secret diary of a fat admirer

Male Feedee Smut

Disclaimer: Someone asked me awhile ago to write erotica featuring a male feedee. Since I don’t really swing that way myself, I had to take a different approach to usual and start by imagining how I might behave as a feedee (not easy in and of itself since I’m a skinny bastard in real life and very much on the supply end of feedism) rather than what I’d find desirable in a male feedee. Basically, this is a warning that I can’t vouch for the quality of what you’re about to read.

The waitress watches the man walk into the restaurant with rapt attention. He is smartly dressed to the point of parody: a sharp suit in a discreet, neat grey over a jet-black waistcoat. This latter curves outward drastically, hugging the oceanic roll of a gregarious gut. He moves with a neat, careful stride- confident, yet cautious: taking care not to push the copious width of his body into tables, chairs or people as he makes his way towards an empty booth at the back. The waitress becomes dimly aware that her mouth is watering: his presence is at once magnetic and hypnotic.

He raises a hand part-way into the air, turning his gaze on her as he does so, and makes a minute gesture- a request for her presence. She paces over, heart hammering somewhat harder than usual.

“Good evening,” he says, quietly. There’s a suppressed, seductive power in his voice.
“And to you. Are you ready to order?”
He nods, pleased, and opens a menu; points out several items.
“These,” he says confidently.
“These are all main courses, Sir…” she says, looking hesitantly at his selection.
“Yes. You’ll have to forgive me, Miss…”
“Gail,” she says. “My name’s Gail…”
“You’ll have to forgive me, Gail. I’m a man of some considerable appetite."  His hand goes momentarily to his stomach, and presses it enough to squish it visibly inwards.

A crisp golden lasagna; a rich, savoury cheese tarte; handcooked oven-chips bronzed to perfection and lightly salted. Three of the restaurants best- and most ostentatiously oversized- dishes now lie demolished in front of the striking, fat man, who is delicately dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a silk pocket handkerchief.
"Gail,” he says, summoning her over, with a winning smile. “Would you do me the kindness of helping me up. I’m quite weighed down.”

Wordlessly, she pulls him to his feet. Then:
“Wouldn’t you like any dessert?”
“I would. But alas: before I can eat another thing, I must stretch myself and walk. I shall have to eat at home.”
Surprising herself, she says “perhaps you could eat it at my home?”

In the cool dark over he bedroom, she pushes him onto the bed, and he lands heavy: feeling his gut press him into the mattress with a relentless, undeniable force. She giggles, looking down at him- still trussed up in a suit that looks like it was stolen from the Costume Drama Department at the BBC, and begins to work on the buttons of his waistcoat.

Within minutes, he is naked, looking at up her. He feels slim, hungry fingers running over every inch of him. She has not yet bothered to undress herself.

Gail’s hands run over his chest- soft enough to feel plush beneath her fingers, but (despite his immense overall figure), not yet soft enough to blur the line between physical masculinity and femininity. Most of his weight is carried in the belly, which her hands knead and sink into. She can’t help but kiss it: up close, it’s a landscape of seductive flesh, smooth yet tanned. Her hands find his thighs- as thick as marble pillars: muscular things beneath a lacquering of fat.

At once, she feels his hands on her shoulders- soft but powerful: hands with untapped strength- and she feels and keen erotic thrill between her thighs. He’s pushing her downwards and she understands at once what he wants. She goes to work on his manhood with lips and teeth and tongue.

Before she can bring him all the way, he slips in one graceful movement beneath and lifts her up over him. She is held only for a moment before being dropped back onto the cushion of his physique, and at once they’re interlocked.

She rides him, feeling at any moment that all that soft, living flesh in motion beneath her might knock her off.

Then it is done and all is still.
He laughs a rich, chocolately laugh. “We forgot about dessert.” he says.
“I didn’t. I just wanted to make you work for it,” she replies.

AFTERWORD

That was a really interesting challenge to write since it’s not really from my part of the feedism rainbow, but I hope you like the one-off, male-feedee story that resulted.

Fuck You, I'm Magic

Yeah, that’s right: I’m a magical fuckin’ bastard. And when I say “magical”, I don’t mean in the sense of just being pretty great: I mean in the sense of actually knowing magic.

Over the past few days, I’ve undergone a steep learning curve regarding the art of Sleight of Hand and consequently now have the ability to manipulate perception in ways that would truly terrify a medieval peasant. The speed with which I’ve picked it up- having next to no prior knowledge whatsoever- is actually a bit scary.

I’ve always been fascinated with magic tricks: there’s something terribly alluring about being able to take something simple, like a deck of cards or a coin, and make it do something impossible. However, I’ve never really gotten into it until now: it requires a monumental level of coordination coupled with the showmanship to make it look effortless. Until I actually sat down and learned the maneuvers, I always assumed I lacked both. As it turns out, I was wrong.

My main knack is with cards. It’s a shame I can’t tell you how it’s done, because that would make for a way more interesting blog entry, but the first rule of magic is that a good magician never reveals his secrets (unless someone pays him for them, incidentally), but if I want I can shuffle a deck of cards and then pull out all four aces without looking. I can turn red cards black and visa versa or make the cards in my hands change places with cards on the other side of the room. You can pick a card (any card) without me seeing and make me hide it in the middle of the deck, and I’ll pick it out as easily as if I’d been staring at it for four hours… even if I still can’t see its face when I’m finding it.

Cards aside, I’m a dab hand with a few other specific tricks: I can make coins vanish into thin air and I can move objects (in the form of brightly coloured little spheres) through solid matter (in the form of metal cups). There are a few tricks that are all about preparation that I like as well. My personal favourite being one in which I get an unsuspecting participant to hold some beads threaded on two pieces of string, then wind the string around their hand and pull both ends hard enough to practically bite their hand in two… except that’s not what happens: instead they’re left holding the beads and the string has passed harmlessly through both beads and hands to end up in my grasp instead.

Being able to do these kinds of things is a delight. Most of my other talents- writing; videogame-building; even a bit of art- are all things that are conducted in private: the viewer only sees the end result, and the processes of producing the thing itself don’t look all that impressive. Mostly they just look like me hunching over a screen, laughing to myself when I put in something particularly amusing. Magic, on the other hand, is immediate. It looks magnificent. It’s something you can show off in a way that you can’t with art or writing. At a party, you can’t say “yeah, I do a lot of writing. How does that work, you ask? Well I’ll show you: just let me grab a pen and paper and I’ll knock you off a 120-page speculative fiction novel exploring mankind’s relationship with art and morality”. It’s a good thing to be able to do (and it will always be my first passion), but it’s not a ‘fun’ thing in the public sense. Magic fills that gap nicely. Come an inevitable lull in the conversation, you can say “here, let me show you something” and casually suspend the laws of physics for a couple of minutes to make impossible things happen. What can I say? I enjoy confusing and impressing people.

Feederism Brainstorming Corner (Yes, I'm Making That a Thing): The Chub Crawl

You know Pub Crawls? Well, I find the idea of voluntarily spending my evening stumbling from one drinking establishment to another and having no memory of it and a headache the next morning an utterly mystifying one. But to each their own, I suppose.

But that’s besides the point. The notion of a ‘Pub Crawl’ gave me a great idea for a feederism-flavoured day/evening out- a little notion I’m going to dub the 'Chub Crawl’. Here’s how it works. You will need:

  1. Some money (can be obtained through work, trickery, theft or, in some countries, selling your bodily fluids).
  2. A half-way decent internet connection that lets view online maps- or a guide book of the city you’re in (I’ll just assume you have a web connection since you’re reading this and for some reason I’m not in print yet).
  3. A girlfriend/ boyfriend (if you don’t have one, go on an online dating site or just buy a blow-up sex doll, then keep reading).
  4. A pen and paper. My preference is for beautifully bound Edwardian-style note-books, but to be honest, some unused Kleenex would probably do just as well. NB: I said UNUSED. That bit is crucial.
  5. A Fairy Washing-up Liquid bottle (actually, you won’t need that last one, but with any luck enough of you will have seen 'Blue Peter’ that the joke won’t go sailing entirely over your heads).

