Dieting

This is the story of how a sixteen-year-old me ended up in the hospital malnourished, almost taking my boyfriend along with me in a quest to look my best for Winter Formal.

Before we start, it’s important to remember that I grew up very sheltered in a small suburban community in East Indiana. It was a place where the extent of sex ed classes was: “don’t do it,” and “if you did and got pregnant: don’t kill it.” On top of that, I always dreamed of moving to New York, where I would become this fashionable, cool woman that intimidates most men, but in a good way. I’m none of that, but that’s for another time.

So, the year is 2002, and “How You Remind Me” by Nickelback topped the charts and was my jam for every occasion; I had finally convinced my parents to let me dye a lock of my hair pink; and believe it or not, I was dating Scott Tuberman, varsity wide receiver.

Looking back, it is very ironic, given how he was the only one receiving in that relationship. Either way, I was happy about everything except how Winter Formal was approaching, and I was looking rather chubby, a bit too full for my dress. So when we went to Detroit to spend Thanksgiving with my cosmopolitan cousins, and Olivia gave me dieting advice, I jumped on the opportunity.

“It’s all you eat for at least a week. But if you want to see impressive results, two weeks and you’ll fit into any dress,” explained Olivia.

Now, I had tried other diets before; the celery and pineapple diet, the diet where you only ingest food at even-numbered minutes, and the cinnamon Tic Tacs diet, where you only eat cinnamon-flavored Tic Tacs all day, and if you succeed, you can have some mint ones before bed. I always tried it for a day or two, and then my mom would come home from work late with a pizza since she didn’t have the time to cook. And look, I’m not fat; I already told you I was dating the football varsity wide receiver. But I was also not at my best this year. So much so that I spent all summer in one-piece bathing suits despite all the beautiful bikinis my aunt got at the sale section last Christmas.

Anyway, I digress. My point is: I would start a diet and then stop. Not even because I felt super hungry per se, but because I would crave something yummy. That’s why when Olivia mentioned that this diet took away your will to eat anything and was not dangerous, like devouring cotton balls, I perked up.

“Trust me. It sounds gross and is, but that’s the point. How many times after you swallow your boyfriend’s load do you crave any food? I mean, you crave something to get rid of the taste. But that’s where brushing your teeth comes along. Just try to find toothpaste with none of the bad stuff. Something diet would be best,” detailed Olivia.

“I don’t know. That doesn’t sound healthy,” I countered.

“That’s the beauty of it. It’s all pretty much just water and protein. And none of that industrialized garbage. It’s fresh from the source, high in zinc and Vitamin C, contains some good fats and sodium, plus a small amount of B12 to give you the energy you need. It’s pretty much all the nutrients of a healthy, balanced diet, with a tenth of the calories,” argued my cousin.

I decided to take her advice. You can call me stupid, naive, or desperate. But all I know is that she looked fantastic. Even more, when Thanksgiving dinner came around, she dove into the mashed potatoes and guzzled the cranberry sauce. Seeing her not be afraid of the calories because she was so confident she could just lose it all the next week was inspiring. Apparently, throwing up your food was for virgins now. Another cousin of ours became bulimic, and I wouldn’t recommend it. She was anorexic, so she stopped having her period (which, at the time, my mom had to reiterate that it wasn’t a perk), and her arms looked like chopsticks. Not pretty.

Thus, I did that ten days before the ball: no carbs, no fat, just the good old meat stick, and some highly concentrated protein. Mind you, Scott wasn’t bothered by the least. Not at first. Initially, he thought it was a crazy idea. Later, he confessed he knew it was dumb and probably irresponsible. But what sixteen-year-old boy would say no to multiple free blowjobs a day? I’ll tell you which: Scott on the fourth day.

We were only dating for three months, and with our parents home most of the time, we were lucky if we could do anything once a day. And generally, it would be in his car. But he claimed his record was with stupid Vanessa Lynn. Apparently, when they were together, her parents went away for the weekend, and he orgasmed nine times in one day. I’m not sure if I believe it, but he did say the last two were pretty much blanks. He never told me this, but knowing him, I’ll throw in the wild guess that out of these nine, Vanessa didn’t cum a single time. Not that I care about stupid Vanessa Lynn and her naturally tiny waist.

So on the first day, I consumed six loads. I didn’t want to overwork him this early in the race. It was a Sunday, so we spent the day in the mall. I have a whole new view of the food court—one from under those grimy tables. We also went to watch Treasure Planet. I got little of it, but you can’t believe how much money you save when you go to the movie theater and skip the concession stand.

It was a good day, and I had a leg up when it came to swallowing it. It was still slimy and way too salty, but I didn’t mind the taste as much as some of my friends did. I always took the approach to gulp it down the moment it entered my mouth. No harm, no foul. Before this, I always felt the respectful compromise was half and half. Swallow one time and spit the next, keeping both parties happy.

The diet was working. With every load, it became a little less (literally and figuratively) difficult, and I was not hungry at all. On the contrary, I felt a bit sick. But looking in the mirror, I could tell my face looked leaner. I had to increase the swallowing to decrease the swelling.

