you sweetie."
"I love you too. Have a great day. Don't miss me too much, k?"
"I won't. Thanks for hooking me up."
"No problem. Hey I GOTTA go--I just saw the clock, and I need to be at work for at 8:45 am client."
"Ok love you."
And with that she went out the door and I was alone in the house.
When we first met, I was actually one of her clients. I went to see her about my overwhelming guilt about food. See I had grown up in a family where we were to never sneak food and my parents were very frugal, even at dinner time. By the time I was in college and on my own, I found that I could eat whenever I wanted, and I kind of did. But as it began to take its inevitable effects on my body--for me the freshman fifteen was actually a freshman 50. I'd ballooned up to 175 by the end of the year. My breasts had ballooned as well, from a 32B to 36D, and I had gone from wearing a size 4 to size 12. That was when I started to see Tasha, because I was just feeling worthless.
I remember my first time sitting in the psychologist's lounger, looking down at my fat thighs stuffed into my only pair of Dockers that still fit.
She was Dr. Fiala to me then. She began, "I want you to know you're safe here. Whatever you tell me in this room is for you and me to work out together, and as your counselor, I will keep your strict confidence. Now tell me, why are you sitting in that chair? Why did you decide to come here?"
I just sat there for a few minutes in silence. Then the words just flowed between the tears. "I feel guilty whenever I eat. I feel terrible. Like I'm a terrible person," I sobbed.
"Now let's think about that. Everybody needs food to live. Guilt usually means you're doing something wrong. I wonder where you got the idea that eating could be wrong."
"My parents were strict, especially my mother. She wouldn't let us eat ever between meals. Even as children, if we did, we got spanked. So we never did. And at the dinner table, the portions were small and exact. At school, I would eat what extra I could, but my mother always made disapproving remarks if she ever noticed even a hint of pudge on me. By the time I graduated high school, I was up to 125 pounds, and I hated myself."
"And your chart says here you are 5' 6"? I don't have the chart in front of me, but something tells me your BMI was on the low side of normal. But now you've apparently put on weight."
"Yes, this last year I've had the freedom to eat in the dormitory buffet, as much as I want, but I've hated it. Yesterday, I was 175."
"Well, that's a lot to gain in under a year. The BMI scales would say you're overweight, but still a far cry from being fat, by today's American standards."
"I'm not fat?"
"No, you're not fat. And I see quite clearly that you're NOT happy. Tell me if I've got this right. Every time you eat, you beat yourself up. And you eat frequently. You do this because in the past, you were not able to eat as much as your body naturally craved. Is that it?"
Of course she understood. She was a psychologist. "Kind of. I mean, my parents weren't that bad, really. But I do beat myself up, and not only when I eat, but also whenever I notice my body, or when I notice anybody seeing me."
"Do you think you deserve to feel miserable like this, ALL the time? Or ANY time, for that matter?"
"I guess not."
"And I do think that it's quite possible your parents were not that good to you. Perhaps they even were bad. I've met many people in this office who came to realize that they gave their parents carte blanche of forgiveness, but that it didn't serve them. We'll see if your case is different. For now, I want you to come back in a month's time. I want you to treat yourself with respect. You deserve to feel good about yourself, and I want you to reflect on that." I left the office feeling like a burden had been lifted.
For the next week, I ate as usual, and each time the guilt came, I began to see it as an extension of my mother's control over me, and I began to have questions. At the same time, I felt a rift forming on my side of the relationship, and didn't know whether Mother and I would see each other in the same way again. Perhaps this was what becoming an adult was about.
I ended up seeing her only two more times. On my second visit to her, she said something that made a profound change for me.
"You have told me now at every session, more than one time each session, that whenever you swallow food, you feel like a failure. That whenever you notice this body you call "fat" you feel like a failure. Somebody planted that logic in you at some point, and I think it may have been your mother. I want you to unlearn it directly. I want you to pull up your shirt for me, and look at your abdomen. Actually, I want you to pull up your shirt for yourself. Now you told me that in the last month, you've gained 15 pounds. Look at your belly. At 190 pounds, you are what the medical industry calls 'Obese.' That's a horrible term, and doesn't tell much because it describes most Americans, but it does tell me that you're on your way to being fat. I want you to look at your abdomen, then tell me what you see, and tell me what you feel."
With her watching me, I looked down, and saw that it was actually soft and the belt of my jeans cut into it a bit. "I see fat. I feel fat."