Anyway, here’s what you do: curl up on or in the bed/sofa/beanbag/picnic blanket/vampire coffin/whatever with your chubby partner, and establish a comprehensive list of delectable treats they find especially appealing. Do this naked. No, don’t ask me why: just do it.

Next, get a laptop or go to your nearest desktop computer (put on trousers first: a hot laptop will scold your lap, and desktops are sometimes in places where other people might see you… like right by a window or in public libraries). Use this to match up the things your hot, fat partner is craving to cafés, swanky restaurants, gastro-pubs (OK, maybe not gastro-pubs) and supermarkets near picturesque parks where picnics may be held (unless its cold, in which case… you know what? I really shouldn’t have to tell you this). Make a note of how to get there, so you’re not wondering around like a tit for hours on end trying to find each place.

Now, the fun part… or the SECOND fun part if you took my advice about being naked earlier. All you do is go to each place you’ve selected and order whatever it was your partner wants on the menu. Importantly, don’t overdo it at any one place. This isn’t an exercise in stuffing (as hot as that is, this is something else. Bear with it, okay). You might get a beautifully frosted cupcake in one place; a hot chocolate brownie (with just a little bit of icecream in another); a small pizza around lunchtime somewhere else. You get the idea. In each place, take your time. Talk to one another; flirt; drink lots of cups of tea, coffee or hot chocolate after the food itself; try not to hurry. Then make your way to the next place you wanted to go in a genteel and civilized fashion. Walk some of the way, as this will aid digestion and allow your partner to continue indulging without feeling stuffed to the point of discomfort.

By the end of the day, your partner should be very full and (with any luck) happy and relaxed having spent a day being waited on with their favourite treats and you (I’m assuming you’re a feeder or, at the very least, Fat Admirer if you’ve read this far) should be feeling, shall we say, a little hot under the collar. By which I mean horny. A perfect combination for a romantic evening in, I’d say.

The best thing: you don’t even have to be in an out-and-out feederism relationship to do this. The feeder gets to dawdle over their fantasies for a day, but everyone likes to be indulged for a day, even if they’re not looking to gain weight. Being a feedee is not required for participation! Come to that, you don’t even have to be a feeder to enjoy doing this with you partner: who doesn’t like the thought of spending a day in fancy cafés drinking tea and surrounded by innumerable cakes? Now: you have your mission- go, go, go!

PROS AND CONS SECTION.

PROS:

  • Relaxing, romantic and may lead to sex.
  • Not exclusive to feederism couples.
  • Uses up a whole day that you were probably only going to spend looking at pictures of amusing cats on YouTube otherwise.
  • May become a pseudo-regular activity (once a month or something like that).
  • If you haven’t already come out to your partner as a feeder, now you kind of have to… but can do it in the most romantic way possible!

CONS:

  • You will notice that you considerably poorer, having done this. Food is costly.
  • Since this may engender weightgain, you’re under an ethical obligation to explain your feeder-y desires to your partner before doing this. So if you’ve been keeping that particular kink in the closet, now’s the time to let it out into the wild (actually, you’re under an ethical obligation to be upfront about your kinks anyway, so this may not count as a con).
  • I chose to call it a “Chub Crawl”, which doesn’t sound as romantic as the thing itself. Oh well: who cares? It’s a nice little play on words and I’m not changing it now.
More Things You Should be Watching

TRIGGER WARNING: Brief discussion of mortality relating to one of the films.

Some of you may remember that, a short while ago, I did a post entitled “things you should be watching” in which I offered up lesser known gems of TV shows for you to check out. I like doing blog entries like that because they give me a rare opportunity to talk about something that doesn’t make me homicidal. To cut a short story shorter, I thought I’d do another one. This one also includes movies and not everything on here is exactly obscure: some of it’s merely criminally underrated. Got it? OK. Good. Here we go.

Jonh Dies at the End
Just watch this film. I have no idea if it’s good or bad, but there is literally nothing else like it in the world. It’s like something HP Lovecraft would write if he’d been born in 90s and liked Star Trek and really liked magic mushrooms.

How do I even begin to describe John Dies at the End? It’s a film in which a drug that puts you in touch with planes of existence beyond your comprehension is also alive and intimately involved with an alien invasion from another universe. It’s a film in which the dead can be projected through living brains, where a person’s body can be taken over by a swarm of insects from beyond reality and where people suffering from phantom limb syndrome are the only ones who can openly ghostly doors. It’s a film in which terrible forces can only be defeated by an unlikely council of stage magicians, freakishly intelligent dogs and a couple of stoners.

By turns hilarious and unsettling, the film seems to be operating under a simple rule: every bizarre pseudo-scientific theory and crack-pot bit of cultism is real, but not in the way you’d imagine and certainly not in any way you’d like. The film presents quite a lot of this fictional universe without apology or explanation, and the main narrative is told through the eyes of basically-ordinary (if not exactly neurotypical) humans who don’t have a clear idea of what’s going on themselves quite a lot of the time. Consequently, while viewers will understand the nature of the flick’s main antagonist and the basic governing rule-book of it’s multiverse by the end of the film, a lot of smaller, specific incidents of weirdness are simply never explained or explained in terms completely inaccessible to real-world viewers who don’t share the same assumptions and reference-points as the characters.

If you’re given to existential dread, don’t watch it, because there are lines of dialogue (especially on the subject of the dead) that will keep you awake at night if you are and do. Otherwise, I urge you to watch it if only because you will literally never experience another piece of cinema quite like it.

Bojack Horseman
Bojack Horseman is a weird show, but not in anything like the same way John Dies at the End is a weird film. It’s a program in which humans and anthropomorphic animals live side by side and that’s just the way the world is (which leads to some brilliantly surreal touches throughout), but that’s not really what it’s about. What it’s about is a washed-up, cynical ex-TV star shambling from one personal crisis to the next, systematically destroying what little dignity he has left while surrounded by a cast of emotionally-unbalanced failure-at-life in LA. The fact that he’s an animated horse is something you’ll just stop noticing after the first episode.

It’s a sitcom. In the last one of these, I praised another animated sitcom, Drawn Together. I bring this up because I understand that Drawn Together really isn’t for everyone: the jokes are good when they hit, but they miss just as often and it relied a lot on incredibly arch characterisation. If you didn’t like that, though, don’t let it put you off watching Bojack Horseman, which is more of a traditional comedy in the mold of Black Books or Curb Your Enthusiasm, with the only real difference being that the particular cast of losers and rejects we’re learning to love this time round happen to be a variety of animated, anthropomorphized animals.

The early episodes are little more than an efficient, polished, but not-especially-original laugh generator in which Bojack snarks at everyone in his life and tries and fails to reign in his inner jerk while being surrounded by self-absorbed celebrities and show-biz people too self-absorbed or stupid to notice when they’re being insulted. There’s also a couple of neat sections in which Bojack flies off the handle about real-world issues (like the media’s insistence that all troops are somehow, magically heroes) and delivers furious straight-to-camera rants debunking the idiotic beliefs and assumption surrounding these issues… and usually gets ignored because he’s stuck in an environment where in-depth thought isn’t so much ‘not valued’ as 'actively discouraged’.

