There are very few things we humans have in common. Our cultures clash, we speak different languages, we hold opposing values, we worship contradictory gods—but all of us have a body. All of us have a body with similar patterns, something vaguely person-shaped, with variable configurations of skin and size and style, with varying degrees of stamina and strength. We don’t all like to do the same things with our bodies, but we are all born, and we all die. We all experience the world through the confines of this corporeal flesh, these five senses, these minds, this aging process, these fascinating ways that our various systems—digestive, nervous, circulatory, respiratory, reproductive, endocrine—constantly work to maintain.
What we do with our bodies while we are here, while we have this lifetime to explore this world, is our choice. It is, in fact, our defining choice; what makes our lives truly *ours*.
…I think I’d be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other … because I’d be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything. To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room — just like I’d find it distressing if I saw a very drunk person stumbling across a bar or a heroine addict slumping in a chair.
Now, don’t go getting the wrong impression: I have a few friends who could be called plump. I’m not some size-ist jerk…
Things I Learned At Dark Odyssey Happy Hour: TARDIS Makeout Edition
1. “Airtight” means a girl has something “plugging” all of her holes: pussy, mouth, and anus. It does not mean what I originally envisioned: a guy’s dick being such a tight fit in a girl’s pussy that it forces all the air out and he gets stuck.
3. One of my friends is laying the groundwork to start a poly household. It’s fascinating to listen in on the discussions about how they’re going to navigate all the issues involved. They’re pretty much going to have to start a corporation and buy people in or out.
4. Old fashioned briefcases make the best toybags.
5. Deep End, Lucien, and Eustace wanted to start a “Pizza, Beer, and Porn” night. I wanted to know why they needed porn when they could have real girls. They agreed that this was an excellent idea. I offered my services as one of the girls, and we toasted to that. Now, we wait to see if it actually happens!
“Honestly, some of the hottest guys I’ve seen are the first 15 pounders. Just starting to get round. Do I imagine them with more? Sure. Would I be just as happy to play with a small versus a larger one? Yup. Is there too big for me? Yup. It’s a strange dynamic but there is no norm for the right size. That’s completely up to the gainer.”—Gaining Body Type Ideals: It’s Relative
“More than anything, I’m wearing a ribbon today because thousands of other people are wearing ribbons today, and every one of us is on the same side. One person with a ribbon is a slacktivist; thousands are a protest.”—Slactivism.
“What research into the lifestyle taught me is that there is a real big difference between morals and ethics. Most people do not understand that difference. Morals are fashion, they change all the time. In the 1950s it was immoral to have oral sex. Now it’s promoted between married people. It’s considered a perfectly moral act now. It used to be immoral for a woman to look directly into a man’s eyes. Morals will always change. There is no rock hard moral prescription that is unchanging thru the ages. What does not change is ethics. There is only one ethical principle from which all others derive. Its very simple to remember, you could live your life by it. It is “Do not do unto others that which you do not want others to do unto you.” You can approach every situation and decide how to act based on that simple principle. What I found in with the lifestyle is that while some people might think it’s immoral, it’s actually completely ethical because it follows that maxim. It’s the one rule of etiquette that cannot be broken in the swinger subculture. It’s an ethical framework. Within that framework they can exhibit all sorts of sexual variety that does not impact their ethical behavior in other areas of their lives. They do not become less ethical people by behaving “immorally”.”—Life on the Swingset interviews Terry Gould
Guest author Scarlet emailed me for tips on introducing some feederism into her current relationship, and this was the delicious result! She describes herself as “a city girl with attitude who likes avant garde jazz, pretends to be bookish, and who is discovering peculiar things about her sexual psyche”.
For a few months I’d been having a mutually satisfying e-affair with a beautiful skinny boy from a far-away town – I’ll call him M. I’d been encouraging him to stuff himself via the magic of webcams. M liked to make his little flat belly swell up like an inflated beach ball. What I loved was the way his taut, round tummy contrasted with his delicate bone structure – his sharp shoulders, poetic thin wrists and long slim fingers. I was so turned on by watching him becoming painfully full, and in the process deeply aroused, that I was reduced to a quivering, dampening voyeur whilst he expertly got on with devouring a selection of fruit (yes, fruit, dear reader – neither of us wanted him to get fat) in a variety of sexually suggestive ways.
Observing and encouraging M’s stuffing had become so exciting for me that picturing his full belly in my mind’s eye would often be the tipping point to make me come whilst having sex with someone less well-endowed in the tummy area. I decided I needed to try stuffing someone for real. Maybe M’s beauty meant that watching him do anything would have been alluring – was it him, or the stuffing that was my trigger?