"Yes there is definitely fat there. But the last time I checked, 'fat' is not a feeling. How do you feel? Does seeing your fat belly make you angry? Sad? Afraid?"
After a few moments though, I replied, "Yes. All three I think."
"I want to know what makes you mad."
"That my mother did this to me. Not that she made me fat. But that she made me have so much of a complex about it. That she doesn't even know what she's done, but that I live with her in my head every day."
"Is she paying rent there? I invite you to kick her out." I laughed in response. "Now tell me what makes you sad about seeing the fat on your belly."
"That I've been letting myself live in this state of despair. For my friends, it's different. Actually, I just realized that because of this guilt, I don't have many friends, and that makes me sad too. And mad."
"That's quite a loss, for the last however long, your enjoyment of life has been next to nil, it sounds like. Tell me about your other feeling--what are you afraid of, then?"
"I guess I've been afraid of what my mother would think. And I've been afraid of what the world will think."
"Well there are millions of other women out there who are bigger than you. Some of them are really afraid of what others think of them, and let OTHERS control them by seeking validation. But some of them don't. They self-validate. Now look at your abdomen again. Tell me who can tell you what to think about it? Can just anyone? What if your mother were a stranger--would you let a stranger hold sway over what you thought of yourself, over your own enjoyment of life?"
I realized that since pulling up my shirt, I was still holding my belly, almost cradling it in my hands. And for the first time, I wasn't self-conscious. "No. I probably wouldn't."
"People are seeing you now. They're seeing this body of yours as it is. What do they tell you?"
"They don't really say much of anything, I guess. But they look at me."
"Oh, they look at you. What are you afraid that they might be thinking?"
"That I'm a whale. That I should cover up more."
"You're wearing long pants and a long-sleeve shirt, and it's over 70 degrees outside. How would you cover up more? No, actually that's not the point. That's what you think they're thinking. For all you know, they are looking at you because they LIKE what they see. Has that thought crossed your mind?"
"No, and it might take some time to digest that."
"Here's your homework assignment for this next month. In order to unlearn your old attitude, I want you to develop a new one. Are you ready to do that?"
"I am trusting you."
"Okay, all those times in the past when you've felt like a failure, I want you to renegotiate your attitude. Look down again at your abdomen." My shirt was still pulled up, and I was now resting my hands on it gently, with the fingers folded together. "When you see yourself as fat, I want you to see success."
I was shocked!
"Cultures across time, it is the royalty who have grown fat. It is a sign of abundance. And it IS a sign of success. The people who put that notion of failure into your head only wanted to control you. And in the process, all the joy has been taken from your life. And as a corollary, I want you to see that each time you swallow, it is not failure. Again, it is a sign of success. In caveman times, and in times of famine, to introduce food into one's mouth and swallow it down was a cause for celebration. That you live in a dormitory with a buffet could be a celebration, but you are not living into that. You do what you do and have no joy. How would seeing what you've been doing as a sign of success change your life?"
Later, Tasha told me that was the first time she'd seen me smile. "I would be free to love myself. And free to be myself."
"Now, go. Make another appointment with Valerie at the front desk and see me in a month."
Over the next month, I began to transform. I ate as I wished, and as I swallowed each bite, I began to feel self-confidence and even satisfaction. A few times, I even gave in to gluttony, and devoured platefuls, enjoying the newfound sense of bliss. By the time I returned in June, I had gained another 20 pounds. I had bought new size 18 clothes, and felt comfortable in them, but not drowning, and Dr. Fiala commented immediately that it looked like my attitude correction had been good for me. I said it had, but that it was "improving" my waistline and everything else.
"I thought the change might help you to be more comfortable, and we'll see how long it takes to level off," She said.
"I don't honestly know. Since I crested 200 pounds a couple weeks ago, I've come to realize that I am definitely fat, and have been coming to terms with it. Perhaps I am a natural fattie, and Arlene just squelched it all these years. I could definitely see gaining a few more pounds, and at the rate I've been growing, I don't see it happening otherwise."
For the first time, I noticed Dr. Fiala become a little red in the face. "That's interesting," she said. "I didn't expect that to be honest."
"Well, " I pulled my shirt up again, this time the fatness was undeniable as my belly hung down as a qualifiable muffintop, rolling onto my beltline. "Well, a lot has changed as a result of this attitude switch. Not only am I fatter, but I've begun dating. Kind of. I have my first date coming up this Friday evening. With a girl." I noticed her eyes had widened a little when I pulled my shirt up, and her face got even redder when I mentioned the date.