The later episodes, however, are something truly unique as the comedy becomes darker and darker and more and more pathos is incorporated into the characters and situations, until we finally understand: Bojack’s self-loathing isn’t just a prop for the writers to lean jokes about egotism on. We’re actually watching a portrait of a man (well, horse), systematically destroying himself, isolating himself from everyone who might potentially care about him and, worst of all, finally realising that that’s what he’s doing and that’s what he’s been doing his whole adult life. Most comedies would find a way to somehow allow the laughs to detract from this bleakness, or figure out a way to restore enough of the status quo that it would have less impact. Bojack Horseman, however, is confident enough in the funny stuff that is there to let the bleak stuff play out unfettered right alongside it.

If you ever feel like you’re caught in a rut, trapped in an environment that only serves to make you feel isolated; if you ever worry that some of your life choices and what they say about you… well, then Bojack Horseman will make you feel like somebody else out there (namely the writer) 'gets it’. That said, it won’t offer any comfort whatsoever, or even reassure you that you’re a good person. I can promise you an entertaining and emotive bit of viewing if you stick with it to the end, but I can’t promise that you won’t feel even worse when it’s over than you dived in. In my case, it’s exactly what I needed to see; exactly the show I needed to watch to remind myself I’m not entirely alone in my burned-out, cynical detachment. It might just make you despair. Horses for courses I suppose, but if you think you can handle it, I say give it a watch.

Farscape
If you’ve never heard of or seen Farscape before, it’s an old sci-fi show currently available on Netflix in which a bunch of alien convicts and a space-lost human flee from fascistic pursuers aboard a living space-craft. And it’s very, very good. Despite having a serious premise, a lot of it is played for laughs and the characters- despite none of them being human- all feel very human and radiate a kind of humour and warmth that a lot of sci-fi tends to eschew.

If I had to compare it to anything, my first port of call would have to be to the acclaimed Firefly, but to my mind, Farscape is perhaps the slightly the better series. It has a grungier, more organic feel to it and it’s aliens-heavy universe feels like it has limitless potential and surprises. What it shares with the later series Firefly, is a cast of characters with vastly differing personalities all learning to live with each other and swapping a lot of smartly-written banter along the way.

There’s not much else to say about it, to be honest. If you like sci-fi, or even if you just like good TV, you should grab some popcorn and watch it. Have fun!

Secret-Diary's Fucked-Up Book Club

Despite having the vocabulary of well-grizzled trucker and the persona of a serial-killer-come-tramp, I do actually read, believe it or not. Quite a bit, in fact. So I thought I’d point y'all towards some authors you may not have heard of… plus one you almost certainly have heard of but haven’t bothered to read yetReady? Well, tough: here we go

Charles Stross
If I haven’t mentioned Stross before, feel free to slap me the next time we meet, because I should have. The man’s a genius. His major literary preoccupation is with a unique interpretation of the Singularity- here meaning the point at which people figure out how to upload and copy their consciousnesses to and within computers and human history “goes non-linear” with multiple instances of people or back-ups of people wondering around through a massively complicated universe predicated on technological concepts familiar to IT obsessives that everyone has now had to adjust to because they suddenly have a physical presence in day-to-day life. Each book he writes seems to posit a slightly different universe (except direct sequels) that evolved out this idea, or possibly a different point in the time-line of the same universe (in some cases). At any rate, it’s pretty impressive stuff and it will blow your mind if you ever get a chance to read it. He also does a series where he applies IT and software memes to Lovecraftian Gothic Horror, and it’s truly fucking majestic.

Jasper Fford
I may not be spelling this guy’s name right, but he’s written a series of books set in a world obsessed with literature to the extent that our world is obsessed with sport and in which devices exist that can take people between books and the real world. In truth, I’m yet to delve into all his works, having only read the first in the series- The Eyre Affair. Suffice it to say, it’s brilliantly witty stuff and I urge you to get on board. George Macdonald Fraser
Author of the books collectively known as The Flashman Papers, Fraser’s work follows the life of Harry Flashman, a bounder and a cad living in the turbulent Victorian period who, through deceit, blind luck and brazen blagging convinces all England he’s a war hero and all-round gentleman-of-adventure… and consequently keeps getting into life-threatening situations that place him at major historical turning points in which he then winds up playing a pivotal part. Ingeniously, Flashman has literally no redeeming features: cowardly, self-absorbed, cruel, rude and womanizing, in Flashman, Fraser has created the perfect narrator: the character’s absolute lack of decency coupled with a certain blustering eloquence makes for one of the most entertaining reads you could hope for, unencumbered as it is by any ethical naval-gazing or tones of sobriety for the lead. Well worth checking out. Frank Herbert
Herbert is responsible for the original run of Dune books- of which there are many- and after he died, his son took over his work (and is doing an equally splendid job, incidentally, with the help of another writer whose name escapes me for the moment). The Dune series charts thousands of years of the history of a universe in which human beings have abandoned advanced computing technology but where various members of the species seek to elevate themselves or others instead, often through drug use and, in grand projects, through inter-generational genetic manipulation, until it gets to the point where the universe turns on the decisions of living superbeings with the powers of prescience. It’s a book that echoes with hints of magic while grounded in a believable science and strange, altered realism. Go read yourself some Herbert or I will show up on your doorstep and start bellowing it at you through a megaphone.
Fat Acceptance and the Problem with Going Mainstream

Fat Acceptance is slowly breaking through into the mainstream. Very freakin’ slowly. And obviously, it’s emergence into the collective consciousness and general Zeitgeist is a good thing. Every so often, you’ll see articles on it explicitly, and sometimes you’ll see celebrities (from a range that encompasses both the legitimately talented and the completely banal, just so there’s something for everyone) talking about not wanting to have to constantly diet for their work to be taken seriously or the lack of respect accorded to plus-size folk. Great. Hooray for that progress.

However, there is something that concerns me- and I’m not the first person to have commented on this- about Fat Acceptance’s move onto more mainstream platforms, and that’s the dilution of the message.

You see, ‘hard’ Fat Acceptance- the actual political discussions of it you see in the grass-roots community- primarily have to do with the way discrimination operates against Fat People in society as a whole. It’s about lack of representation; it’s about the language that surrounds fat in popular culture and in media and that way its calculated to dehumanise fat people; it’s about complex issues like the widespread failure of the medical profession to treat fat people’s illnesses properly because its cheaper and easier to assume that every problem they have is caused by their weight; it’s about the aggression and personal attacks faced by fat folk on a daily basis and it’s about all the changes that need to be implemented to start fixing these problems. However, the same is not true of the form of the FA Movement that’s started to pierce into the mainstream.

This more mainstream 'Fat Acceptance Lite’ is more about personal empowerment. Which is great- but not terribly helpful in a vacuum. Sure, people can say “I’m fat and that’s okay!” and the celebs in magazines can swear off dieting and what-have-you… and that’s all fantastic. No, really, it is. The problem is that reality, as it’s lived by most fat people, is far too hostile for personal empowerment alone to fix the problems they face. Being empowered won’t stop every other fuckwit in their lives telling them they should be on a diet; it won’t magically mean the media starts representing them properly; it won’t prevent medical bias and misdiagnosis or stop wanky airlines from trying to charge them for the little extra space they might take up on a flight (no, really: that’s a thing that happens). It won’t fix the thousands of tiny humiliations fat people have to endure on a day-to-day basis.

Being empowered is great: it’s the first step to achieving social change, because it means you know you’re in the right and can fight back against discrimination and bias. However, it is only a first step, and the publicly acceptable face of Fat Acceptance rarely goes beyond that first step. And that’s a problem, because it puts the weight of progress exclusively on the attitudes of fat people- it makes it about them adapting to a hostile world rather than about a concerted effort to make the world less hostile for everyone.

It’s a step in the right direction, but all of us involved in Fat Acceptance have a duty to remember that that’s all it is and to keep pushing for more.