I wondered if my recent real-life acquisition, DL (Dangerous Liaison) would be up for it. We’d only been fooling around together for a few weeks and I loved being in bed with him. He drove me wild with his tumble of tousled hair and pretty-but-not-saccharine looks. His body was divine – all long limbs and angles, with a flat belly that just yielded enough under my fingers to make me want to stuff it.
DL was familiar with what feederism was, in general terms at least, and knew I had an interest in it. Plus he was a dab hand at baking fabulous Victoria sponge cakes and had even spoon-fed me a piece in bed one afternoon. I hoped this was a sign that he might be amenable to a little light stuffing fun.
Introducing the subject was tricky. I’d never talked about feeding someone – I mean, not out loud. I find it very easy to be bold online, in IM or text. But saying to someone face-to-face, “I’d like to feed you cakes until you’re too full, I think it would be sexy” is, let’s face it, a bit odd.
In an abstract way there didn’t seem to be a problem – DL likes cake (his sweet tooth was my friend in this situation), and he likes having sex with me – what could be more innocent that combining the two?
I presented myself on DL’s doorstep armed with a box of Ladurée macaroons. Ladurée sells the most exquisite macaroons on the planet – tiny round sandwiched cakes, with a slight crispness to the outside and an amazing gooeyness to the inside, softly melting in the mouth. Brightly-coloured and subtly flavoured – chocolate, violet, bergamot, lemon, salted caramel, licorice – they seemed perfectly designed to make eating fun and sexy.
To break the ice, I asked DL to read an article by our lovely Miss Molly. DL made me coffee, and rolled me a cigarette with his long, sensitive fingers. Some very long minutes ticked by as I pretended to read a review of Franzen’s Freedom in DL’s copy of the London Review of Books. I say pretended – of course there was no way I could concentrate, as I was covertly ogling DL’s lanky beauty, feeling myself get turned on just by his presence, and worrying about his reaction to the story. But when he’d finished it he turned to me, smiling, asking, “What did you like about that?”
I said I thought it was sexy, and that I felt just as Molly did in the story – aching to stuff her boy, but cautious not to overstep the mark. “I’m happy to give it a try” he said. Pleased, but frightened that he was just humouring me, I insisted on discussing the pros and cons.
I wasn’t interested in seeing anyone gain weight – I have always loved aggressively skinny men, which I imagine is a totally different take to the majority of feeders, who actively want their feedees to gain. What consistently makes me tingle inside is the swollen, pregnant, kissable, suckable, I-need-a-rub tummy that results from a skinny boy eating too much too fast.
DL, from his insouciant start, became unconvinced. He explained that the feeling of being over-full, and the aesthetic of having a rounded belly, was anathema to him. His history of body dysmorphia and an eating disorder or two didn’t help my confidence that he would enjoy the experience – although he sought to assure me that it was long past and didn’t present a problem. My inexperience was making me tentative. We reached an agreement that he was the least likely candidate for me to try this out on. Well, at least I’d put it out there, I thought. Next lover, I’ll try again.
We went to bed. Which was incredible, as usual. He likes curvy girls, I like skinny, cute men, and it all works in a most satisfactory way. I don’t find archetypal clean-cut, wholesome-looking men remotely attractive. This boy… just looking at him makes me yearn to fuck him. In appearance, he could easily have been in the Rolling Stones if they’d been 20 years younger. Lithe, delicate-limbed, long scruffy-haired, a bit beat-up round the edges, but engagingly pretty – with the added characteristics that really do it for me: fiercely intellectual, challenging, impeccable grammar, well-read. And with a terrific smile which doesn’t happen that often, but when it does, it’s electric. Having found this delightful creature, I didn’t want to frighten him off with my strange fetish.
Rain falling outside in the gloomy, cold English autumn made the heat we were creating in his bed all the more seductive as we licked, kissed and fucked each other for a good while… then much later, when I was on top, he paused, smiling, and said, “Go get those macaroons”.
“Really?” I prevaricated, unsure.
“Go get ‘em” he insisted, with a firm slap on my arse.
Returning with cake box in hand, I re-mounted… he lay beneath me, obediently awaiting being fed. I selected a bright pink raspberry-flavoured macaroon and presented it to his lips. I watched as he took it gingerly and chewed. “Do you want to sit up?” I asked, anxious not to give him a tummy ache. He shook his head no. His cock inside me felt slick and wet as I realised that I’d just fed someone for the first time, and that it turned me on. I was thrilled and scared all at once.
A second cake went down… I loved watching him, ragamuffin hair spread over the pillow, swallowing fancy expensive cakes just to amuse me. It had a decadence, a French courtesan feel to it. I felt the sexual wantonness of Madame de Merteuil crossed with the cavalier superiority of Marie Antoinette. Let him eat cake.
