First Date

PART 1

What kind of guy do I normally go for? Well, before I answer that, let me just hand you my phone; here's a few pictures of me and my last boyfriend. Yes, yes, it's the same guy in all the pictures. The first couple was just when we started dating in January—he was a bodybuilder at that point—the middle album is that summer—a few at the beach, but mostly at different food festivals and restaurants—and the last is just before we broke up, at a Halloween party. Mmm, it was hard to find a Ginger Bread costume that fit him by that point, and I, naturally, went as a witch.

Big changes in the pictures? Why, whatever do you mean? Wellll, I suppose he DID put on a few pounds between the first photo and the last. Oh, really now, you’re accusing me of secretly fattening him up? That’s absurd. He was totally in control! He knew he was gaining weight, and I had nothing to do with it! Bodybuilders need lots and lots of food, and he was looking to bulk up, go up a weight class or three. And I was his fawning girlfriend, completely smitten. Hell, I even became something of a personal trainer for him. I stepped in as his dietician, adding lots of very healthy, natural ingredients like condensed milk to his meals and shakes to make sure his body had enough calories for his huge gains, bought him new clothes a size up whenever the old ones got a little snug, making sure to remove the tags so they wouldn’t scratch him. I got rid of the mirrors in his apartment so he didn’t have to worry about his appearance and could focus on his exercise. In fact, his diet got so good that he stopped exercise completely, relying entirely on his meals to help him bulk. I’d pinch different parts of him every day to make sure he was growing. And the results spoke for themselves: he went from 17 inch to 34 inch biceps! His arms were so big and juicy that the bodybuilding association cut up his membership card when they saw a picture of him that I put on Insta. Obviously they were afraid he’d just win every competition.

Of course, fatboy here was a little shocked by his massive gains, soooo he asked me to bring out his scale. He even accused me of what you just did—of secretly fattening him up much more than he wanted. So I did, just to calm his nerves. He had been 200 pounds of solid muscle when we first started dating, and now, 9 months later, he was 228. Exactly how much he wanted to weigh. He let out a sigh of relief, I let out a little yelp of joy, and he apologized for ever doubting me. Of course, I had switched the scale over to show all weights in kilos to give him a more accurate reading for international standards. But I’m sure he knew that.



PART 2

So, yes, I suppose he gained a couple pounds. Mmmm, or a couple hundred. But I guess dating me just has that effect on a boy's waistline. And I suppose it isn't incorrect to say that he, eventually, had an effect on my waistline, too. Call it a breakup gain. Normally, my weight is as constant as the number of hours in a day, but I always seem to pack on some pudge after ending relationships. If you keep scrolling, those next pictures are after I, shall we say, got fed up with him on Halloween night. I told him that I was still interested in him—very, very interested—but just not as a boyfriend any more. Yes, exactly: over the course of the relationship, he'd really changed in my eyes, changed and evolved and, let's say grew into someone entirely different, and now I didn't see him as someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, but I saw him as... hmm, let's say... the kind of close, dear, succulent friend that you'd have over for dinner. I told him all this when we were back at my apartment, after the Halloween party. Hanging out in my kitchen. Having a snack.

How'd he take it? Oh, not very well. At first he said he must be dreaming, so I pinched him and said, no, you’re awake. And, mmm, you’re ready. You know how it is, telling someone that, sadly, this is the end. They try to squirm out of it, run away from the truth, so you just have to pin them down and make them understand. He disagreed with nearly everything, and tried to talk me out of it, going from a stern, almost disbelieving voice, to eventually yelling, crying, even begging for me to change my mind. I buttered him up as much as I possibly could to make everything go down as smoothly as possible, really sugarcoating every last inch, but that really only helped me, in the end. Ha ha, thinking back, he just wouldn’t stop talking… even after I tried stuffing a candied apple in his mouth to shut him up, he managed to eat it and kept right going with the “Please no” and the “Spare me” and the “Oh god.” Mmmmm, he really gave me a mouthful. But I let him talk—it was just the right thing to do. And you know how those long, drawn-out final conversations occur. You start off feeling like you’ve just said something you regret… like you’ve got one’s foot in one’s mouth, yes, exactly. But you move on from that, inching your way onward. You’re as gentle as you can be, but firm and unyielding. After all, there’s always lots to chew over—with him there was more than ever—but you don’t want to leave any emotional scars, so you respond with lipservice instead of baring your teeth. It’s was a little rough for me, but like they say in hockey: no blood, no foul. By now, I had brought him to his knees, and he didn’t have a leg to stand on, but rather than take a deep breath and diving in, he doubled down with his bellyaching. And this is where we got really, really, really in the thick of it. I had to just grab him by both hands—firmly, but gently—and pull him in… into. Pull him Into understanding that we simply couldn’t date. I guess he’d underestimated me, and it had come back to bite him in the ass.