The Dangers of Dating a Feeder

As a feeder, I feel obliged to warn you about some of the potential dangers involved in dating us (and by “obliged to warn you” I mean “my lover suggested this topic and I haven’t got much else on this evening”). Better brace yourself for some bullet-points, motherfuckers, because that’s what’s heading your way! These are the Perils of Dating a Feeder

  • You may find you have more cute chub than before.
  • You are likely to find chocolates and other delectable snacks turning up in unexpected places like friendly, fattening landmines. That sentence got away from me a bit.
  • Clothes that fitted recently may suddenly appear too small. Be advised that the solution to this problem is new clothes, not some kind of pudge-reduction. It is definitely the clothes that are at fault.
  • You may discover new delicacies you had previously been unaware of. And by “discover” I mean “get to eat massive quantities of”.
  • You may get really used to getting belly-rubs on demand.
  • Your feeder will probably use your stomach as a pillow at least once.
  • There’s a possibility that you will discover the treachery innate in flimsy furniture and too-narrow beds.
  • You may experience an exponential rise in sexiness.

As you can see, dating a feeder is a risky business. Please make sure in yourself that you’re ready for all the extra cuteness before entering into such a relationship.

Fuck the Weightloss Industry

TRIGGER WARNING: My assessment of the weightloss Industry, being as unremittingly negative as it is, may be slightly depressing.

Hello, friends: guess what I’m disproportionately angry about today! That’s right- it’s the weightloss industry that’s got my ire up this time. However did you guess? You just cheated and read the title title didn’t you?

Anyway, I’ve berated the weightloss industry as part of my Fat Acceptance rants before- I’ve even discussed it’s origins in Victorian Capitalism (click here to see that, by the way), but I’m not certain I’ve ever sat down and fully elaborated on my contempt for said industry. Well, brace your bad selves, motherfuckers, ‘cause that’s about to change, Big-Time Stylee! Wait, sorry: I don’t know what happened there- I just went all gangsta for a minute. That’s the last time I’m playing Saints Row right before writing one these things!

Anyway, back to my point. It’s not just the fact that the weightloss industry’s mere existence and pervasiveness in our society is constantly sending a message that people’s bodies aren’t good enough unless they conform to a specific shape (although, that idea alone is more than sufficient to piss me off). My revulsion runs a little deeper than that. Part of it, too, is the sense of a whole industry profiteering from other folks’ insecurities. But again, that’s only part of it.

What really twists my dick (I have no idea what orifice I pulled that expression from) about it is how grim and, as I already said, bloody pervasive it is. Open a magazine and there’s an advert trying to sell you a new diet pill or diet plan. Go on the internet, and there’s a a pop-up offering “one easy tip for weightloss” (which is almost certainly either fictional, a computer virus or both). Walk down a street, and there’s a gym, inviting you to “get in shape” with a faux-friendly little picture attached.

Actually, let’s just pause for a moment in this larger rant to indulge in a little sub-rant, shall we? Why? Because gyms have a special place in hatred and ire. Like the adverts and diet-plans and so-on-and-so-on, their basically arseing great monoliths to body-fascism. The difference is that they also actually take up physical space on a high-street. Space that could be used for cafes or bookshops or comic-book stores or videogame emporiums or statues of Irish Revolutionary James Connolly or chocolate shops or anything except a bloody gym, basically. Aside from being wastes of space, there’s something about them that I find visually offensive: it’s not just that they’re usually housed in ugly modern buildings, it’s the visual language of them: the twee, approachable facade that belies their real nature, that whispers “you’re not good enough” while pretending to be your friend.

Come to that, that point is one that can be applied to the whole weight-loss industry as a whole. I might first have realised it in connection with gyms, but having typed that last paragraph, I just realised that they whole cocking industry does this. Not only does it bully and cajole and try to convince you that you’ll only be acceptable when you fit a certain, ephemeral ideal, but all the time it’s doing this, it’s pretending to be on your side.

It’s not just the weight-loss industry, either, come to think of it. It’s the whole “beauty industry”- all those products that say they can help you “fight the seven signs of aging” or “improve the appearance of your skin” or any one of a hundred other weaseling catcheisms, that seek to imply that something which is perfectly natural is something you should feel revulsion at.

And this is what sickens me: the ubiquity of an industry that is, ultimately, not merely bad for the public psyche, but also two-faced and manipulative. The weight-loss industry, the beauty industry, gyms: they tell you they can help you with problems that they invented, they take your money in return for this paradoxical “service”, and they have the cheek to smile while they do it.

The (Not-So) Hidden Profiteers Behind Weight-Discrimination

If I’m ever a ghost, I think I’d quite like to haunt Brian Cox. I did try to haunt him while alive once, but as the police explained to me, this is just called “stalking” and its generally frowned upon. The reason I bring this up is because… well, basically to alleviate the unremitting horror of my existence. It has nothing to do with the topic of today’s blog. Speaking of which, let’s get on with the subject proper before my will to write anything other than jokes about how haunting people is stalking but haunting houses is just loitering melts away entirely.

To whit, I was thinking about the Fat Acceptance Movement and my support for it and I realised how staggeringly odd it must seem from an outside perspective… which probably goes some way to explain why very stupid people who can’t see beyond that first impression of oddness take against it, like the braying yahoos they are.

Part of this intial impression of oddness stems, I think, from the fact that human beings have historically discriminated against one another based on non-variables (things that don’t typically change) like skin-colour, gender, ethnic origin or sexuality, so weight-discrimination is, itself, incredibly fucking bizarre as weight is a variable that can alter over a person’s life due to genetics, environmental factors, life-choices and sheer dumb luck. I’m not here to prove for the nth time that it exists- at this point I think we can all just take it as read that it just does (in much the same way we take it as read that the grass is green or that Sarah Palin has the IQ of a single, lonesome plankton)- but I should take a moment to explain why weight-discrimination breaks the usual rule and uses a variable as a factor with which to unfairly discriminate against people.

You see, the obvious advantage of using non-variables for an oppressive group looking for a scape-goat is that they’re unlikely to ever find themselves in a position where they’ll have to face that discrimination themselves. The reason that weight-discrimination breaks this rule is because the oppressors are not defined by their physiological difference to the oppressed: thin people are encouraged to think of themselves, wrongly, as innately superior to fat people, thereby making them part of the system of oppression, but they do not exclusively define the group that’s pulling the strings. In this case, the oppressors are those who profiteer from the system of discrimination: the magazine and media moguls who push a certain standard of beauty because it brings in advertising revenue from cosmetics companies and diet-peddlers, the aforesaid cosmetics companies and diet-peddlers themselves, pharmaceutical corporations with a vested interest in promoting the idea that only certain body-types can be healthy, etc. etc. For these people, using a variable as a defining characteristic of who to discriminate against is actually an advantage, because they can effectively hoodwink an entire population into buying their products and conforming to the patterns they set, because even those who don’t fit the description of those being discriminated against fear that they might become part of that demographic if they don’t desperately adhere to the rules being pushed by the aforementioned profiteering wankers. I can’t think of a singe, solitary joke for that last paragraph by the way, so please pretend I said something funny at this point- preferably that I somehow managed to paint an inglorious mental image of a clown committing cunnilingus without taking the red pompom off his nose first and somehow managed to make it sound like a clever metaphor for the thing actually being discussed. Don’t over-think that last sentence.

Anyway, before anybody cries “conspiracy theorist”, I’d like to point out that profiteering from other people’s insecurities doesn’t require the slightest bit of conspiracy: it simply requires enough people with money realising that a cultural trope can be turned over for profit. The trope of weight-alteration as something capitalism could use to flog shit, as I’ve discussed before, got stuck in around the Victorian Era but in a much less substantial way than today, which is what set up the cultural bias in favour of thinness that companies today exploit. Also, because this particular trope has been doing the rounds for so fucking long, even the people pushing it actually believe it simply because we’re several generations in now, and apparently the development of the critical faculty in potential “Captains of Industry” is permanently nullified by the magic entwatenning (pronounced en-twat-enning) leprechaun the moment they get their business degrees.