“Chocolate. I want a chocolate one,” my feedee now demanded. I considered punishment by refusing, but the gluttony of the request turned me on. Two cocoa-flavoured confections rewarded him and I slid my hand over the trail of hair rising from his groin and over his flat tummy, imagining what it would feel like if it were full. I was still riding him, and the combination of his hardness and the exhilaration of feeding him was making me bubble with an effervescent, throbbing urge to come.
The fifth he teased me with, delicately holding it between his teeth but not admitting it to his mouth. His eyes, until this point modestly closed as he struggled with sensory overload, fluttered open. Looking directly into my eyes, he wolfed the cake whole and chewed, grinning. The greediness (imitated or not, I didn’t care) of the action made me moan out loud. His cock was filling me and together with the unaccustomed pleasure of watching him eat from my hand I was almost unbearably excited.
The sixth I contrived to make crumble slightly as I wedged it between his oh-so-pretty lips… deliberately leaving crumbs to be kissed away from around his mouth. (I have an additional fantasy about food being crushed and smooshed over our bodies, so we can lick and nibble it from each other… or just have wild passionate sex amidst it, in a pool of slippery chocolate sauce and cream – but that will be another story, I hope).
I licked the crumbs away and then kissed him deeply to share the yummy creaminess as the gooey cake melted in our mouths.
“What flavour?” I asked.
“I can’t tell,” he said, “it’s impossible to concentrate on that with so much else going on”.
I felt that there was some frustration in his voice, and by this time I was unsure where to take this next… watching and feeding him was beautiful and turning me on incredibly, but I knew I couldn’t prolong it to the place I wanted it to go – which would be to stuff him until he was painfully full, to feel his tummy swell round, fat and taut beneath my gently pressing palm, and then to fuck him with our bellies bumping together, watching him wince from the sensation of being over-full. He wouldn’t have been turned on by that, and in any event, 15 dainty macaroons weren’t going to do it.
Don’t push it, I thought, and swept the box of macaroons away and concentrated on enjoying his body and fucking him some more. I had loved feeding him, but he might not have… and I wanted to be able to do this to him again.
As I lay panting and satisfied after we’d done, he smilingly made a suggestion: that I bring chocolate éclairs next time. Amazed and grateful (He hadn’t hated it! Result!), a silly smile spread across my lips as I contemplated precisely how many éclairs I’d need to make him full… how many more I’d persuade him to eat after that… and how enticingly, groaningly, sexily stuffed I could make him, if only he’d let me.
When you feel as thought you are at your most alone, there is guaranteed to be someone who is feeling the same way.
It isn’t that I find it comforting to think of other people’s hurts and moments of self-doubt. But remembering that I am not the only one makes me feel like I am more capable of dealing with it myself. It is not insurmountable. It will pass – at least until the next time I feel as though no one else could ever feel this thing that I am feeling.
You aren’t alone. And, at the end of the day, I think that’s a pretty powerful thing.
“…a slim, delicate brunette with tiny, freckled breasts, bent me over and fucked me with her purple strap-on. It was a delightful, swimming feeling of giving up control and giving myself over to pleasure - until she reached around to stroke my cock. “You’re not into this, are you?” Nothing I said after that could convince her of the authenticity of my arousal. Disappointed, she didn’t invite me back to her roomful of books and sex toys - I hadn’t responded properly. But it wasn’t up to me - sometimes sensation and pleasure is too dispersed around the body to remain focused in one central physical sign of arousal.”—Softly Aroused
Anon asked, "Do you find your forays into other kink has lessened your feeder fetish or left it the same?"
Forays into other forms of kink has left me feeling less lonely and more capable. There’s a story you often hear on fetish sites—though it’s by no means the only narrative—that having a really deep fetish limits your choices in life. You either have to find someone with your exact rare kink (for which the odds are stacked astronomically against you) or you have to find someone fairly normal and hide. Experimenting with other kink—actually, experimenting with other kinky people—has shown me I don’t have to settle for either.
None of these experiences have lessened my interest in sexual gluttony one bit, but they have shown me many, many other ways I can be happy. I would be far more frustrated with and ashamed of my sexual interests without this perspective.
Anon asked, "Do you think fetishist or feeder is an identity for you? If you were to describe yourself in five labels would feeder be one of them?"
Someone on the the Internet once advertised a class as helping people to discover their “core kink”—which I think of as the thing that turns them on every time. Similarly, I think of feederism as my “core”: I daydream about it, it’s still the only thing that will reliably bring me to orgasm, and my sexuality would look very different without it.
