The Perfect Man

Almost Divine, from Tony Love Heart's collection of Cute Boys

One of the side effects of being into feederism is the ability to guess someone's weight just by looking at them. FA*s, like tailors, learn through looking at hundreds of profiles listing height and weight what to expect, and after a while certain numbers become more important than others. There is a kind of man who will begin to stiffen and leak upon reading the stats "5' 5", 200 lbs." before he's even seen a picture, and I myself am not immune to this phenomenon. 

For me, the magic number is 170 lbs. (My ideal height for a man is a little shorter than myself--say 5' 8".) I'm unusual in wanting something so low, but much over 170 lbs. and a boy's frame will begin to look overloaded. The fat will begin to fold over and bloat him out, overbalance him. Under 170, all his muscles will stand out and his belly will be flat. But at 170, the extremes are perfectly in balance. If he has muscle definition it will still be visible, perhaps slightly softened, but the main difference will be in his belly. The extra flesh will have a round, tight look to it: he'll still fit in his clothes but form-fitting t-shirts will pull across his tummy like a slut's dress. This, in feederism parlance, is called a "ball belly", and I zero in on it the way an ass man looks at pictures of Beyonce. 

It is this set of parameters, as unforgivingly specific as the demands of height and weight for a Vogue model, that seem to set me apart even in what is already an unimaginably rare fetish. I am forever trying to get my cyber-beaus to slow down when they want to speed up--when boys talk lustfully about reaching 200, 300 lbs. I'm urging them to stop right where they are. I want them to be gluttonous, but also go to the gym, maintain. If I could just freeze them in time I absolutely would. 

And, thus, I jinx myself. Most boys I've talked to just want to give their gluttony and lust free reign. What I want is much harder. I want soft hardness and restrained indulgences, I want their bodies to be everything to me, all at once. When I told Cee that I was going to stop looking so hard for a feedee and start trying other things because if I didn't I would be very, very lonely, he said, "Don't you want to create your ideal man?"

And that's the intoxication for every feeder's heart: the ability to mold someone into exactly what you want. Every modern retelling of Pygmalion makes him out to be a shallow, silly cunt, but really, who wouldn't want this power? When our robot overlords get good enough to marry I'm not so much going to want to program a boyfriend to do whatever I want (because who wants something as unchallenging as that?) but mix and match billions of skin and hair and bone structures so he looks exactly how I want. High cheekbones. Skin like marble. Black hair and blue eyes and a round porn star's ass and long fingered hands and a small, perfectly rounded belly. If there was any personality programming going on I'd install a desire to maintain his body that rivaled any starlet's (or would he be a Real Doll-like model that was stuck looking exactly one way?)

But the thing that keeps me from becoming a shining example of how women can have as insanely specific desires as men is that I'd can't imagine how I'd have the right to impose my standards on a real live human male, one that I'd sleep next to and make dinner with. Do I have the right to demand that my lovers shave and wax themselves when I hate doing it myself? Should they always look perfect when I seldom care to put any work into my appearance at all? It's a long and detailed list that would stress anyone out, and if they weren't naturally endowed with the "proper" bone structure it could drive them to despair**.

Nevertheless, I think of this description as the core of my desires. Sometimes it influences my sexual choices, sometimes not. It's true I've had several partners of the dark and delicate-boned variety, and all the feedees I currently cyber with fit that mold. But it's also true that their charms can lose their power over me if they're inarticulate, needy, or just plain mean: the ones I've kept in contact with for over a year are all smart, interesting, and mostly happy boys with their own style of language. And sometimes I just want someone completely different: my first love was a conservative with a body that made one think more of WWF wrestlers than dancers or jockeys, and when I look at the endless parade of boys on my Tumblr I'm constantly surprised how one physical attribute will look quite different on one boy than on another. (I've told Jefferson he'd be more attractive if he shaved his kiwis, but have found myself buried in DC Boy's far hairier crotch and loved every minute of it.) And there's a whole other as-yet-unwritten branch of my sexual desires where the men always come in pairs, with matching appetites but exactly opposite bodies. Perhaps the key to my desires isn't hungry brunettes, but  contrast?

So at the end of this long rambling post about my ultimate desires I've come to the conclusion that there are some things I like a lot, and some things I almost like, and some things I like that I had no idea I liked before I saw them. The fact that hardly anyone has all these things or none of these things guarantees that even if you don't fit my core desires exactly, you don't have to worry I'm "settling" for you. (And neither, thank God, do I.)

Which doesn't erase the fact that if a boy came along who was mostly sane and had the right bone structure I wouldn't go absolutely mad for him. The six weeks or six months it took to change his almost perfect body into my ideal perfect body would be the most intensely sexual of my life. Even if we didn't fuck I might be able to cum just from watching him eat, or work out, or whatever else I had demanded he do to mold himself. If he was slightly dumb I would put up with it, if he was really dumb I'd feel humiliated, if he was a sub I'd push him around and if he was a domineering asshole I don't know what I would do, but no matter what personality he had a part of me wouldn't be able to say no to him. He'd have more power over me than I'm comfortable thinking about, and if he were wired the way he'd have to be wired for this to be in any way consensual, I'd have the same power over him.

There's a movie called Original Sin. It's been many years since I've seen it, so it may in fact be horrible. But it's redeemed in my memory because it has Antonio Banderas and Angelina Jolie in it. They were two of my favorite actors for a long time. I have no idea what's happened to Mr. Banderas, and this was long before Miss Jolie became the woman every straight girl wanted to fuck. I just had an innocent awe of the fact that such alien lips were part of a real human being.

But to cut to the chase: Mr. Banderas sends away for a mail order bride, and gets Jolie in return. After he meets her, falls for her, and fucks her she leaves him (something about her really being a thief who posed as a mail-order bride in order to steal his fortune.) Apparently, she didn't really care for him at all. There's a few minutes of montage where it shows Banderas going into many different brothels, with many different types of women. But they all have the same physical characteristics, the slender build and the long dark hair, and he makes them smoke cigars as she did. 

I know what that's like. I know all too well. 

_____________________________________

*FAs: "Fat Admirers". It's feederism speak for chubby chasers. If you're a female chubby chaser you're supposedly an FFA, but why do we need another F in front of it telling people the admirer is female? 

