How I look when I go out

This is the outfit I wore to go and have some drinks with a friend the other night. 

When I say I like humiliation, I don't really mean degrading names or being mocked. That's fine, but it's not what I'd consider the really good shit.

What is the really good shit?

It's this.

It's the vulnerability that throws a searing flush through my cheeks. The way my heart swoops with exhilarating panic when I see how obscene I look in a group selfie.

It's letting my horny kink brain make a decision for me that my public self will have to live with. I mean, that's essentially what I do every time I spend another night desperately eating, adding another pound of fat to the body I'll later have to go to work in, go to the grocery store in, see my friends in. And it's what I do when I'm putting on a tight outfit, face blushing and heart racing alone in my apartment, turning in front of the mirror, trembling in delicious horror at what I see. Whispering to myself, 'what if I did? what if I did wear this? what if I actually did, though?'

And then I leave the house. And I do.

And once I'm out, the harsh slap of reality that would douse me like a freezing cold bucket of water and have me changing my mind in an instant is rendered helpless. There's nothing I can do. My kink-addled self put on the outfit, but now I'm the one wearing the clothes. My flushed and panting hindbrain ate the food, devoid of better judgment, but now I'm the one so overweight.

Knowing that, to most people's eyes, my cultivated and refined appearance has taken such a disastrous nose-dive makes me so lightheaded I can barely think. I take the train because I'd rather be seen, and I barely remember the journey. Now I'm outside, the impact of my decision is making my heart pound too fast, and my instincts crave some better cover, some slight modesty. I'm trying to hold my belly in, but it doesn't help much anymore, and as the frenzy of my self-inflicted public embarrassment fries my inhibitions, I let it out, slowly. Little by little until it's pressing against the front of my t-shirt, then straining. My lap is heavy with it. I hope I'm acting normally, but my face feels like it's on fire. My body feels so exposed. My eyes can't stop darting, trying to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the darkened train windows without being obvious about it. It's that push and pull I love so much.

I step onto the platform and my hang pulls low, having slipped all the way over my waistband and the half-hearted attempt at decency I knew wouldn't last. I feel the sensitive underside against the rough denim of my jeans, still covered by the stretched t-shirt, but barely. My heavy stomach bounces in front of me. I can hardly think. I can hardly remember the way out of the station or where I'm even going after. I'm so aware of every inch of jostling fat, my body doesn't feel like me. I catch big waddling denim-and-white flashes in my periphery on the reflective columns, chased by the panic of being forcibly shown what I've done, what I'm doing, what everyone's seeing. It's bad. I'm unrecognisable and I know it. I press my lips together so I don't moan, high on the horror and ecstasy of what I've done to myself. My poor body, once so aesthetic, and for so long as well. I know I should be used to it by now, but I'm not. I don't know if I ever will be, and maybe it's because I don't want to. The shame and the sting is much sweeter when it's all new and hot, burning bright and turning my vision to static at the edges.

I decide I'm going to overeat tonight, and shiver as I wear the consequences.