At this point, I’m just waiting for science to catch up. Though I’d feel weird calling feederism an orientation, it often behaves like one. It’s great to know what sends my libido from 0-60, but not everyone thinks eating is erotic or views the belly as an erogenous zone like the clit or the dick is seen to be. Most tellingly, I’ve sometimes put up with people I otherwise wouldn’t have because their rounded bodies or large tummies drove me wild with lust.
Experience has shown me that I can find mental and sexual satisfaction from partners that don’t meet these ideals, but nevertheless I’ll probably always have the need to lock myself in a room once a week and masturbate while thinking of feeding boys cookies. I’d think there was something wrong with me if I woke up one morning without it.
No one had their best night, yet when we were done the pleasure of talking and stroking and intertwining legs was not diminished from the stresses of the day; right before I left he pulled me into his chest for a long moment during which the skin-on-skin comfort made me think I would never be out of sorts again.
The moment was rightly placed.
If only sex were just about orgasms we could all stay home and buzz or stroke our way into an ecstasy far less messy than what comes from a relationship, but who would choose the lack of mess if it also meant the loss of moments rightly placed?
The First DC/Baltimore Feederism Meetup: A Good Time Was Had By All
When I got to the restaurant, I realized for the first time that I had no idea who I was looking for.
This was due to an oversight. No one had thought to agree on a name for the group, and, since half the guests were people I had never even emailed, I didn’t know what anyone looked like. But instead of asking the hostess where the “FF” (or worse, the “Fantasy Feeder”) group was meeting, I wandered up and down the two floors of the restaurant, looking for a bunch of chubby people with name tags. Eventually I found Kaptn03 with a name tag that said “FF” in big letters, so it all worked out, but I found my reluctance to just suck it up and ask pretty telling.
Kaptn03 and That Reeses Girl (aka Amanda on Feedee World) had reserved a table for 14 people, but it turned out that only half that number showed up. I’ll get more into that later, but I was somewhat relived that there were only seven people, which wasn’t too overwhelming. I got some grins and nods when I said that I was almost too excited by being around “my” kind of people to read the menu!
The party was very different from, say, happy hour, in that most of the conversation was devoted more to where we lived, what we did, how we liked DC than the fetish we all had in common. Which didn’t mean, of course, that we didn’t do silly, secret things that didn’t make sense to anyone but us. Kaptn03, who is averagely skinny, ended up sitting between the plus-sized Reeses Girl and Miss Pretty Panties. “If we smooshed you between us,” Reeses told him with a grin, “it would be like a bad FA fanfic.”
"I don’t think that should stop you,” I quipped.
Kaptn03 also distinguished himself by eating a burrito roughly the side of a dachshund (he says he’s 30% feedee, 70% feeder). “It’s always the skinny guys that eat the most,” we teased. The waiter was… surprised, to say the least.
A little later we were all asking each other how much we weighed. No shame, just pleasure and curiosity, which made me very happy.
One interesting thing I learned during dinner what that That Reeses Girl had actually done an analysis of how many people were members of Fantasy Feeder and what they were there for. Apparently, many people were on the site simply because it was a fat-positive space, not for the sex. There’d even been a suggestion at one point that the site’s name should be changed because obviously it wasn’t about the fetishists anymore. Reeses Girl said she could email her paper to me (hint, hint) and I look forward to reading more about her findings.
I also said something which, in hindsight, was maybe not the smartest. We were going around the table talking about our experiences. Most of them had never met someone from the Internet before. Some of them had told their parents they were more attracted to fat people, some had only told their closest friends. For some of them, this was their first time talking about it, ever.
"It was a long time before I could even say the word "feederism" without blushing," I confided.
"I can’t imagine telling any of my friends,” said ‘Shadow.
"Well, they’re into BDSM," I said, "so they’re used to unusual—"
As I watched ‘Shadow’s eyebrows disappear into his hair I thought, Maybe he didn’t really need to know that. I had made the assumption that having one form of deviant sexuality would mean you were open minded about another, or that everyone was as open about broadcasting their sexcapades as I was. Kaptn03 confided that even though he read my blog regularly, he tended to skip over the sex stories, which can’t leave him with much to read!
Later in a coffee shop, Kaptn03, me, ’Shadow and J. drank tea and tried to nail down why only half the people we had invited had come. Was it because we’d overlooked picking a group name so that people could more easily find each other in the restaurant? I’d mentioned the event in the two groups on Fetlife devoted to feederism, but hadn’t gotten any response. Were scene politics at work? Were people too scattered to make coming by easy? Were people just afraid to come?
I have a quiverful of stories I could rant on at this point, but I’d like to hear from you guys: Would shame be a big part of why you wouldn’t come to an event like this? Did you just have trouble finding us? And if you did go, how can we make the next one better?