** Or drive him to get very expensive and painful plastic surgery just for me, but that's another post altogether.

Hipster Guts & Male Swagger

I haven't a clue where Nina Gapinski found this photo of Pete Doherty, but from the scarf's print I am guessing it may have actually been some kind of fashion spread. 

Just yesterday I was wondering why there wasn't a male term for plump-but-hot guys. Today, I found it in the most unusual of places: a blog about DC's Goodwill. The article's inspiration was from a NYT piece  talking about how hipsters are increasingly letting themselves go. There were the usual from-the-collarbones-down shots of fat people and the warning that "Women have almost never gotten a pass on the need to maintain their bodies, while men always have". 

But Nina Gapinski gets it:

I think most women know that attitude is everything when it comes to sexy. Belly fat held no appeal to me whatsoever when I was a teenager, but by my mid-twenties I’d turned the corner on that point. There was something to a man having some weight on him if he were going to be at all up to throwing it around, as I saw it... and most of the men I fancied tended to do that. Pitied in fitness magazines and the butt of so many Hollywood movie gags… belly fat, in my mind, held its own tacit countercultural standard; with the right swagger, it was its own brand of hot.

An unapologetic gut is very… gutsy, if you will. It’s take-it-or-leave-it; it isn’t trying too hard. And it subtly implies that this is a man with priorities that have nothing at all to do with some external standards, Greek gods or no Greek gods. The man makes the abs, but the abs will never make the man. It works for me. What, may I ask, is sexier than swagger?

Why I Don't Google My Fetish Very Much

You'd think that in my endless quest for porn, acceptance, and a local feedee, I'd be constantly typing "feederism" into Google. You might understand why I don't when I show you some highlights from my last foray into the search results:

The idea of feederism disgusts me.

-- from Fattie Gossip

It's remarkably similar to chronic domestic violence, where someone attempting to escape the clutches of the abuser often winds up back in the same situation -- to be abused again.

--from here.

This is actually one of the most well-written articles I have found about my fetish in general, and it often turns up in the first few pages of any web search involving feederism. It neatly outlines all my problems with the way feederism is usually portrayed--it seems too bound up with shame about body image and has little concern for reality--but then ends with the extrapolation that the only ending of any feeder/feedee relationship is for the feedee to die. People, I just want to feed a nice boy an ice cream sundae every now and then, OK? I have limits.

My intention is not merely to inform, but to foster mockery, derision, and disgust.

-- from a fitness forum(!)

Again, this article highlights a lot of the things I don't like about feederism (what is the deal with immobility?) but it uses some of the nastiest fat-hating, anti-kink language I've ever seen to get the point across. It's very long, and even I didn't read the whole thing. To get the gist of it, you really just need to read the title. 

He probably thinks it is a no0rmal way for a man to behave.

-- from here

Even in the absence of a phallus, men are central to the eroticized dominance and submission that’s performed in feeding pornography.

-- from Bitch Magazine

I think this is article is pretty awesome, actually, but if you don't understand why that quote makes me hot under the collar, you haven't been reading this blog very long.

The thing is, often I agree with the opinions expressed here. Feederism on the web is nothing but extremes, and like most mainstream porn, it's almost entirely male-oriented. I hardly ever see what I personally think of as hot, responsible, or even slightly realistic...but nevertheless, this is what most reliably turns me on. Unless I'm writing my own porn, the result of this paradox is that while trying to get off, I'm more often pissed off.

Long story short, I'm tired of being thought of as insane, irresponsible, disgusting, or incapable of being attracted to anyone under 300 lbs. What can I do to change this?

_____

Oh, and just for the hell of it: "Feederism has nothing to do with birds."

Kablooie

In kink, there are some things that are possible, some things that should only be executed by someone who's had quite a bit of experience, and some things that you should never, ever do, but for the artistically inclined, can be drawn or written out as fantasies.

With feederism, however, things tend to get rather blurry.

Part of it is that very few people in the "scene" (if you can count the two websites and the fetish profiles on Myspace and YouTube a "scene") has ever watched a real live person stuffing themselves. I don't mean just a boy licking peanut butter off a spoon for my enjoyment, but the "hardcore" stuff where they drink a gallon of ice cream or swallow so many sodas the shape of their bodies changes. You know, the weird stuff. If someone had told me a year ago that there were boys who won prizes to eat 75 hot dogs at a go or shoved air pumps up their asses*, I most likely wouldn't have believed it either.

Thus, when I first heard cyberwhispers of boys drinking coke and then swallowing a mentos, I was positive it was some kind of feedee urban legend. After all, if that combination does this in the outside air



what the hell does it do to you once it was inside your body? BDSM is tame, I thought, looking in the mirror the day after the first time I was slapped during sex and finding nary a bruise. I have to worry about my partners possibly rupturing.

Then again, no one ever said this was the smartest idea for a fetish. I can copy Maymay and take the activism route, complain that, unlike BDSM, feederism is too small and scattered to have cons and classes and produce knowledgeable people to teach how-to's on...tube feeding? Really, one must simply question the sense of a lot of ravenous boys going about the world with the one question being uppermost in their minds being, "What would happen if I swallowed *this*?" Such a mentality is bound to end in the same species of shenanigans that results in men coming into the ER at 4 am trapped in various vacuums cleaner attachments.

Then, one day when I wasn't looking for it, I received help from an unexpected source:

The Mythbusters.



They actually use pop rocks rather than mentos, but the basic idea is the same. Because people (unlike rats) can burp, there is small chance of them going kablooie. Bellydu--actually, let's give him a better name, and refer to him as Jake from now on--Jake tried the mentos experiment shortly after this, and what happened? Nothing.

Of course, if you watch all the way through that particular episode, and end up at the credits, you'll see the result when they empty so many sodas into it that the pig's stomach does in fact part at the seams and spray its contents everywhere.

So if you're ever sitting in a bar drinking rum and diet coke, and I offer you a mentos, you'll know what I'm about.

Just don't say you weren't warned.



* Dear God, please don't do this.

Ice Cream

An excerpt from a piece I'm currently working on:

...There's something about the sheer hunger, something very masculine about the concept of devouring--Takeru Kobayashi's world famous hot dog eating eating contests, frat boys downing bongs. It definitely has something to do with the fact that once he has filled himself to capacity--the good ones, the "feedees", can drink almost a gallon at a time--he is incapacitated. No bondage cuffs could hold a pretty boy as willingly in thrall as the warm, heavy belly and the loggy feeling that comes after an orgy of overindulgence. To my mind, there is nothing so sweet to look at as a naked, full-bellied boy "sleeping it off"...