Which, believe it or not, brings us back to our original musing. Not only do some people- peasants, basically- find the Fat Acceptance Movement  odd because the thing it tries to combat is so brazenly counter-intuitive that its hard for some to credit that it exists, it’s also that weight discrimination has been around so long that its become part of the cultural landscape, or at least the insidious foundations on which it’s built have, and the more engrained a system is, the harder it is for people to comprehend the alternative.

None of this is to excuse the dumb fucks who refuse to acknowledge the validity of the Fat Acceptance Movement however. I’ve never found “it’s hard to wrap my head around” to be an especially plausible excuse for the willing suspension of the analytical faculty, and even if a person genuinely can’t grasp all of the issues and ethics involved, that shouldn’t prevent them from recognising something important when it practically smacks them over the head with a filing cabinet.

Which just leaves one question unanswered for this entry: why do the profiteers themselves not worry that they’ll be on the receiving end of the discrimination they’ve created? Well, partly because they’re pointlessly rich and waft through their over-privileged lives in a scented cloud total wank that shields them from anything that the rest of us have to put up with and partly, as I said, because they genuinely believe that the aesthetics that they push to the point of life-goals actually have merit because, for reasons already discussed, they’re just as brainwashed as the rest of society. I’d say its a case of the blind leading the blind, but that would be a blatant insult to everyone deprived of functioning eyeballs. It’s more a case of a zombies being led by a radish with a dollar sign on it rolling down the street without any clear sense of direction (because its a fucking radish): it’s not immediately obvious how the situation came to be and so most people just take the lazy option and assume that the radish knows what its doing despite it being painfully obvious that it doesn’t.

And yes, you did read that right: I just told every capitalist everywhere that they’re essentially a root vegetable with a crudely-carved monetary symbol on it, which I’m proud to say not even Karl Marx thought of. Suck on that, beardy.

2

NEW Project Double-V Screenshots

Both of these screenshots are from a world you visit in the game’s second act, which was a world many of us inhabitants of the real world might loosely have recognised… until an unparalleled force of destruction came visiting. Spoiler warning: it’s not supposed to be on fire like that! Let’s have a look at the screenshots in detail, shall we.

SCREENSHOT 1: Our first glimpse of this world in ruin. The heavy graffiti that covers practically everything speaks of a desperate civilisation, appealing for answers or help. The ruined buildings and the fact that the furthest layer of background detail appears to be engulfed in fire are a more blatant visual signpost showing the player just how bad things have gotten… but I think the graffiti’s a nice touch. Fun fact: the billboard behind the player character is advertising a film (called The World Beyond Her Eyes) by a filmmaker called Raddy Sashman.You can’t read his name under the graffiti detail, but that’s what it says. Anyway, Sashman was a pseudo-sleazy director in a piece of erotica I wrote on FF a few years back. For some reason, here seemed like a good place for him to make an impromptu cameo as an ‘unseen’ character.

SCREENSHOT 2: I’ve mostly included this one to give viewers a better look at the deepest layer of background detail, because it’s some of the most starkly effective art you’ll see in Project Double-V. I love the way the flames work to give the air a 'thick’ appearance, so the most distant buildings are partially obscured. The visual technique for achieving this effect is something I discovered quite by accident, but I’m glad I did. In the finished version, this area might have more (closer) buildings between you and that deep background detail, but there’ll still be plenty of places in the level where it’s on full display.

Fat Folk and Booths At Restaurants

Whose fucking genius idea was it to make booths at restaurants that fat people can’t fit into properly? No really: you’re a fucking restaurant. You’re whole job is about serving delicious and often fattening food. If you're customers aren’t fat when they first come to you, you better hope they are by the time they’ve been going to your establishment awhile, ‘cause that’s an indication that you’re good at your job.

I’m not even fat and this pisses me off. For fuck sake: try catering to your target demographic, dipshits. The skinny fuckers who come in and only order a salad and a glass of dry white wine or some shit might look very pretty poised in your fancy compact booths, but they’re not exactly you’re main earners, are they? Give a little something back to those glorious chubby folk who like their food enough to indulge in regular restaurant outings.

Why, yes! I am just pitching these suggestions so that there are more viable restaurants for me to take my (inevitably hot, fat) future dates to! Now shut up and get back to redesigning your booths: and this time, do it properly.

A Feminist Post (or "Yes, the Wage Gap is A Real Problem, You Misogynist Morons")

TRIGGER WARNING: If you’re a misogynist twat or a big fan of the military, you’re about to insulted for six whole paragraphs.

I don’t usually post directly feminist entries, for a number of reasons- the main one being that though I support the underlying cause of feminism (i.e. genuine equality between men and women), there are enough points of difference between my views and those of the feminist movement as a whole that I’d just be muddying the waters to no real purpose if I became actively involved. However, every so often, some misogynist Fuckwit McBellend will say something so offensively stupid that not commenting simply isn’t an option for me. What can I say? You can’t put a target that slow-moving and dense in front of me and not expect me to savage it. That would just be cruel. So, for this entry, I’m putting on my rarely-used Feminist Hat (it’s a sombrero in the green-and-purple colours of the suffragettes, in case you were wondering).

You see, on this occasion, it hasn’t been one brainless no-hoper being all misogynist and stupid, but a whole dribbling chorus of them. You see, folks, there’s been this trend here on Tumblr in which anti-feminist bloggers (or “chauvinist fear-mongering pus-maggots”, if you want to use the scientific term) try to dismiss the issue of the pay-gap that exists between men and women by pointing to the dangerous jobs that are usually the preserve of men. This is, of course, stupid on its face, since if fails to realise that men being in dangerous roles more than women is a product of gender-expectations imposed by the patriarchy- which is the very thing feminists are against, you fucking mental inverterbrates. However, it gets stupider, believe it or not.

The manner in which it gets stupider is that the favoured example used by the chauvinists when justifying the pay-gap that exists between men and women is, well, the army. Hang on a sec? The army as a profession is what they’re using to justify pay inequality? What the fuck? Listen people: the job of a professional soldier boils down to this: going out into the world to shoot human beings dead. Yeah, yeah: I know you can argue that in a world as unstable as ours, its necessary for countries to have armies and soldiers to protect themselves and each other (although personally, I think it would have just been easier for us not to have invented professional standing military bodies to begin with, since then the world wouldn’t be so unstable and shoot-y. But fine, it’s the situation we’re stuck with, so let’s say for the sake of argument that I take the point). Now, necessity or not, however, I’m not exactly of the opinion that going out and killing people is something we should accord high pay and status. Life is precious- we should hate the grimness of a world where confrontations force lethal conflicts, not celebrate the instruments through which this conflict takes place. I don’t know about you, but I’d feel a lot safer if societies across the globe stopped lauding their armies as paragons of national pride worthy of whatever financial and verbal praise can be heaped on them, and instead reserved that adulation for teachers and nurses, care-workers and educators, people who preserve life and knowledge… and since this is a feminist post, I suppose it behooves me to point out that these are largely female-dominated professions, and will be until further progress is made dismantling outdated gender-role expectations. Just a fuckin’ thought, people.

What’s more, there’s another reason why the military is a bad example for chauvinist idiots to use to justify the pay-gap. I’ve gone along thus far with their implication that it’s a highly-rewarded profession so as to argue on their terms, but this isn’t actually true. Ordinary soldiers are actually on quite shitty pay in most countries. The big money goes to generals and higher-ranking officers… which makes the whole “this institute justifies the pay-gap” line of reasoning even more ridiculous. I at least understand that low-ranking soldiers are putting their lives in danger… the average general’s job is more along the lines of putting other people’s lives in danger with very little risk to their own.