Now I was at the middle of his argument, the widest, broadest, softest part: that if I changed my mind, he’d accept whatever terms I wanted to demand in our relationship. He’d do anything for me, be my literal slave. And that we didn’t have to be exclusive boyfriend and girlfriend, either! He said that he had a large circle of friends just like him, men and women alike, and I’d have my pick of them, too. He’d serve them to me on a silver platter. Frankly, by this point in the argument, I was stretched thin, nearly to breaking. I chewed the fat for a while, considering  it. Frankly, it was a whole lot to swallow. But ultimately, I decided I had to go on. I’d made up my mind: you can’t eat your cake and have it too. And I wanted a clean plate. I mean, a clean break.



PART 3

It got a lot easier from there, but he still had some fight in him. Once he was elbow-deep in the conversation, he started to realize it was futile, I think. After all, I’d made sure his hands were tied before I even started. By this point, I was playing it pretty close to his chest. I mean, my chest. But this, at least, brought us eye to eye. I winked, and cut him off mid-sentence by closing by big mouth once and for all. He was still asking questions, but my lips were sealed, and I intended to keep him in the dark. I was a mess of emotions, like I had a lump in my throat. I cared about him, really I did, but this was what I wanted. So I swallowed my pride with one last big gulp, and that was the last time I ever saw him.

Instantly, I felt like a great weight had been lifted, but a certain burden had been…. shifted to me. While I certainly had a lot to digest, I glanced in the mirror: I was glowing, looking like the cat who ate the canary. Breakups are hard, but everyone I’ve ever dated has been fulfilling. And he was very, very, very fulfilling. The most fulfilling relationship of my life, no question. And the breakup went just how I’d wanted it to, and really left a great taste in my mouth. But I was tired, so I flopped down in bed. Even though there was no going back, he seemed like he was still really struggling with what had happened, so I talked to him more. But frankly, by that point, my patience was exhausted, and I no longer felt the need to be polite. I guess I’ve always been a little wicked, so I started teasing him, poking at his… insecurities. Massaging my… ego. I told him that, ok, maybe I HAD been fattening him up a little more than he realized. He was already struggling to accept the reality of the situation, and this just made him fight even harder. Which was fine by me: knowing just where he found himself in was quite a turn-on for me, and I was happy to bring out my Hitachi. I told him how much fun I’d had helping him with his body building, and even told him how I’d been planning on exactly how I was going to break up with him since practically the first day we’d started dating. Fatboy’s squirming, oh my god, it was perfectly… scrumptious. I came, again and again, and each time he struggled a little less, accepted it a little more. Somewhere around orgasm number ten, I passed out. Nothing is better than sleep after a big meal and sex. The last thing I said to him was a simple, fond farewell: "Goodbye, fatboy. This relationship has been absolutely delicious."

There’s not much more to say: although I always seem to get fat right after a breakup—yep, that’s a picture from the next day, and that’s not a cauldron under my dress—I’ve been able to burn off a fair amount of him… I mean, a fair amount of the weight. Which takes us to the present, and your question. What kind of guy do I normally go for? Let’s just say I like a man who isn’t afraid of some personal growth, and who can handle dating a maneater. Now, let me order for you. You need to put some meat on your bones if you expect to get a second date from me. Although I’ll admit: even asking me out in the first place shows you already have great taste.