It's a lot like bar hopping in that I drop down into a crossfire of conversation, a hungry boy latches onto me, and if he passes the first tests of grammar and basic articulateness I take him aside into a private chat-room. We'll stay there for the first "getting to know you" paragraphs and then switch to Yahoo chat for the webcams. The little screen opens and I see an unfamiliar bedroom, a new body.

He's naked in an office chair. I can see his brush, his dick...oh, and his belly. He's just a little plump, so it contrasts nicely with the rest of his body, not to big or too small, and I can't see the rest of him because he's angled the camera to cut out his face. Once when he moved to the other side of the room to get something something shifted and I spied the color of his hair before he bought up his hand to cover his face like a prima donna hounded by the paparazzi. I want to respect his privacy and yet at the same time it seems so frustrating and pointless not to be able to see his face.

Beside him is one of those plain plastic tubs of ice cream you can get at the grocery store. He says he's let the ice cream inside melt, so that he can swallow it more easily and it won't give him a tummy freeze. Such details fascinate me, all the little bitty things that can't be thought of, but can only be realized through experience. Like a sailor talking about proper knots or a foodie describing the various ways to make a single dish, you can tell a true expert by the attention to detail, the little things he does to make the job easier.

He lifts the whole thing to his mouth, like drinking from a bucket. There's no way he can drink a gallon, but he's going to try. My clit swells as I watch his throat move, and if I watch carefully I can even see his tummy grow a bit with each swallow, each gulp traveling down to press it out a little more. A loop of melted cream falls across the soft flesh just above his nipple, and I offer to lick it off.

He stops, overwhelmed. He can't do it, though he made a good try. His tummy is noticeably bigger, rounder. fuller. This pleases me: that he looks better, that my favorite part of him is more exaggerated, that his senses are overwhelmed with sweetness and richness and gluttony. He runs his hand down his belly, caressing it, then, without asking me, begins to jerk off.

It's Official

I have one of those fetishes.

Movies That Squick Me

If I did one of those year end roundup things like everyone else does, I probably would have done one on Useful Words I Have Only Read on Sex Blogs. Among the nominees for terms for things that I knew existed by had absolutely no words for, there's "mimbo", "guh", and "subspace". But by far the most useful word that I have yet to see in everyday life has been "squick".

There's a certain scene in a certain movie that everyone talks about in Feederism. Perhaps you've seen it?



This movie squicks me. I first saw it when I was a teeny kid and watching the scene filled me with a horror that I still can't quite describe--Turn it off, turn it off, please please turn it off!

Which, according to some things I've read, is exactly why I'm interested in the things I am now. It's probably in a very general top ten of "When I Realized I Had A Fetish" stories. As one of my feedee acquaintances past explained it to me, What you fear becomes that which you most desire, and so--! One wonders if the makers of Willy Wonka realize how many little children had all their sex synapses fire off at once simply from watching their move. After one showing, hundreds of little inflation fetishists were born!

But the problem with that theory is, the movie still squicks me. It's not that I secretly want it and have deeply repressed it, it's that it doesn't excite me in any way at all. It gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach--or, if I actually force myself to watch it (to prove to myself that I am a normal person and the fact that these images of entirely fantastic expansion shouldn't really bother me) a feeling that something terrible will happen when the tension is finally released. There is a deep part of me that is simply terrified of watching the buildup of pressure that leads to an explosion, and it is this strange quirk of my makeup that will guarantee that if I ever cross paths with a looner, I will hail them as a cousin.

Granted, this peculiar quirk doesn't have much affect on my life. It doesn't inhibit with my everyday functioning, unless you count my media consumption. I didn't even see the second half of Willy Wonka until many years later, when there was a community showing of it that I attended with my friends. I went to the bathroom during the "Blueberry" part, and came back when it was over. I did the same thing during the pig scene in Sprited Away. And that stuffing scene in Cool Hand Luke. And this one bit in Brasil that you will probably watch and feel nothing for at all. It's why I still haven't seen Wall-E.

Oh, yeah, and Akira.



I saw Akira originally because I wanted to watch more anime, and it was recommended to me as a classic. I haven't had much of a desire to watch any anime since.

If I want an explanation for why I feel this way, it's really very simple. I am horrified at losing control over my body to that extent. The possibility of my body's cells going berserk in quite that way is highly unlikely, but nevertheless lurks in the same space as my fear of deep water or airplane crashes. And I feel the same sense of unease when I read about someone who on my fetish forum who has the goal of reaching 500 lbs.

I kind of like my fear. It's how I separate myself from other Feederism fetishists. I imagine myself to be more virtuous in that I draw strict circles around what I'm attracted to, and what I'm not, what I'm willing to do, and what I'm not. In a seemingly limitless fetish, I have limits, and it's this that prevents me from doing harm.

Chat of the Week: Cee has an answer for everything

Cee! I moaned over IM one night, I met this new boy and he's too wonderful for me to talk to, what shall I do?

Cee: Stuff him and fuck him and hang him on the wall.

Cee: Then fuck him again.

Me: Of course. Why didn't I think of that?

Pervertables: If Halloween is Goth Christmas, then Thanksgiving is Feederism Christmas

It's true. It's the only time feeders/feedees in the US are allowed--and allowed to encourage other people--to overeat in public. It's like having a holiday where, for an entirely innocent reason, we're all told it's ok to gently rub our dicks or our pussies.

I used to hate Thanksgiving (relatives are boring, and I'm not too fond of turkey, stuffing, cranberries, or green beans). But thanks to several of the Belly Brigade* telling me that they'll think of me today as they push their capacities to the utmost, it's become the dirtiest holiday of the year.

What are my plans to celebrate? Well, since I'm a bit displaced at the moment (Q. is having a much-needed holiday with her BF) I'll be attending a dinner party with Avril that's being hosted by the BHM around 3pm today. If anything dramatic happens I'll probably blog about it later, since technically I'm crashing it. (I'd Tweet it, but I can't seem to get Twitter to acknowledge my phone. Maybe I need a new one for Christmas...)

