I’m beginning to suspect that all of my appetites are connected.  I suspect this because they all seem to have come rushing back at the same time.  And that would be NOW.

A little over four years ago, I decided to go celibate and I’ve been that way until very recently.  It’s true that, during that time, I had a couple of boyfriends about whom I cared a great deal. There was even some fooling around, but no sex. One didn’t really want me: I was just sort of a rebound. The other didn’t/doesn’t believe in sex before marriage.

I didn’t mind the time I spent without sex, because it was originally for a good cause and then in keeping with a commitment I made to someone I love(d) very much. For what it’s worth, I’m not sure how I feel about the concept of monogamy, but I believe very much in sticking to whatever “rules” participants decide will guide their relationship.  Even without sex, I was a very happy, fulfilled person.  So, none of this is about regret.

However, I have begun to suspect that the celibacy has affected me in other ways.  For one, while I was suppressing my sexual appetite, my actual appetite kind of went away too.  I can be quite the eater, but for those years I didn’t feel nearly the cravings or hunger that I did previously or that I have since. (Especially since.)  The same is true for my other appetites:  I wasn’t compelled to read as much or write as much or….you name it.

I’d guess that part of it was just the act of suppression itself. The various types of lack, therefore, were at least partly self-imposed.  However, I think part of it was also a sort of dysfunction brought on by the relationships I mentioned earlier.  Neither of the guys are bad guys and I don’t mean to imply that they are. It’s just, I think the relationships affected me more than I’d imagined… No, not more; just in a different way than I’d imagined.

The one guy, as I mentioned, didn’t really want me. He wanted/needed someone and I was there.  He was hurting and made a poor choice and it didn’t go on long, but it hurt and it still hurts. I’d wanted him, but, to him, I was just filler.  And not even particularly good filler. 

Then, and I suppose this one is much more the problem, there was my most recent relationship. I met this man a year into my celibacy.  If it’s important, we met on FF and he found me and messaged me—pursued me.  I’m notoriously a bitch and I don’t put up with much BS, especially coming from people on FF, but this guy just said hello. 

And then did so again the next day. And the next. We started chatting really casually every day.  Within two months, we were talking on the phone, too, and I was pretty much head over heels for him.  He’s religious, a minister even.  Because of that, he never acted on anything sexual: not feedism, not anything else, but we both knew it was part of our lives.

To be honest, I thought he was gay and didn’t want to admit it because of his religion, but I didn’t really care. I adored him as a person and I loved him like family already. He was quite like family, too. My whole family knows him. Every one I love loved him too.  Even though I’m not religious at all, I could listen to him preach. His message was always about loving one another. He was open and loving and honest…when he said he’d do something, he did.

Naturally, we talked about feedism and what place it would have in our lives. We concluded that, because it’s a part of both of us, it’d just automatically be a part of the life we made together.  Eventually. After we were married. And we were planning to marry.   Being with him enriched and sustained me in ways I’d never imagined and, frankly, the lack of sex didn’t ever bother me.  I was happy. And then I went to spend time with him and his family.

The trip was in July/August of last year, after we’d been best friends for two years and dating for an additional 8 months.  I spent three weeks with him and his family. About two months after I got home, I found out that he’d cheated on me: while I was there with him.  He’d found some girl on Craigslist and agreed to meet for “weight gain role-playing.”  He’d also been lying to me about money. I didn’t really care what he did with his money, because it’s his, but he’d been putting off coming over here again because of a lack of money, meanwhile he’d been spending quite a bit of it on a feedist paysite.

It needs to be said that I told him when we first got together that I had no delusions that I could fulfill one person’s desires always and forever and that I had no problem with the idea that someone I loved might want to explore sex/sexuality with other people. The only thing, I told him, that I had a problem with was being lied to about it—being played for a fool.  That was the only thing I really asked him not to do in terms of our relationship.

