food on the hoof
Just because you’re piling on the weight doesn’t mean you’re not taking care of yourself. The reason you are so strong and so able to deal with the rolls upon rolls of fat you bear so lightly is because you still lift, you still swim, you still on occasion run.
Let us take a moment to appreciate what it is like when you run.
Your body routinely breaks down whole bodies for its food. So your bones and tendons are monstrously strong, saturated as they are with calcium and collagen. Your weight—and what is it now? you must be heading towards 200kg—thunders down through svelte ankles and into the ground.
On the way, it animates you. You’re like a ship in sea, cupping sailfuls of air. Your calves are so powerful they just about show the cut of muscle beneath the fatty layer of skin, but all indication of your thigh muscle is lost. Despite your speed and endurance they jiggle rhythmically in line with your step. You are accompanied by a ~wshhh wshhh wshhh~ as your leggings rub together. No thigh gap for you.
Someone as heavy as you should by rights look like they were wearing an ill-fitting fat suit, which would sway independently of the structures beneath. But your vitality and youth is sustained by every mouthful of blood you drink. Your wonderful heavy dome of a belly sways with the rest of you, clamped into place by connective tissue and youthful elastic skin. Your body feels like part of you as you run, and you feel huge.
Your breasts are just barely kept in check by one in a line of sports bras that can only last a month at best. Even if you didn’t keep outsizing them the rolling grinding stretch of your massive tits would wear away straps and clasps like nobody’s business. Your boobs really would sway in counterphase to the rest of you, a boulder avalanch running from side to side, but for now this bra keeps them in sync with your belly.
But your face retains its pretty lines. Your jawline is softened but still cuts a beautiful angle. Your cheeks are plumped a little but your cheekbones shine through.
You draw eyes to you as you run, but not as many as you might think. You just look right.
You pause by a tree and lean against it, bending forward a little and breathing deep. You’re getting a stitch. Inside you, desperate struggles fail to do anything than make your belly fat jiggle a tiny amount. He’s not settling down, the little brat. You work a fist into your solar plexus and forced out a belch.
It’s Pavlovian, you think to yourself. The phrase “ready or not, here I come” makes you instantly salivate. You know instinctively that there are multiple snacks hidden in the vicinity, and can grant one of them the best hiding place they will ever find.
If anything, burping made the struggles worse. You stretch your legs while you wait for the worst of it to pass. Sometimes they get more energetic right before they smother inside your tummy.
A young woman with a pram stares at you as she rolls on by. You stare back, wincing at a little kick. The astonishing thing is she can’t possibly notice the child drowning inside you. You’re so fat he can’t really make any sign that would be sensed by anyone but you.
By the time the young mother has rolled out of sight your tummy is host only to slight shuddering. You dig in your fingers exploratively, finding the human shape lodged somewhere below your ribcage. A knot of solidity, just beginning its journey to becoming nutritious blood-and-meat paste, which will become something far less wholesome. Your stomach crushes the young boy down violently and the air croaks past your lips, making you jump: “~krwoooAAarPh~, gosh!”
Running back is out of the question. You are already skirting the edge of that stitch. He will digest nicely, so you don’t need to suffer for it. Instead you walk home at a leisurely pace, greeting the odd person as you go, even as within you a human life ends and yields to your body the whole of its substance as fuel and food.
Time for a shower. You text me to come over. Maybe I’ll cook. I’ll definitely rub your tummy.