Also, if you're a feedee in the US who's celebrating today, why don't you send me a photo of the results for the special Stuffies After Thanksgiving Edition? If you're a perv on Flickr, you can post your hot tummy pics (stuffed or unstuffed) under the tag "stuffiesblog"--currently, of which there are none. Or you can email me at missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com. I'll post the best ones right here during the rest of this week.

* * *
The "Belly Brigade", BTW, isn't a club or something with a paid membership, as some people seem to think. Even though I've jokingly put it on a few photos I found on Flickr, it's really turned into the name for the few feedee boys I talk with online on a regular basis, such as Cee, the Colt, and BBB. They're the ones I care about the most.

Also:

◆ Confused as to who the heck it is that I'm writing about? Check out the Who's Who of Stuffies.

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

Normal Sex: Fetish

One in a series of David LaChapelle photos that I tagged "Holy Fuck".

1. Desire


"Let me say goodbye to people," I said, trying to gain more time to decide what I really wanted. And I really did wanna talk to Sinclair and Diva and Natt Nightly one more time.

I found Natt on the dance floor peeling of his shirt to show us his new tattoo. He was wearing a wife beater underneath.

Might I mention that Natt and Sinclair are the first two butches I have met in real life?

I totally forgot what I had come there to do and stared. This was how it had always been: me staring bug-eyed, tongueless with the kind of full-body surprise that comes over me at seeing these things, and ashamed of myself because of it. Stop staring! I think, and I can't. After an awkward second I came to myself enough to make my goodbyes and went back to the bar to find that the boy who had wanted to fuck me had disappeared.

I was both really pissed and kinda happy. Mostly embarrassed. But then it dawned on me: He might be waiting outside.

And he was.


He took me to Brooklyn. We cuddled up next to one another on the subway seat and I put my head on his shoulder. We looked at the Sugarbutch Star chapbook, read a few lines of The Diner on the Corner. At some point I started rubbing his thigh and he grinned at me like it was the best thing in the world.

We talked about Littletown, where I live now. I guess that's why I felt safe enough to go home with him, we were both from the same place. He was struggling to pay the rent, doing work for non-profits. I told him I wanted to try and live in NYC, someday. He told me that eventually I would tire of it. I felt a part of myself relaxing, eased after the stress of the party. It was nice just to lean my head on his shoulder...

Brooklyn. We got off, still talking, and I stopped for a moment to look over the railing before going down the stairs to the street. "Why does all of Brooklyn look the same?" I wanted to know. Those "Unisex" hair salons. That awning in the colors of the Italian flag. The outdoor produce...

"You want to get anything?" he asked, winking. He meant to feed him with. I looked at the rainbow array of fruits and vegetables and realized the prospect hadn't even dawned on me, the feeder. But then again, the kinds of things laid out weren't usually what people stuffed with. "We use soda, usually," I had told him, trying to act cool, like this was something I did every day.

"Soda?"

"Yes, or milk." This was all new to him.

"Do you like watermelon?" I asked. He said he did. Watermelon was good, but could he eat half a one...

I looked at him and suddenly I couldn't imagine doing it to him, what I thought of as my fetish. He wasn't a feedee, really. I had known that, when I picked him up, because of his confusion. This wasn't a fantasy of his, he just wanted to get with me.

And I didn't want to force it on him, all that excess and strangeness and physical stress. Forget about it, I told him, we don't have to do that. Let's just do it the usual way....

More to come.

A Conversation About Fetishes

Sploshing image via Time Out New York.

The four of us were sitting in the living room, editing a comedy skit about fat acceptance, when the topic of fetishes came up. And, naturally, everyone began to name the strangest fetishes they had ever heard of for fun. Since we'd already been talking about fat chicks, the first girl told with wonder how she'd heard about a fetish where big women would jump on top of little tiny men. "Not big like we are, I mean these 400 pound women jumping on top of these 150 pound men in a bed!"

"Squashing," I said. There was a whole forum dedicated to it on my favorite pervy website, though it wasn't my thing.

"And there's this other one with food," said my theatre friend who had so kindly let me stay at her house.

"Sploshing," I said. "It's British."

Crap. Thank you for visiting the Museum of Sex. About this time a little voice in the back of my mind was going Shut up, shut up, shut up! Any minute now one of them would turn to me and demand to know how I knew all this stuff and my cover as a normal person would be blown.

"And there's this other fetish", the first girl went on in hushed tones, "where they tie the woman to a chair or something, she can't even walk, and the man will feed her to make her fatter."

"Feederism," I said, unable to resist getting in the last word. "Sometimes it goes the other way too," I added, in interests of gender equality. "Sometimes the girl feeds the man."

There was an awed silence from the other girls as they contemplated this, the most impressively strange of all fetishes yet named. My theatre friend said, in a tone of confusion, that she didn't know how the world kept going when it was full of people that were like this. And yet it does.

"Yeah, then you learn it's always been like this," one of the other girls said in a tone of worldly wisdom.

Stuffer Literotica: Warm Blood

Here's a little Halloween treat for y'all: some erotica! If you can't guess what movie they're watching, or who Mister Six is dressed up as, I'll either give up on my literary pretensions or my readers aren't the geeks I think they are.

* * *

"Did she just say "gorged to bloatation?" asked Rufus.

He felt Mister Six gently rubbing his tummy. "I think she did, yes. Funny, I've watched this five times and I was never quite able to figure out what she said there..."

"That's the worst-sounding description of it I've ever heard!" said Rufus.

A piece of popcorn appeared before his lips, pinched between two long red nails. He sighed, but obediently stuck out his tongue to receive it, knowing she would only press more on him if he refused.

"Put your right off your popcorn," Rihanna grinned, crunching a few bites herself.

The sight of a pretty BBW munching popcorn put ideas into Mister Six's head, but unfortunately he was on the other side of the couch. He bent to Rufus' ear, whispered, "See if she'll let you eat it out of her--"

Rihanna: "Oh no, he hit him with the tea kettle!"