In other words, not only is the argument that “the pay gap is justified because men go into more dangerous professions than women” ludicrous, since its predicated on gender-roles that feminists would wish to see abolished along with the pay-gap, but apparently, the proponents of this line of- ahem- “reasoning” can’t even think of a good example to demonstrate their point.

Now, before I go, I need to say this: I am well aware that there’s probably going to be a lot of fallout from this entry, because I’ve tackled a subject that I don’t normally tackle, and that means I’m going to find out about a fresh batch of dunces I haven’t blocked yet. Also, I’ve probably managed to upset gun-nuts with a hardon for their nation’s military as well as misogynists. However, I will say in advance that if you absolutely must reblog in order to troll me and argue the toss, you should do so with full awareness that I will not be engaging with you, no matter how idiotic and loud you are. As soon as I’m done writing this, my Feminist Sombrero is coming off and being replaced with my “fuck this shit I’m off to play Saint’s Row” Top-Hat. I have said my piece: make of it what you will, just don’t expect me to care enough to respond.

Slither.

Hot chicory, people! Have you seen the film ‘Slither’? Because, by crikey, I think we may have a work of revolting genius on our hands here. Y'see, a couple of blogs back, I took a few potshots at the film 'Feed’, a shit and pointless film by a shit and pointless film company for a theoretical audience of staggering dunderpates so immensely stupid, it’s hard to imagine that they actually exist in real life. My attention was first drawn to because of its misrepresentation of feeders and feederism, but then I realised that there was a better reason to hate it: it was boring and that’s one thing a horror movie/ thriller should never be.

Which brings me to Slither, a film so repulsive, sickening and disturbing that if you make it to the end without throwing up, it’ll be an achievement. It’s the exact opposite of 'Feed’ in that it amounts to a masterclass in How to Do Body Horror Right. Take that as praise, by the way. Slither is a film so thoroughly wrong on so many levels that I can’t even talk about it any further without lobbing up a trigger warning:

TRIGGER WARNING: Rape; violations of the human body that they don’t even have a name for; sexually transmitted diseases. Oh, and also 'Vore’.

So, anyway, 'Slither’ is, on the surface of things, a pretty standard Rob-Zombie-Meets-David-Chronenburg-with-monster-design-by-H.R.-Geiger flick that can be summed up as belonging to an odd little subgenre within horror films best dubbed 'Rednecks-Versus-Monsters’. In this case, our monster is an alien invader of a unique kind, and the way it operates means that some proper critics have chosen to see the film as an extended metaphor for the aides pandemic.

Y'see, the eponymous creature is basically a sentient disease. It takes over one central person’s body, uses that person to forcibly impregnate another human with slithering, slimy worm-monsters (that look like phalluses, and I suspect that’s not a coincidence, given what else happens in this flick), which then go and force their way inside human being’s bodies, turning them into mindless slaves who (spoiler warning) will then return to the original host and merge with them into a horrendous, physically repellent superorganism. And if just reading this made you feel uncomfortable, then you should try watching it: it manages to be even more gross than I make it sound. Essentially, each stage of the alien life-form’s entire life-cycle bears a sickly and warped resemblance to something that happens (or really, really shouldn’t happen) in human sex. I’m not sure the film is trying to 'say’ anything, but it understands human psychology well enough to lean heavily on all the levers that will make the viewer feel most emotionally vulnerable and tense. And that makes it work as a body-horror film. It does what 'Feed’, a supposedly more 'realistic’ body-horror film failed to do by actually exploiting latent fears about what might happen to our bodies and at whose hands, as well as concerns over how much our biological drives control us… as oppose to, y'know, just going for the “ew gross” factor.

There’s also a more direct comparison that can be made with the film 'Feed’, but even typing about it is going to make me feel like going for a little lie down and some deep-breathing exercises to get the nausea under control. You see, there are scenes in 'Slither’ that use some of the same ideas that crop up in feederism erotic fiction, but in drastically different and warped ways. I’m not going to give too much away (more because I don’t want to type than because you don’t want to read it), but there are female characters under the alien influence who are subject to the kind of insatiability (and even use the same sort of phrases) that appear in the aforementioned fictions, only with the element of this hunger being for flesh- usually human flesh. In and of itself, that’s not much different from the standard 'braaaaiiins’ schtick from a zombie movie, but coupled with the films weird and warped sexual themes and the fact that the characters actually retain a functioning human consciousness while being overcome by these, er, 'desires’, this additional element should add an extra layer of discomfort for anyone who even knows what feederism or even Vore is (for your own sake, I urge you not to Google that last one- I know some of you are already well into that shit, and that’s fine, but the rest of you are probably happier not knowing). What makes it so effective is that, even though I’m not sure the film-makers knew about those things, those sequences serve to expose the dark underbelly and more grim and tragic implications of those fetishes without actually dismissing those who practice them outright, in the same way that the film drags rape, STDs and needless sexual disloyalty into stark relief and forces the viewer to take a good hard look at them without stigmatizing sex itself. It’s uncomfortable viewing, and about as gory as it gets, but I can’t fault it when it comes to thematic subtlety. Body horror films like 'Feed’ or even the hilariously, pointlessly bad 'Human Centipede’ might not be able to learn from the film’s alien/monster angle, but they could certainly take a schooling about the art of making a decent film from it.

And, if I was proper film critic, this is the part where I’d have to say if I enjoyed 'Slither’ or not… so it’s lucky I’m not a proper film critic. Y'see, I’m not really sure if 'enjoy’ is the right criteria to judge Slither on: it’s a deeply sick movie about problematic issues wrapped up in the trappings of a camp B-movie monster flick. Sure, you might find the former interesting and the latter entertaining, and both of those things are a form of enjoyment, but if 'I enjoyed that’ is the overwhelming impression you got from the film, then it kind of begs the question “what the fuck is wrong with you?” It’s not meant to be simply enjoyed: it’s meant to register with the same part of your brain for which the phrase 'morbid fascination’ was invented.

I’m not really sure who 'Slither’ was meant to be aimed at, since the adverts for it made it seem like the kind of pseudo-sexed-up, wink-wink-nudge-nudge titillation-fodder guffawing stereotyped frat-boys with the emotional depths of puddles would enjoy, while the premise and effects are more the kind of thing a lover of 'Threads’ (nuclear-war drama showcasing how totally unprepared people are for such an event) might groove and the dialogue is pure Rob Zombie… but whoever it’s for, it deserves to exist. It’s certainly one of the most unique pieces of cinematography I’ve ever seen, and if nothing else, other film-makers could use it as a massive bloody compendium of references for how to get under and audiences skin. They won’t, of course, but they could.

Why Fat Admirers Like Fat Chicks (And Why Men Who Are Surprised By It Are Fucking Idiots)

So, a group of pathetic manchildren have apparently been holding a protracted (and, more importantly, utterly fucking stupid) debate over why some skinnier guys (like myself) find fat chicks attractive. I’m not going to repeat any of their comments, because they’re derogatory and awful, both towards fat women and to FAs.

Since it’s apparently such a mystery to these clueless glory holes, I thought I had better take a minute to explain why Fat Admirers (again, like myself) are physically attracted to fat women: it’s because, as physical characteristics go, fat is really fucking sexy. It’s really as simple as that.

Have you ever watched the cute little jiggle of a plus-size lass’s belly when she laughs? Or felt the softness of her thighs and hips press against you when she leans against you on the couch? Or enjoyed the full weight of her voluptuous body when she embraces you? Because if you have, then shouldn’t need me to explain why those experiences (and more like them) are so indescribably precious.

