My last boyfriend was a feeder. He love-bombed the shit out of me with my favorite chocolate truffles for months before my therapist pointed out what might be going on.
True enough, when I started losing weight, he left me for a bigger girl.
Tate’s mouth hangs open, eyes wide. “What?”
“Do you have a fat fetish?” It’s a simple enough question. At least, I think it is. I’m not sure which part is tripping him up. Maybe it’s the fact I came straight out and asked it.
“We haven’t had a date yet, and you’re asking about my kinks. Awfully presumptuous of you, wouldn’t you say, Pitstop?”
When I stay silent, he shakes his head. “No.” He sighs. “And I’m kinda pissed at my whole fucking gender that you even have to ask that.”
I like his answer. “Are you a feeder?”
He tips his head. “I will feed you if you’d like. But I don’t think that’s what you mean.”
“Feeders enjoy the fantasy of helping someone else gain weight.” I purse my lips.
“If you want to gain weight, gain weight. If you don’t, don’t. It’s none of my business either way.”
My heart flutters like the delicate wings of a hummingbird. I like that answer, too.
“But no, I don’t feed people to help them gain weight.” He looks at my mouth again, like he’s contemplating a third attempt but is afraid of, well, probably me by this stage.
“You’re not going to steal my underwear and sell it on the internet?”
He erupts into laughter, stalling out when he sees my face. “Wait. That’s a real thing? Someone did that to you?” He searches my face as all traces of humor fade from his features. “Who the fuck did that to you? I’ll kill him.”
The fire that lights up in Tate’s eyes escapes his body and skips across my skin. I’m definitely not telling him the ‘who,’ but the ex before my most recent ex was a doozy.
I have a habit of choosing terrible men. Maybe it’s something I put out into the atmosphere? I don’t pick that emotional scab too much because I know where it leads. My greatest nemeses, vulnerability and insecurity that I have no time to indulge, simmer deep below the surface.
My therapist says sometimes I hide behind my fatness as a protective shield, armor, pointing it out to people before they get a chance, like it might be the elephant in the room somehow no one’s noticed.
It’s something I’m working on. Didn’t help that my last boyfriend, Richard ran away with my former best friend leaving me with a bit of a chip on my shoulder.
Actually, if he ran away with her, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I see them everywhere I fucking go since they’re both at school here too.
The silk-voiced stranger hums. “This is a lot of questions to grant me one kiss, Penelope.”
I’m not sure I like when he uses my real name. I wasn’t sure when he started calling me Pitstop, either, but now it’s already kinda stuck.
What can I say? I’m an enigma.
“I need answers before I let you fall in love with me.” I study his face as he processes the words.
“Wait.” He points at himself. “I’m... falling in love with you?”
I nod.
“You seem awfully sure of yourself.”
Another nod. “And I need to make sure you’re not going to try to make me fatter, or skinnier, or sell my underwear, or take pictures of my fat rolls while I sleep, or any other fat-kink-adjacent shit I have absolutely no time for.”
The corner of his mouth tugs upwards as the twitch of a smile threatens to spread across his face. “Before I fall in love with you?”
I shrug with a tilt of my head that makes the giant-ass taco wobble. “Happens every time.” And every time I end up with a broken heart, but I don’t say the quiet bit out loud. At least not this time.
Tate appraises me with his eyes. “I bet it does.” There’s no sarcasm or irony in his tone. He holds his hands up. “Not one to kink shame, but none of those are my jam. I just have a thing for pretty girls with great tits and a good sense of humor.” He leans closer. “Now. If I try to kiss you, are you going to head-butt me again?”