After the brief flurry of excitement was over--he killed him and then was just drinking tea? That wasn't what they were after--they settled again in a big heap on the sofa (faintly dusted with popcorn fragments.) Rihanna sat on the left, Mister Six on the right and Rufus was snuggled between them, his head pillowed on Rihanna's ample thighs. They had been feeding him candy, popcorn, soda, and other sweets off and on all day, and he felt...not sick, exactly, but over-cloyed with sugar. Mister Six leaned up against Rufus' side, stroking his sides and belly. Rufus' slight discomfort added to the tension that always coiled inside him when they watched any kind of horror movie.

"You know," said Rihanna, taking a sip of her white wine, "I have no idea why I like this movie."

"It's got Johnny Depp in it," said Rufus, wincing as the boy sat on the trunk, crushing the fingers of the man trapped inside.

"No," said Mister Six, "everyone likes Johnny Depp," as if a universal should immediately be dismissed as an unfair advantage.

"What is it, then?" asked Rufus.

"Gives vore a whole new meaning."

"Oh, God, now that's horrible!" laughed Rihanna, and she pelted Mister Six with popcorn fragments until the barber opened the lid of the trunk and and the man that had been hit with the tea kettle rose up from inside like a zombie.

"Oh, is he going to let him go? No--look!" cried Mister Six.

Rufus sat straight up, his chest heaving. He felt his thighs and fists clench as he watched the lavish spirts of blood, the jerk and shudder. He brought his hands up--

"Don't hide your eyes, Rufus! The killing's the best part!"

Mister Six hand his hand on Rufus' biceps, and he felt the rolling of the great muscles there. Behind his emo movie-star locks and his cuddly tummy, Rufus had the arms of a prizefighter, but even Andre sometimes forgot this. He discovered his heart was hammering, transferred his hand to Rufus' hard nipples, his soft tummy, stroked him like a cat. He felt Rufus relax, and his attention was once again caught by the movie.

"'Haven't you had enough for one day?'" quoted Andre. "Ha! That's the best line ever!"

"It wasn't so bad," said Rufus, sounding surprised at himself. He found himself wanting to see it again, wanting the rush. The strength in those arms, the release of that blood...

"You know," said Rihanna, wrapping one of his long locks around her finger, "for someone who's stomach can take so much abuse, you're awfully sensitive!"

Rufus blushed. He was entirely unable to explain the fluttering, touchy, unbearable tension that came over him when he saw certain things in movies. It was like waiting for an explosion. "It's not my stomach that hurts when I see things like that in movies..."

"He's tender hearted," said Mister Six, ruffling Rufus' long hair.

"No...tender headed," said Rufus.

"Well," Mister Six smirked, "we all knew that!" He flicked the bulge in Rufus' pants, making Rufus blush all over again.

* * *

"Rihanna!" Mister Six called. "Did that box come in the mail today?"

His voice echoed weirdly off the harsh angles of his New York flat. Andre sighed in frustration. Even in a place less than a third the size of the Seattle Hacienda, she still managed to elude him. And here it was, almost 10-o-clock--and on All Hallows Eve!

He stopped by the darkened picture window, frowned at the elfin face reflected in the glass. He tilted his fedora onto his head, pulled up the collar. More than anything else tonight, he wished for a face people would take as a serious threat.

Mister Six let out his breath, straightened, looked deep into his reflection. He tried to assume the mental attitude of the character he had chosen, tried to draw from his tempestuous desires that cold and stoic spark...into the goat's appetite for raw eggs and sugar cubes...the kind of mind that would see a head split open in the unfolding of a pretty butterfly's wings...

Mister Six's sigh fogged the cold window--it was no good without a mask. Who knew he wouldn't be able to find the right mask?

As he drew patterns in the steam something Rufus had said a long time ago came back to him, about the mystery of darkened windows. The pressure of dark was like the pressure of water, thousands of gallons held back by a single sheet of glass...

Somewhere above him a door opened, shut.

His fedora slipped to the floor as he turned, his thin hand splayed against the icy glass. On the floor above him began a heavy, measured tread, as if the feet and legs that made them were beginning to stiffen.

A figure appeared at the top of the stairs.

He wore a button-down shirt, white, the sleeves full. It was pulled in close to his waist by a purple vest, and his black pants were snug across his rounded thighs. Over this was a dark brown apron--as simple as what would be used in a butcher's shop. But it was his face that was the best...and the worst. Years ago he had been apprenticed to a master of transformations, and his fingers had not forgotten that art. His eye-pits had been blacked, so that his blue eyes snapped and sparkled in the depths. His coal-black hair had been swept back, teased so that it made a kind of mane, and above his left eye was a bleached streak a finger's width wide. But it was the smaller touches that made Mister Six draw in his breath, the subtle lines of age tracked across the brow, pulling at the corner of his eyes. His full cheeks had developed sooty hollows. The effect was of full, firm flesh that had been drawn back to show the angle of terrible hungers.

"I need a knife," he said.

Mr. Six could only say stupidly, "a what?"

"A steak knife, an exacto knife... something. I need one." He was trying to fasten the cuffs of his spotless white shirt as he spoke.

"You don't need a knife," said Mister Six. "You need blood."

Rufus stopped what he was doing and looked at Mr. Six. He ran his eyes down the filthy brown trench coat, the bulging pockets, the purple pants with their black pinstripe, ending in a pair of very scruffy shoes. "Who were you supposed to be?"

"I was going to have Rihanna paint my face with white and black, but--" Mister Six ran a gloved hand through his red hair, and was reminded of his fedora, which was still on the floor. "Never mind." He rescued his hat, pulled it down at a rakish angle. "Come with me into the kitchen--I know just what you need."

* * *

"Here we are," said Mister Six into the fridge. He emerged with a mound of uncooked hamburger on a plate, the bloody juices pooling around it. Its ridges made Rufus think of brains.

"Salmonella," said Rufus.

"Just watch where you put your hands," said Mr. Six, taking up a handful. Then he squeezed it over Rufus' arm, the red flesh oozing through his fisted fingers. It wasn't the bright blood they were hoping for, just a clear dribble.

"Ugh," said Rufus.

"Jesus, what are you doing?"

Rihanna swept into the kitchen. She was wearing an emerald dress with loads of frills, her bodice pushed her ample breasts out and up. Rufus grinned hard when he saw her. Just the sight of her made a warmth come up from his loins and cover his sensitive belly.

He had forgotten the effect such a lecherous grin would achieve, augmented by his makeup--Rihanna stopped dead, her fan fluttering in her hand. "Rhianna," said Mister Six, "the box--"

"Oh, it came today, silly!"

