I had a date this weekend. During it, he was inspecting my tattoos. He said, “fat’s a big part of your life, isn’t it?”

This probably wouldn’t have struck me so much had he not approached me because of his fat fetish. And I might not have responded had it not been during one of my moments when I’m so desperate to be touched, to lie to myself that I’m desired that I’ll swallow my politics, my self-worth, someone else’s cum with the naïve hope that maybe this one will fix me. They never do.

In another context this probably would have made me happy. In another context this probably would have made me felt validated.

He asked me what my family thinks of my size, as if it’s a communal issue. He told me he wants me fatter, gave me a list of things I should change about myself. He lauded my confidence and told me to never let anyone get me down about myself, and then he told me he wouldn’t know how to explain to his family how he could be attracted to me.

The juxtaposition of his demands that his fetish take over my life while his perplexity that I could have claim pride and agency in this body without the prerequisite of his gaze is striking. And not unusual.

I wonder if fetishizers remember I exist outside of their erections.

I wonder if I do.