Fat Admirers like fat women because we enjoy things to the full: we like richness of texture and size. We appreciate the delicious, opulent lusciousness of a fat woman’s physique (or of a fat man’s physique, for Female FAs and gay Chubby Chasers).

The point I’d like to make to the men who ridicule FAs and fat women is this: just because you small-cocked sexual minnows can’t handle the pleasures of a fuller-figured partner, there’s no need to be twats about it. The fact that you lot can’t understand on even the most theoretical level that the fatter form can hold delights for some people is nothing to be proud of. If you can’t shed your ignorance, at least be ashamed enough to fucking hide it.

Sci-Fi Needs More Fat People

The media as a whole isn’t really big on big people, but there seems to be a particular dearth in the world of Science Fiction. Of course, it could just be that I notice it more in sci-fi than elsewhere because I basically regard as “my” genre- it’s what I’m most into and it’s the genre I’m writing my current novel.

So, with my obvious bias declared, let’s talk about how Sci-Fi needs more chubby characters in its main cast.

I was watching Sunshine the other day, which is a pretty fucking brilliant sci-fi-flick all things considered. However, it is typical of a fair amount of sci-fi in that it has a fairly extensive cast, all of whom have significant character roles and who represent a variety of ethnic, gender and social backgrounds, all pulling together to overcome a common threat (that’s also a recurring theme in a lot of science fiction). And yet, they’ve still only got one body type between them.

You could argue in the particular case of Sunshine, that the reason every single character is fairly slim athletically-built is that they all have to be trained astronauts to do their job… except that 1) They don’t: the spaceship they’re bound to is clearly advanced enough to support untrained humans while most of the roles on the ship belong to scientists and mathematicians who aren’t really expected to take part in the physical aspect of the mission and 2) the same thing happens in practically every other sci-fi film with an otherwise diverse cast, including (to pull an example at random from my arse) Pandorum where the survivors of an interstellar transporting fuck-up are just random engineers and civvies.

I can accept a lack of total, cross-spectrum representation in flicks where there’s a very tight focus on a single, central character, because there we’re experiencing the world through the eyes a single individual and representation within the framework of film anchored to one viewpoint is always going to be secondary concern to getting the central presence right. Nobody cares what the representation’s like in Dredd, for example, ‘cause we all just turned up to see Dredd and his unfortunate habit of setting fire to criminals while wearing a cool helmet.

However, in sci-fi films- and games come to that (I’m looking at you Mass Effect trilogy)- that actively strive to have a diverse cast in every other respect, it seems weird to leave out something as easy as different body-types.

I suppose it’s symptomatic of the film industry’s attitude to body-types not idealised in the popular culture that it never occurs to them to include it while making the effort to be diverse that you would include something as simple as different body-types. Even when fatter folk do show up in science fiction, it’s usually treated as a joke.

What I’m saying is that there’s a fundamental problem with the way the film industry treats the human body as something it can just white-wash into a particular mould for its flicks as oppose to something that needs to be treated as varied and manifold, with some acknowledgement of that fact give in any work that aspires to be taken seriously. I just happened to express that through the medium of blathering about sci-fi.

Before I go, I would like to add an adendum to all this: namely that Sci-Fi books, are actually pretty good at body-type representation. It’s in the movie and TV show branch of the genre that the problem crops up. Why this should be probably has to do with the fact that a book is personal endeavor created by a human being with a sense of the world around them whereas a film- even the best film- passes through countless corporate filters before it’s allowed anywhere near screens, and that means that a lot of common-sense bits of let-include-this obviousness get filtered out in favour of whatever will look best on the promotional material.

On which cheery note, g'night, motherfuckers!

I can’t believe secret-diary-of-an-fa is still blogging. Oh goodness.

“Thin people don’t get treated like shit because of their bodies, fat people. That discrepancy is what we call Thin Privilege. It doesn’t mean thin people aren’t ever abused or suffer, it just means that, overall, society is set up to accord certain benefits unfairly to one body type over another. Or, to put it another way, THE FACT THAT YOU ARE THIN AND ONCE HAD A BAD DAY DOES NOT DISPROVE THE EXISTENCE OF THIN PRIVILEGE, YOU WHINY, SELF-JUSTIFYING WASTE-OF-A-GENOME.” -secret-diary-of-an-fa

That’s a very lovely slap in the face to all thin people that have been abused because of their weight. “THE FACT THAT YOU ARE THIN AND ONCE HAD A BAD DAY DOES NOT DISPROVE THE EXISTENCE OF THIN PRIVILEGE, YOU WHINY, SELF-JUSTIFYING WASTE-OF-A-GENOME.”So apparently the worst thin people have faced is a bad day? Screw off. I bet you’ve never faced abuse due to your weight. You’re just so eager to fetishize fat people. (Yeah. I heard from another blog that’s the only reason you’re involved with this thin privilege crap.) Oh yeah, and saying f*ck every three words makes you look ~*So Mature*~. Go ahead and try to backpedal by saying it doesn’t mean thin people aren’t ever abused or suffer. The first and last sentences of that paragraph pretty much negate it. Stupid.

Fat Acceptance, Like Batman, Has No Limits

It’s a point that’s been stated many times and by far more qualified people, but it’s worth repeating (in fact, it’s worth hammering into people’s skulls repeatedly using an actual physical hammer if necessary): Fat Acceptance can’t have limits.

What I mean by this is that if you say you support the rights of fat people- if you’re against the discrimination that is routinely directed against them in popular culture and day-to-day life- then that has to include all fat people. It doesn’t matter if they’re healthy or not, or if they’re larger than some arbitrary weight threshold you’ve pulled out your arse like some sort of rubbish bum-wizard.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Fat Acceptance is about combating the institutional and culture-wide prejudice against people of a certain body type. It’s about reclaiming the bodily autonomy of this group from the social judgment and ridicule that allows a perpetuation of this prejudice. That means that all fat people have to be allowed to live free of judgment, ridicule and self-satisfied moralising about their weight from others. You’re not allowed to say that you support Fat People’s rights only up until a certain weight or up until a certain level of health, because if you still want to set the limits of where fat people should have the same rights as everyone else, that’s you still wanting to have more of a say over fat people’s rights than they have themselves, and guess what basic principle of Fat Acceptance that violates… Bingo! Bodily Autonomy it is! If you got it reading along at home, award yourself a smack in the mouth.

In short, you’re either for Fat Acceptance for all fat people or you’re not. You don’t get to shove arbitrary barriers in at the points of your personal discomfort. If you feel uncomfortable with that: fine. Don’t comment at all, then. The Fat Acceptance Movement welcomes support, of course, but if you’re going to equivocate, it’s best that you just bite your tongue, ‘cause two-faced support is no support at all.

I see a lot of people- not members of the FA Movement, but random wingnuts usually- paying lip-service to their liberal credentials by saying that they support fat people’s rights to do whatever they like with their bodies before saying something like “except the really fat ones!” or “unless it’s unhealthy!”. And these people are not to be trusted. They’re don’t support the cause or care one iota about the people in it: they fundamentally still want to have more of a say over fat folk than fat folk do and as such they’re part of the problem far more than they’ll ever be part of the solution.

I post this for two reasons: to give you all a heads-up to beware this kind of thinking from others and to remind anyone reading not associated with Fat Acceptance not to engage in it yerselves. Partly because it’s wrong, but mostly because I’ll know and I’ve got a large collection of bludgeon-y objects.

Wait? What? There are People in the World Who DON'T Think Fat is Awesome?

Surely I can’t be the only Fat Admirer who gets periodically surprised by the fact that “Fat is Awesome” hasn’t been accepted as a basic axiomatic truth by the whole world. Sometimes I turn on the TV or go to see a film or something and I catch myself thinking “hang on: where the fuck are all the fat chicks that should be in this show?” before I remember that the rest of the world hasn’t worked out how smokin’ hot fat people are yet. It’s a really weird feeling.