She came back with a brown-paper wrapped box, which she unwrapped. Both Andre and Rufus caught their breath, for were greasepaint and brushes, lashes and gummed gems, false hair, vials of glitter, the teeth of old men and beasts. And inside the box was a still smaller box, in which were three lines of ruby capsules. Mister Six held one up to the light, and it glowed like a stone taken from the forehead of an idol.

Rufus was confused. "How do you...."

"You bite them," Rihanna said. She plucked one out and held it to her prettily made up lips like lipstick. "You bite it, tho... I don't want to get it on my dress. Don't worry, it says it's OK if you swallow it..."

Mister Six had already taken one and given it a nip. He made a face. Then he stood back from Rufus and flung it at him, slashing his waistcoat with artful sprays, the drops trickling down the curve of smooth fabric that covered his belly. He squeezed whole capsules onto his shoulders, making red pools on his dominant arm. He held his arm lightly, lifting it, feeling the hard curve of muscle underneath the soft billows of cloth. He pressed himself a little closer, his thigh meeting the curve of Rufus' thigh, a little bit of his chest meeting Rufus' side. He tugged off the fingerless gloves and made Rufus pull them on--they were too large on Mr. Six but on Rufus they fit perfectly. Rufus flexed his fingers, smiling.

"Ready to go?" asked Rihanna.

"Not yet," said Mr. Six, and disappeared into the bedroom.

"We'll be late--!"

"Just a minute!" Mister Six yelled back. Through the open door Rufus saw the trench coat go sailing across the room and heard water running.

He was looking at her dress, at the structure of the bodice. "Feels nice, doesn't it?" he said, his eyes straying to the laces.

"Like body armor," she laughed, knocking on it gently with her knuckles.

"A hardness without for the softness within," said Rufus.

Rihanna shivered. His flexible voice could mimic a hundred different people, but this one...she had heard it a hundred times, filtered through speakers, but never carried by a living breath. Instinctively, she raised her fan, dropped her eyes.

"No. No..." said Rufus. "Let me see your face." He took a step closer to her, in the tiny kitchen, and she felt his hand slip under her smooth chin, his thumb caress her smooth neck.

He raised her chin. Rihanna's red hair was artfully piled on her head, little tendrils coming down around her ears. Her large eyes, fringed with velvet and black, looked up into his in their black pits.

"I hadn't seen you yet with your makeup on," he said, and there was a kind of purr in his throat. His hand, as it raised her chin, was faintly red, and smelled of the raw meat they had been handling.

"Do you like it?" she breathed. She felt as if his hand had stretched her onto her toes, unbalanced her.

With his other hand he fingered the cameo hanging from its emerald ribbon, the lace that fringed her breasts. "You look very pretty," he said.

When he let go of her his fingers left three small red flowers on her cheek.

"Think I should shave?" asked a mocking voice at his elbow. Mister Six was standing there. He had a white shirt and white vest on, and was turning a top hat in his hands.

"Well," purred Rufus, "aren't you beautiful."

He turned to the woman at his side. "Don;t you think he's pretty?"

"Oh, very much, sir," she said, holding up her fan again but her eyes gleaming with mischief. "But I think he needs one more detail."

Mister Six held his hat by the brim, pressed against his stomach. "What could that be?"

Rufus' eyes moved to the box on the table.

Rihanna handed Rufus a capsule. "You do the honors."

It was bitter, Rufus thought as he bit into it. It had a strange, pomegranate taste, with the consistency of corn syrup... sticky and red...

Mister Six wouldn't do what he wanted. Rufus was taller, he couldn't see under Mr. Six's chin. "Not far enough," he said gruffly, and reached up to grasp Mr. 6 by the hair, tipping his head back. Mr. Six gasped slightly--pushing his chest forward, his arms limp at his sides as if he dangled in Rufus' grasp... Rufus could see the great vein pulsing in his neck.

With great precision Rufus drew a cold red line across Mr. Six's neck. The pretty boy hardly made a sound as the red blood ran down his neck and pooled in his collar.

"Don't wipe it off," growled Rufus as Mr. Six reached up to touch the wetness, "you're going to wear it like that all night."

"I won't," said Mr. Six. touching it and laughing.

Rhianna plucked a pair of fangs from the box and put them into her pretty mouth. She smiled into her compact, snapped it shut. "Well, are we all together now?" She was already heading for the door.

His hand crushed her wrist, and she found herself snapped around, chest to chest, his prisoner all in a moment. She saw the red capsule trapped in the corner of his grin, felt her tongue poking through her fangs, flimsy plastic.

"I don't think so, love," Rufus growled. He pressed her up against the counter, and she could feel the heat spreading from his crotch through her dress, felt a warm drop on her breast. "You see," he murmured, caressing soft, "you're next!"

But People Don't See My Fetish As Sexy! How Do I Write About It?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Stuffer Boy Sunday: Bartleby Jones

I love before and after pics.

Take a good look at this boy's belly, my tummy-loving peeps: what do you think? You might be hearing more about him on this blog in the future.

Related:

◆ Bartleby Jones' Myspace

◆ See more beautiful bellies in Molly's Flickr favorites!

◆ Are YOU the next stuffer boy? Submit a photo: missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com

Stuffer Boy Sunday Isn't Just for Sundays: n2bfed

me 230, originally uploaded by n2bfed.

EDIT: Hey all, sorry about the lateness of this one. I somehow scheduled it funny--one of the hazards of late night updates.

Stuffer Story: Warm Milk

Here it is at last: the first part of one of my stuffer stories.

Rufus Hex

Rufus Hex hated hotel rooms.

Strange aversion, for a musician, but then he had spent his formative years in a dormitory, rather than on the road. Upon his becoming more well-known he had become more familiar with them, but had hated them none the less. He despised them whether they were clean with huge smothering comforters, so quiet you could hear the ice rattle in the machine at the end of the hallway, or old ratty ones where the coverings scratched and the AC banged all night long.

This one was pretty, though, with a huge picture window looking out on New York City. And a kitchen and private bath. When he had come in he thought this might, possibly, be the first hotel room he would have liked--for there would have also been a pretty boy in it, barefoot, with neatly pressed shirts, a magically small waist, and bare feet below the immaculate suit.

