I Want To Be Your Fat Boyfriend
Yes, I know I am a razor thin length of fishing line, a translucent skeleton skulking across the earth, so skinny I hover in the limbo between existence and nonexistence, a pale shadow of a wisp of a flake of a residue of a sliver of what constitutes corporeal form. You look at me and think, ‘Someone please remove that skinny piece of human trash from my sight.’ How can you love a man you could lift over your head, spin like a high school color guard, and then toss out an open window onto a sharp metal fence? But believe me when I say: I can be your obese Adonis. I can! I can be a fatty — that is, I can be your fatty. If it’ll make you happy, I can transform myself into the fattiest fatty who was ever fat, the fleshy beanbag man of your dreams. I am but an organic machine designed to fulfill your needs, no matter the physical/emotional cost. Let me toddle alongside you through the Luby’s Cafeteria line of life.
Of course, it’ll be a challenge, as my metabolism burns through pizza faster than acid through Jessie Pinkman’s bathtub, leaving only a thin condom of skin to shield my bones and organs from the environment. I am that most hated embodiment of an unjust universe: the 110 pound man who eats a whole cheesecake, then a milkshake, then a bucket of egg yolks, then takes a nap, and still loses weight like a slightly less life threatening version of Stephen King’s Thinner. Still, I’m willing to put forth the monumental exertion required to coat my guts in syrupy gray goop if it makes it easier for you to love me. Because I’m selfless.
Look at me: I am making pancakes. I am inserting strawberry cheesecake so they will be strawberry cheesecake pancakes. I am stacking the strawberry cheesecake pancakes and covering them in strawberry frosting so they will be strawberry cheesecake pancake cupcakes. I am making 60 strawberry cheesecake pancake cupcakes, and I am eating them one after another, rapidly, without chewing. I am doing this because I love you and also strawberry cheesecake pancake cupcakes but mostly you.
I am dipping a bratwurst in gravy. I am frying the gravy bratwurst. I am coating the fried gravy bratwurst in cheese and honey mustard. I am frying it again, blanketing it in powdered sugar, and then suckling this atrocity with gusto. Observe the honey mustard dripping down my neck, under my shirt, and encrusting my belly. This is what devotion looks like.
I am cooking a one-square-meter cheese slab. I am dumping twelve gallons of ketchup onto the cheese slab. I am sprinkling powdered pig’s feet across the surface, rolling it up like a taco, and filming a four hour video of me devouring it so you can watch it on YouTube and think thoughts, all sorts of thoughts, maybe sexy thoughts, I wouldn’t know. My dear, I will make Brucie from Matilda look like The Machinist.
Our culture vilifies overweight people as if lipids were morally deficient, as if fatness negatively correlated with human worth, and yet your preferences transcend this transient fashion. Perhaps you’d have been happier in the 1800s or ancient Rome when fatness meant wealth and power, but unfortunately, you live in the era of Michael Ceras in tight Urban Outfitters t-shirts designed to accentuate the human skeleton. ‘Where are all the physically intimidating monster men?’ you wonder. ‘Where are the sexy potato people who make my heart sing?’ They’re at Wrigley Field, but don’t go there. Please just wait for me to finish my sick, six week, sixty strawberry cheesecake pancake regimen, and then we can fall in love forever and die in each other’s ham hocks.
This is my level of commitment: I was going to visit the track and run four miles to improve my fitness, energy level, and muscle mass, but for you, I will instead lay flat on the kitchen floor with a food tube running from a nearby pudding tub directly into a hole in my stomach. Some would call this dangerous, but what is “danger”? What is “unhealthy”? What is “amateur surgery”? Do you know? Bodies are like cars — you can’t know what’s going on under the hood just by looking at it, and therefore, you can’t know for certain I’m unhealthy just by looking at my lumpy bread dough body. Linebackers and Mo’nique are both gigantic, but they work out everyday; you couldn’t describe them as unhealthy.
If you give me a chance, I know one day, with great physical strain, I can roll onto you in the way an absent-minded panda mother rolls onto her young, crushing them to death, and then you will gasp with unbearable ecstasy, bliss so great you can hardly breathe. You’ll whisper softly, “My spine… it’s snapping.” and I’ll whisper, “Love is pain.”
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Even as I write this now I am debating whether or not to erase it all together.
When I say I’m in love with you, I mean I love the story I can tell to my next lover, about my ex-lover, about how beautiful things were, how intense, how storybook, what a couple we were, and how you gradually, inexplicably, painfully, bit by bit, disappeared.
“I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me, but now I’m more afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter.”
I was 24 and, while not gay, ever since college I had been getting more attention from gay men than from heterosexual women.