Imagine, if you will, waking up in a world where everyone has just collectively decided to ignore a completely random basic fact of life, like- for example- the existence of the colour red. No magazine uses red in its livery; blood in TV shows is digitally painted blue or some other colour in the post-production edit; red-heads are never cast as actors or become celebrities without routinely dying their hair. Even the rosy-red of sunsets is never celebrated in photography. For ages after finding yourself in this world, you’d be continually surprised by the absence in the popular consciousness of something that you know exists and know has many attractive applications (see the point about sunsets). What would be more surprising is that nobody else seems to even notice. Well, the absence of fat people- or, at least, the absence of fat women- in TV, film and other media is a bit like that to me. That popular culture does it’s best to ignore that fat women exist always weirds me out and in of itself, but it’s made even more strange by the fact that fat women don’t just exist: they’re fucking hot.

Actually, you know what? Forget the comparison to waking up in a world where people just try and ignore the colour red when you know its just a thing that happens to exist. It’s more like going to a comic-con and finding that nobody there thinks Cat Woman is attractive. After about half-an-hour, you’d start running up to perfect strangers shouting “SHE’S A FUCKING FILM NOIR-STYLE THIEF WHO DRESSES IN SKIN-TIGHT LATEX AND COMMITS HER CRIMES IN A VARIETY OF PAINSTAKINGLY-ILLUSTRATED EROTIC POSES! DO YOU NOT SEE THE SHEER SEXUAL MAJESTY OF THAT?”

So I guess what I’m saying is that this blog is the equivalent of a lonely nerd yelling at strangers in a bid to convince them that Selina Kyle is sexy.

Joking aside, though: seriously? Does nobody else sometimes feel surprised and weirded out by the fact that the rest of the world doesn’t find fat people attractive. That can’t just be me, can it?

The Allure of Skinniness is Fool's Gold.

I just read a post someone made about wanting to be skinny and I think that it single-handedly proved the necessity of Fat Acceptance. I honestly can’t decide if I feel sorry for the person who posted it or just furious. Perhaps both. For their own good, I want to kindly, compassionately, and without malice stove their fucking head in with a wrench.

Allow me to explain: this woman was talking about wanting to be skinny, because she wanted “power”. She talked about having the kind of figure that will make people- er, men, specifically- faun over you even if you treat them like shit.

The most obvious criticism of this is that you shouldn’t want a form of power that involves treating people like shit, but that’s not the point I want to address, since I’ve basically made my name on the Internet by wiping my arse on the world’s linen (not literally: I mean “by acting like a complete bastard”) and leveling that take-down against this poor, deluded waste of genes would be hypocritical.

Rather, the issue I want to address is that skinniness doesn’t actually grant you this kind of power. It grants you a ludicrous level of undeserved social privilege(insofar as the entire world is tailored to make thin people feel like they’re figure is an achievement and heap praise on them while simultaneously erasing fat people from the public eye except to periodically ridicule them). However, there’s a massive difference between power and privilege. The latter is about petty baubles: it makes your life more comfortable and cosseted at someone else’s expense. The former is about being able to alter or influence the state of the world or people around you to some degree. And if it’s power a person is looking for, they won’t find it by dropping a few pounds and acting like a prat.

You see, while it’s true that you could gain power of a certain type of person by slimming down and conforming to their idea of beauty- power enough to treat them like dirt and get away with it, if you wanted- the fact remains that anybody who allows you to exert power over them in this fashion isn’t worth having power over. Anyone who crumbles to your whim just because they want to fuck you is a spineless insect and having the ability to manipulate them is as much of an achievement as having the ability to kill ants with a magnifying glass. It won’t actually get you anywhere, and what’s more, you’re setting yourself up for a nasty shock when you inevitably meet someone whose life might actually be worth being part of, or might be worth influencing in some way, but they regard you with utter contempt for being such a petty bullshit merchant, wholly reliant on a fragile social position constructed on superficial appearances alone.

To put it another way, if you were to act like this, it might be fun to torment the intellectual yokels by leading them about the dick, but pull that shit for too long and when you find someone whose respect and trust you need to actually earn before they’ll let you hold any sway over them, you’ll realise that you’ve got no other tricks up your sleeve, nothing to offer them and no way of getting what you might want yourself.

I suppose all this is easy for me to say. Not being a woman, I benefit from the assumed higher social status of men, and therefore have never had to struggle for whatever form of power I can get. I have, however, deliberately rejected petty forms of social power at every turn. The way I’ve dressed, the company I’ve kept, the views I’ve espoused… let’s be mild about it and just say none of it was calculated to fool idiots into liking me or give me superficial power through social manipulation. And you know what? I’m a lot fucking happier for it. Social power that you earn through respect, through winning people round to who you are and the views you hold, or through reaching out and offering a hand to the like-minded… that lasts. That matters. That will mean more than just the cheap thrill of cold manipulation in the long-run.

You don’t get meaningful power through a pretty face or a conventionally attractive figure. You get it by clawing your way to an inviolable view or position in your own mental landscape and refusing to take any bullshit on the way. Remember that: it’s the nearest thing to genuinely useful life advice you’re ever likely to get out of me.

If I Catch Anyone Partipating in "Fat-Shaming Week", I Will Attack them On Sight.

So, there’s a thing that’s been happening in the world that makes me want to murder a whole bunch of people, and for once, it’s not a reality TV show. A few days back, a scumbag son-of-a-bitch waste-of-chromosomes “Men’s Rights Activist” (come to think of it, I could have just said “Men’s Rights Activist and let you infer the "scumbag son-of-a-bitch waste-of-chromosomes” part of the sentence for yourselves) who goes by the name of Roosh V announced that he was instigating a thing which he called “Fat Shaming Week” on Twitter. Basically, what this consists of is a whole fucking lot of subhuman cunts (Roosh and his ilk), going around photographing fat women without their permission and then posting the photos with insulting comments to Twitter and other websites. I can’t describe how disgusted I am right now.

First of all, however, I’d like to give you a piece of advice: if this happens to you and your image is posted online- or anywhere else without your consent- consult a lawyer immediately, because I’m fairly certain it’s possible to issue breach-of-copyright notifications and force people to take these images down. While it’s not formalized as far as I know, I believe there’s a presumption in Law that you own your own image (for example, if a company wants to use an image of you in their advertising, they are legally obliged to obtained your permission and pay you money). So, yeah: if you can afford, blitz anyone who does this legally.

Secondly, does anyone know Roosh V’s real-life address? I feel that if he wants to intrude on other people’s private lives, he should be made to lose his privacy. That way, he might think twice about trying to instigate a practice that ruins people’s lives next time. Having people send you dog-shit and smash your windows on a regular basis until you have the good grace to sink back into obscurity is enough to put off even the most committed dickhead.

Thirdly and finally: if I see anyone trying to photograph someone against their will while this abomination is going on, I will attack them with every ounce of strength I possess. I wouldn’t allow a racist skinhead to kick a black person to death in my presence. I wouldn’t allow some homophobic cunt to taunt to a gay man to tears in a public place. I wouldn’t stand idly by and watch someone get raped, and I will not tolerate this psychologically brutal infringement on someone’s personal rights based purely on their weight. This is a warning for any man who may be considering participating in this bullshit: I have both the Law (if someone is being abused in my presence, I, like all UK citizens, have the right to make a Citizen’s Arrest- how enthusiastically I do it is at my discretion) and common decency on my side… and I will take great delight in abusing the power that gives me to break important bits of you.

I have never been so disgusted by something in my entire life, and I will do everything in my power against it and I would ask you all to reblog or copy/paste the legal advice I gave in the second paragraph so that as many people as possible know how to get illegally-taken images of them removed.