Instead it was raining, and Rufus was kneeling on the sofa, his tummy pressed into the rough cloth, and listened to Mister Six talking about canceled flights.

"And there's no other way...?" asked Rufus. He brushed his hair out of his eyes as he listened. It was jet black and very long, but the stylists had it dyed deep blue so that in light it shimmered with indigo highlights.

"...but it doesn't really matter," said Mister Six into his ear, "because I'm going to be there for a whole week afterwards..."

Yes but not this day, this time we agreed on. Instead of the vision he had been nursing all day--all week--all the month they had been sending a web of e-mails and texts and late-night phone calls to create a vision, an idea, that Rufus Hex and Mister Six might actually meet in a hotel room and touch one another, become real, he would have to pretend he had more important things in his life, plans, hobbies, and read books whose words he would not even remember the next day. He felt the whole day opening up before him, empty, a wasteland.

"All right", said Rufus, and he could hear every drop of his defeat pressing through those words. "Love you." Press end. He put his arms down on the sofa back and watched it rain.

It was all so fragile, he reflected, these ridiculous assignments. There was no Mister Andre Six. All this time he had been making love to a photograph without seeming to notice...only this one could talk, would tell him how much to drink, how to finger his ass, could whisper all the gluttonous fantasies that would never fail to bring him to orgasm...There had been days he thought he could not live without that voice in his ear. But today, what did he have?

Rufus heaved an immense sigh, miserable with his own stupidity, and flung himself back on the sofa with his arm on his eyes. He should have known better. These things seemed so simple--Mister Six would move from one point to another, and the two would meet, point A and point R, when in reality it was just another torment.

Rufus had unbuttoned his shirt in his privacy and anticipation, and realized he had been unconsciously tracing his soft nipples. They were large, each with a nip of softness underneath them....not moobs, but proof his stockiness wasn't all just broad shoulders. His skin was perfect, an almost phosphorescent white, which had somehow come out along with his pure black hair and sleepy blue eyes, with their girlishly long lashes. He fervently wished that it was not his own broad hands touching his nipples, and that made him rub them until they became hard. He traced the scar around one of them, followed the spiral down his chest and then to his tummy, which made him smile. Unlike most pop singers, Rufus had no abs, just a gentle rounding below his pectorals. Around the height of his navel it became more pronounced, a soft bulge of tummy, and he remembered the gasp of joy he'd heard when he had taken off his shirt for the first time in front of Mister Six, modeling for him in front of the webcam.

Rufus grinned without realizing he was doing so. That was the power that Andre Six had over him, that even in his disappointment, even when he wanted to throw his laptop across the room in his frustration, just the idea of him could get him off. Rufus curved his back slightly, pushed out his stomach muscles, and ran his broad hand down his belly, caressing. There was something special about that curve, something so delightful in the feeling of soft, delicate flesh that was a secret key to all his lust. He pulled his tummy in, pressed it out, began to rub a little harder, faster.

His phone throbbed in his hand. Check e-mail, it said.

Andre Six to me:

virgin sucks ass.

but i don't want you to have a sad birthday. and, actually, one of your presents was supposed to come today. but since i can't be there, i thought sending you an e-mail would be best.

Happy Birthday, Rufus: i got you a tummy fluffer!

"A what?" said Rufus, though there was no one to hear him. He had learned a lot of words from Mister Six in the six months that they had been emailing each other, such as feeder, feedee, stuffing, and inflation (though Rufus felt like he had never quite been able to get over that last one.) Still, this word was entirely unknown to him.

as far as i can tell, she's the first of her kind. but she's something you'll really like. she's quiet and adorable, and will help you with whatever you want, but she says she likes boy's bellies best. i've told her your likes and dislikes and she should come prepared to cater to them. she's a good masseuse.

she told me she liked boys with black hair, blue eyes, "and I like it if they're taller than me they should have a little bit of a tummy." now, who does that sound like?

her name is Molly Ren, but she likes to be called "kitten".

The attached picture was of a very curvy lady, dressed in a corset and with some very frilly underthings on. She had curly hair. Rufus couldn't tell much more about her, however, because the main focus of the photo was her behind.

* * *

More to come! Part 2 is now here!

The Experiment

This would have been Molly's 104th post.

On other blogs, such a milestone would count for cake and champagne (or, in my case, a liter of Diet Coke and pack of Mentos.) Instead, Molly has taken a long, hard look at what she wants the future of this blog to be.

When she first came to me, eager to show off what she claimed to be "The Very First Feederism Blog, Anywhere!" I was as excited as she. I am a stuffer myself, and wildly interested in anyone's efforts to legitimize this delightful subculture. A blog devoted particularly to the intestinal workings of the most beautiful of creatures, stuffer boys, made me hurry to my bedroom in anticipation of a long session of critique.

My verdict? A quiet, yet adamant: "It's dull, dear."

Her eyes filled, but I went on: "This isn't at all what you envisioned--where are the descriptions of real life stuffing orgies you've attended? Your creation of a pinhole camera for a tour of the UK, in which you would take glorious black and white photos for Stuffies Magazine, Issue 1? Where are your drafts for Champagne, the full-length fetish novel starring myself, Rufus and Rihanna with full-color illustrations by mamabliss? All you have to show for your hundreds of hours of wanking is a very ugly template--" she protested that all Blogger templates were so--"and a lot of poorly archived photos! And--" I raged on, for this made me the most indignant of all, "what was with your ridiculous insistence on referring to me as fictional?!"

I admit for someone who so loves the softer sex, I can be very hard sometimes. Fortunately, Molly was only briefly dismayed. She knows that the best cure for when I get uppity is to tell me to stuff it-- in this case, by shoving a Twinkie in my mouth. Nevertheless, it required the additional administration of several liters of soda before I was fully quieted.

Later, having eased me by unbuttoning my suddenly-too-tight-clothes, she gently whispered to me the realities of the world. Sex blogging, of whatever kind, is a labor of love, for which few, if any, receive compensation. Her carefree college days are over, along with much of her free time. She must begin a search for a real career--one that will help her pay off the thousands of dollars she has incurred in college loans. The writers of a few of the other sex blogs she reads so voraciously sometimes work out ways to get paid for it, but she has yet to do that--and she feels odd simply asking for handouts. To carry out the projects she's envisioned, she'll need more readers, writers, artists, and fetish enthusiasts to help her--connections she has yet to make. And, she added, since Saturday she has had shooting pains in her right wrist, perhaps the onset of carpal tunnel after all this blogging--

"But," I pointed out as her hand cupped the fullest part of my belly, giving it a gentle squeeze, "it does get you real life dates with stuffer boys."

