I have long dreamt of being obese. The reverse-Atkins diet didn’t work for me. Carbohydrates and alcohol and sucking the edges of steaks only led to an uncomfortable excitement during KFC adverts. (One dark evening, I built a manikin of the Colonel out of a Family Bucket, and gently stroked his legs and breasts.)
I was banned from Weight-Watchers for trying to accumulate maximum points. There were no ‘red’, ‘blue’ or ‘yellow’ days, for me, but ‘rainbow’ days, when I ate cod, lamb and potato stew, covered in chocolate and deep-fat-fried. On the Tuesday night weigh-in, I crumbled like a flapjack in a jacket pocket. I was a failure. Unable, even, to garner a handful of flab. I was removed after clutching at the bellies of my co-aspirees, and screaming ‘I WANT TO BE FAT LIKE YOU’.
It wasn’t a mean dream, obesity. I dreamt big.
I realised, then, that I was a littler man inside than I’d thought. There was no fat person, tardis-like, trying to get out. I considered lipo-pumption, but the doctor told me there was a slight possibility of exploding. This deflated me.
So I turned away from dreams, and into dating. If I could not hold my own lard in my arms, I would fondle another’s. I had always liked Amazonian women. Wanting one the size of the Amazon was my sort of penis envy. I placed an ad, waited expectantly, and received a wad of replies. One reply transfixed the eye, like Boris Johnson in a crotchless leotard on a pogo-stick. I licked my lips. She had been the star of a 1950′s sci-fi/horror film. Bit of a celebrity, I thought; definitely experienced. Growing tired of the paparazzi, and of the air-force trying to drop her in the Arctic, she had gone underground, and pretended to be an American with an average eating routine. Letter led to email, and email to first date.
The diner was considerably smaller by the time we had finished our courses. It began with the slurping of spaghetti, and reached its mains with the consumption of diners’ limbs. Oh, what an evening. At the very least, I was in love. She blushed a beautiful crimson when I kissed her for the first time.
We would meet, then, and wander the streets, my hand in her amorphous bulge. I would giggle, she would make the sound, I’m pretty sure, of digesting a stray dog. A rather large one. On the weekends, we would go to the park and eat the ducks. By fall, we were married.
On our first conjugal night; two became one. She ate me, and ate me good. Our marriage, I suppose, is one of convenience food. Some say we are too close, that I don’t do the things I used to. My friends never see me anymore. People whisper (and sometimes scream) in the street. I am weary of the prejudice and wish they would stop, but I’m happy. I feel I am a part of her. My dreams have come true, and I want to tell the world about the beauty of our love.