I didn't think much of it other than that she was having a tough time with the awkwardness of the subject matter. But as our visit came to a close, she said it seemed like our work together on the food issues was done. She recommended that if I wanted a general counselor, I could talk to Valerie, or call the office to get referrals. I was a bit surprised, but too grateful really for the changes to be upset.
Not two months later, I received a phone call from her. "Hello Tanya? I know this may be a little irregular, but I'm calling to find out how you're doing since our last visit."
"Well, pretty good really. I guess you could say I've really come out of my shell. I'm okay with my body, even though its grown to 260 pounds since our last visit. That date I told you about didn't go very well, but I'm feeling more self-esteem and trying, unsuccessfully so far, to meet somebody who gets me."
With a bluntness that I later came to realize I would identify as one of her trademarks, she just came right out and said it. "Would you like to get together for coffee sometime? I know that it may not be so professional to ask that, but I just wanted you to know."
I could hear the tension and worry in her voice, and found it sweet. And at the same time, felt a surge of "WOW!" go through me. Here was this professional woman ten years older than me, pixie-thin, who knew me as well as anybody, and found me desirable enough to want to go out on a date? The sense of adventure in me brought my reply. "I would be honored. How about Saturday breakfast at Sabrina's?"
We've since been together for 12 years. Needless to say, my weight never did "level off." At first, the thrill of "succeeding" carried over into our sex life, and I began to see the simple act of eating as sexual. By the time we'd been together a year, I was almost four hundred pounds. I still miss the sex from that period. She wore the strap on, and would rub her hands desperately all over my adipose body as she banged me from the front, from behind, or the side, all the while I was eating and the fat all over my body quavering.
Eventually, the specter of immobility reared it's head. We talked seriously about it, but I didn't want to stop. I gained three hundred pounds our second year together, and by the middle of our third year, I was grounded. We made the necessary changes to our home and our lifestyle. Instead of going out, we had friends come to visit (and they always brought potluck, knowing that was their ticket in the door). We changed the plumbing so I never had to get up, and got assistance every other day to help me wash and change my position, which was the only time we could have sex. I recall laying on my front, with a mattress of fat spread out all around underneath me, and with my legs spread as far as they would go, she would climb on top of me and enter me from behind. With each thrust, my whole body swayed forward and backward across the thick layer of fat on the floor. Even then, I was eating. With my hands going from the bag of marshmallows to my face, and with Tasha shouting "Success!" with every thrust, the orgasms would begin to come, harder and harder until my body would shudder.
Now, no longer can we even do that. I sit on this custom made steel industrial strength bed, with a vinyl tarpaulin for my sheet, and running water from a hose between the heavy rolls of fat, and massaging oils onto body parts almost unidentifiable so cushioned with fat. I sit with my feet spread as far apart as they can go, and still my beanbag chair thighs touch far past my knees.
Now, looking through my NetSpex out at the room before me, I see mostly me, and the suburban street view out our living room picture window. First, I see my cheeks, occluding my lower view. Then behind the food and drink tubes within reach of my mouth, between my cheeks, I see my chins piling up and my uncovered breasts and belly beyond that. My belly covers my thighs almost completely, and I only feel their boundaries when they're being washed. My belly leads to my flanks, which are now over four feet wide. My arms I can see when I turn my head. The upper arms are like beanbags unto themselves, filling all of the untaken space from my flanks and my breasts. They flow past the elbows, making my lower arms half hidden from view, but if I lift them, I can see my hands. For years now, I've been unable to lift my upper arms, or really move any part of my body, except for the limited mobility of my lower arms and my head. With another thousand pounds, I imagine I will be unable to move anything, as my head is beginning to be wedged between the rolls of fat on my neck, my shoulders, and my chin, and my lower arms are becoming sufficiently voluminous and cumbersome that I rarely even move them. Besides, I can control most things with the flick of a finger on my NetGloves anyway, so being able to reach the remote nearby is only a convenience.
As I activate the vibrator attached to my vulva, buried deep beneath feet of fat, I begin to swallow down as I suck on the mashed potato tube with gallons to go, I look at the digital readout on the wall--2650 pounds, I calculate my BMI at 427--I look down at my the top of an arcing belly that flows through my feet to the end of the bed, which I can no longer even reach with my hands for all the fat that impedes me. Buried in a body that now anybody would call most definitely fat, as the waves of elation start to arrive, I moan to myself, "Success!"