Though a mention of the Cheesecake Factory is enough to distract me, I do sometimes make some very good points. This one was enough to make her change her whole outlook. And so, as she continued rubbing my stuffed belly and I encouraged her with a gurgle or a moan every now and then, she laid out a new plan for Stuffies. She would try to write Champagne. Every week she would try--she laid particular emphasis on try--to post a new, polished segment of six stories that would have to do with our adventures in stuffing, bloating, and lots of m/m/f sex. I smiled at her projected number of tales.

"And the weekly BBWs and stuffer boys," I urged, "you shouldn't stop those. And Jaime has sent you the next installement in his adventures with the BBW Candy. And--"

She stuffed another Twinkie in my mouth.

But you, dear Reader--how will you keep up with these still-constant, but less scheduled updates? There are lots of ways!

♥ You can subscribe! Click on the box on the left that says "Subscribe to Stuffies"--that will bring you to the Stuffies RSS Feed!

♥ You can friend Molly on Myspace, and receive blog invites and updates from there.

What else can you do to help Molly?

♥ Leave comments! Comments, ideas, and constructive criticism are all welcome!

♥ E-mail Molly! Do you have an article or photo to submit, or just want to send her a link to something feeder-related on the web? You can send her a message on missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com.

♥ Or you can send her a message on one of her profiles on Fantasy Feeder, Myspace, Fetlife , or Curvage.

"I think I'll answer all my e-mails on Sundays," she said, gently laying her plump thigh across my hip. "And who knows? Maybe someday..."

But what "someday" would be I never got to hear. Cradling my bursting belly, I was already asleep, dreaming of my former adventures...and envisioning those that would come tomorrow.

Stuffer Boy Sunday: bellylover1977

[Via.]

You don't have a fetish, you're just selfish

Violet Blue critiqued an article by Psychology Today entitled "Typically Twisted" The article attempts to de-mystify many of the thoughts and behaviors people keep secret for fear of not being seen as "normal". Like fetishes, for example (direct quote):

A practice that is harmful, exploitative, or dangerous—such as pedophilia or public flashing—is deemed abnormal. But outside such clearly damaging obsessions, human-sexuality experts have a general rule: Unusual sexual practices are mostly harmless as long as they are part of a range of sexual responses. If you like dirty talk or get aroused by women's underwear, that's nothing to worry about...

Ok, I thought, until I finished the sentance:

... unless it's the only thing that turns you on.

Then it's usually called a paraphilia, defined as unconventional sexual behavior that's both obsessive and compulsive. For instance: A guy who can get off only when he's wearing diapers, or a woman who insists on dominating her partner. The person "is now substituting a behavior for a partner, and the behavior has become necessary for sexual satisfaction," sex educator and author Yvonne Fulbright explains.

A little bit of kink is a good thing if it spurs open-mindedness and a spirit of adventure. But when an object or a ritual becomes more important than the living, breathing partner, it gets in the way of a relationship and of sexual fulfillment.

Oh, crap.

I've had ten partners in my life, and I've never asked any of them to stuff themselves while having sex (mostly because until recently I wouldn't have been able to tell them what I wanted if they asked me). Instead I've pushed myself to be what--for me--might be termed "adventurous". With all the proper contraceptives and barriers in place (and sometimes not), I've been penetrated in all my holes. I've had penises and fingers and dildoes in my pussy, ass, and mouth. I've been sucked, licked, and fingered, experienced rimming, been handcuffed to a chair and even spanked (by my request). And there's never been a time when I've let my lover go before they've cum themselves. Usually, it's through my mouth on their dick, because I love to swallow sperm. Once, it was when I got a girl to squirt.

So much for just sexual reciprocity--how about emotional? Of the different people I've been with, some I've loved, some I've hated, some have just been a casual fling. Every one of the experiences has involved me reaching out to my partner, wanting to know what they liked, wanting to know about their lives. Some of these experiences have changed me forever, making me think deeply about how another's mind works, how I should treat people, and how I wanted to be treated myself.

But of all these varied experiences, not any of them has ever brought me to orgasm.

For a long time I was miserable over this. I've had partners feeling inadequate because they couldn't get me off. I thought there was something wrong with me. Then I thought I was just a normal woman. Then I thought it was just because my lovers couldn't find my clit. Then I found a lover that loved pussy and was willing to spend hours down there doing all kinds of things... but still nothing.

Then one day I was wandering around Myspace and saw this picture: instant orgasm.

This has brought me to only one conclusion: The only thing that's ever taken me "there"--the only thing that makes the blood flow and my clit swell and finally every muscle in my pussy convulse with delight--is watching a skinny boy eating until his slender belly bulges out into a tight dome. No exceptions.

I could go on like I have been. I could chalk it all up to some kind of strange narcissism on my part and find a partner that was only into normal sex--and by "normal" I mean light BDSM or vanilla. And then I'd never have an orgasm again--unless it was through masturbation. Now that's what I call selfish.

The thing that puzzles me most about this article is how it can simply be narcissism at work, when I've searched for years to find an alternative that would allow my partners to get me off?

But what do you guys think? How do you answer the question of balancing what gets you off with finding a partner you can connect with--especially if you only get turned on by something rare? Is it like being gay, something that cannot be changed and must be lived out in order to be a fully developed human being... or is it just as narrow as only seeing a skinny blonde chick (or a fat blonde chick) as attractive?

I've cross posted this on Myspace and Fantasy Feeder. At the end of the week I'll cull out the best answers for a new post. This is something I've been struggling to come to terms with, so I'd love you guys to comment with any of your thoughts, feelings, or experiences. This probably won't be my last post on this topic... the "Typically twisted" article is being hooted in several places, but it's gotten me thinking about how I and other tummy fetishists tick...and this will definitely not be my last post on the subject.

Txt Sx

Molly: --stuffs you!--

The Colt: --mmphs!--

Molly: U'll pop off all ur buttons!

The Colt: Buttons are for the weak!