So, here I was this woman who was open, devoted to him, and an out and happy feedee, to boot, but he never shared any of the stuff with me that he shared with these other ladies.  He never even told me he was into some of the stuff about which he told/asked them.  I know he has a right to keep things to himself and to be private and all of that and I never tried to force any thing on him or out of him, but this still felt like a betrayal. Moreover, when I forgave him (yes, I did) and asked that he simply not do it again (ie: lie to me and hide things from me), he broke up with me because he couldn’t make that promise. 

I want to say now that I don’t build/base my confidence on others.  All of my life, people have put me down for my weight. Even well-meaning people have implied there is something wrong with my fat every time one of them would take me aside, as a kid/teen and ask me about my self esteem—as if it couldn’t possibly be anything but low.  I never understood why so many people thought I might be at risk for low self esteem because of my weight.  Everything else on me is a total fucking wreck (which is why I am the person who submitted this) and I know it. I hate my tits and my skin and how not together I am, but I’ve always been comfortable with my fat.

Until now. I think maybe things with my most recent exes (especially the very most recent) have wounded me far more than I thought possible. Even though I don’t base it on others, I think my confidence has taken a hit by the role I’ve played in (at least) my last two relationships. I have to seriously doubt the kind of woman I am and the kind of feedee I am if this is the type of relationship I foster. How could I not have doubts? I realize that some of the responsibility rests with the guys, but some of it is mine, too.  What does it say about me that for three years, my last ex could talk to me about anything and everything, but then he chose to take a fetish we share to other people?

I must not have measured up. I know I didn’t for the boyfriend I had before him—had known it almost from the moment we got together, actually. He didn’t want me so much as to not be alone.  And then to have another partner who may have wanted me but who surely didn’t tell me (and, in fact, cheated on me instead), well, I think, over the years, it’s made me start to doubt that anyone would ever want me and, if they did, if I’d be enough to live up to it.  Honestly, I’ve been really worried about it lately.

Insecurity and doubts have been consuming me. I’ve learned that I must not be much of a girlfriend, am certainly not a desirable feedee, and am probably not much of a lover. Never before have I worried about my fat body in terms of sex, but now it’s all I do. Flexibility. Agility. Accessibility. Desirability.  All of these concepts terrify me lately. I remember the first time I was ever fully naked in front of someone, knowing that sex was in the cards: I thought I’d be nervous, but in the moment, all I could think was “This feels completely natural; this is easy.”  Now I just think: No one wants me or has ever. No one will. How could they? If even the person who has loved me best found me lacking, then I must be. 

I can talk myself out of some self doubt, but it seems as though that’s all I have anymore and it’s hard to fight in such quantities.  Relationships are hard and finding the right one is really a slog sometimes. I get that.  I think I can accept that I’m not relationship-material. It’s hard and it breaks my stupid heart, but I guess that’s who I am: hard to love.  Fine. So, I’ll probably never have that, but I’m a hedonist. Even if I am not meant to ever find love, I’d like to still find some physical happiness. Sure, I kind of would like them to happen together, but, in this regard, I’m a pragmatist.  

Touch and taste are things I crave—not just in terms of food, but in terms of the human body. I need them quite as much as I need sustenance from food. That never used to be a problem but now with all of the doubts and insecurity, I’m at loose ends. I’m terrified. I know I keep using that word, but I mean it. I’m terrified I’ll never be wanted.  This feeling is amplified for exactly the reason I began this lengthy entry in the first place: My appetites are back.

Feeling or being or worrying that I am unwanted isn’t as bad when I’m not particularly full of want myself.  Lately, though, that is all I am: a gaping wet hole of want and in just about every way.  I constantly desire the touch and taste of another human. I crave endless amounts of endless types of food. I can’t satiate my need for music or for words written and read. I need other places, other vistas, roads and buildings I’ve not yet seen. My head is a constant chorus of “I want, I want, I want.”  

It’s invigorating but it’s also wearing me down. Every want sparks me with energy to get up and make it happen and then my doubts kick in and drain me. I am fighting the doubts: I managed to break my celibacy and have quite a nice time doing it, but no matter how hard I fight the doubts, they’re still there.  And I wonder if they’ll ever go or if they’re things I’ve taken on for the rest of my life.