If you look at it one way, I’m straight. That is, I’m heterosexual. In fact, I’m hopelessly, cravenly, exhaustingly heterosexual. Nobody straighter than me!
But that’s not the whole story. You know it and I know it. I’m a feeder, tried and true. That’s what gets me going. Girls. Fat girls. Fat girls who love being fat. Fat girls who love being fat and want to get fatter. Fat girls who love being fat and want to get fatter who get turned on thinking about how much I get turned on by all things fat.
Fat girls who love being fat and want to get fatter who want to tell me everything about weight gain and packing on the pounds and bursting out of clothes that recently fit perfectly and fatness and eating and overeating and compulsive over eating and food addiction and bingeing and stuffing and pigging out and simply not being able to stop gorging on high calorie, fattening food because they get turned on thinking about how much I get turned on by all things fat.
Straight? You decide.
I suppose it would be weird if the only way I could function sexually is by absorbing my mind in feederism but that’s not true at all. Feederism isn’t my only fetish, my only weirdness, my only sexual disfunction. I’ve got a full blown smoking fetish as well. And then there’s this unshakable transsexuality that kind of pervades my thinking. I want to encourage a girl get fat; but even more than that I want to be the girl who’s being encouraged to get fat. I want to encourage a girl to smoke, or to start smoking, or to return to smoking after quitting, or to smoke more, or to enjoy smoking more; but — can you guess? — I want to be the girl lighting up a cigarette. I have no trouble getting revved up when I’m engaging in my smoking fetish, or thinking about being female — except thinking about being female leads to longing to be female, which just leads to feeling depressed about being male.
Feederism, smoking fetish, transsexuality — I’m a sexual superman because of these things. Take them away and I’m a sexual cipher. I’ve never, ever, ever been able to be sexual without them.
Straight? Not in my book. If you ask me, I’m queer as can be.
Queer, and closeted. Don’t pity me. Accept me! More than that, though, teach me to accept myself.