On day two, I woke up late for school. Luckily, I saved time by skipping having to go to the bathroom. Scott was a gentleman; he stopped by to pick me up and deliver me breakfast. It gave the drive-through meal a whole new spin. We got to school ready to start our day. Me, fulfilled and energized, and him light and relaxed.

I thought I might say “I love you” for the first time the moment he pulled out a little bottle for my lunch. He was so considerate. It’s sad to say, but it was probably the nicest thing anybody had ever done for me by that point, either that or my dad spending all night awake, hand-sewing a unicorn costume for my birthday in fifth grade. He had the forethought to think he wouldn’t be able to feed me at school, so he woke up early to “fill up” a bottle. So sweet.

And it worked; lunchtime came around, it was meatloaf day, and while all my friends stuffed their mouths with that greasy, mystery meat, I pretended I was on a juice cleanse. I won’t lie; I craved some of the fried broccoli they served along with the meatloaf. It was one of the few good things they cooked in that cafeteria. But the moment the craving came, I sighted Vanessa Lynn delighting herself with those bread rolls. It was all the motivation I needed to stick to the sticky.

That day went by quickly. Nighttime was not easy. I had my third dose on the drive home, but it wasn’t until after my parents fell asleep that I was able to sneak Scott into the house for dinner. My excuse at the table was that I wasn’t feeling well, so I couldn’t eat my mom’s chicken pot pie. Mom was a bit suspicious, so I knew I would have to come up with a better excuse for why I was skipping meals. Dad couldn’t care less. He was happy he would have more leftovers for the next day. So when midnight came around, and it was finally time to eat, I couldn’t resist but splurge. I had two loads. One and a half, his second one was paltry.

For the next day, I instructed him to eat poorly and drink loads of soda. The chunkier they were coming out, the less I wanted to eat, and if they were about to be smaller, I would need all I could get to avoid falling into temptation.

So, on the third day, things were easier. Scott followed instructions and had cheese puffs and Mountain Dew for breakfast, making my penis butter chunkier than chunky peanut butter. The lunch lady gave a helping hand by overcooking spaghetti bolognese; I observed the noodles on my friend’s plates and they were more viscous than my shots. I felt fine all day. Mom was late from work, so I pretended I had already eaten when she arrived with a pizza. I could see the difference my diet had on my waist, and I could not complain.

Therefore, you can imagine my shock when on the fourth day, everything started falling apart. I woke up weak and with symptoms of a cold. To make things worse, Scott’s penis had become simply a source of food. I had zero libido. Still, I cranked the shaft for my morning meal. I could tell he also wasn’t enjoying this as much as he first did. And he said he couldn’t get any out before picking me up, so my lunch was going to have to be hand sourced somewhere in school…

When that bell rang, I probably wasn’t more excited to eat because I had little energy to get excited. We snuck into the men’s bathroom on the second floor, the one that even the guys were too grossed out to use, and it was feast time. Scott ended up not having any time for lunch because it took him a minute to be able to zone out the piss smell. I didn’t mind as much, and I could barely smell it anyway.

After school, Clarissa noticed I was weird and asked if everything was okay. She had been my best friend since kindergarten when we both picked on this smaller girl. I like to think it was good we had our bully phase so early, allowing us time to mature and be decent people at high school. Either way, our “yo’ mama” insults bonded us. I knew I could tell her anything. Anything but this. She would judge the way friends do, almost judgmental-less, but giving you a hard time if needed.

I didn’t need it. I didn’t because she wouldn’t understand. She had always been one of those people whose metabolism was faster than their mouths. She wouldn’t be done chewing, and her body would have already finished processing the food, sending the good fat to her hips and breasts, and discarding everything else. This bitch had been an XXS since we were ten and grew into a 34D. Telling her would only be another annoyance, and I did not need that right now. Scott complaining about his groin hurting was already too much to deal with.

He started to voice his discomfort on the ride home, but it wasn’t until our midnight escapades that he blabbered: “I can’t. I’m sorry, but this is too much. My penis is not a Mcdonald’s. And if it were, the ice cream machine would definitely be out of service by now.”

However, I unequivocally wasn’t done yet. Olivia had said seven days were good; fourteen was better. I didn’t need fourteen, but a few more for sure so that I could comfortably fit in my dress and look great for the photos. Did I mention why I couldn’t fit into my dress? Of course, I didn’t just gain a bunch of weight since buying it. I mean, I already told you this year I gained a few. But when I purchased this dress, it was already a couple of sizes too small. It’s just that I found the dress.

Perfect color. Perfect cut. The perfect fit is if I lost a few pounds. All of that for an affordable price. They only had this size. I didn’t know I would be doing this specific diet, but I always planned on doing a diet this week. The difference was I was so uncertain whether I would succeed, given my track history with diets, that I had a backup dress. Still pretty but not as dashing. But now, the perfect dress was not just a dream but a reality. And this wasn’t just about the dress; it was about how I looked and, more importantly, about how I felt about the way I looked.

“What about Dane?” I asked.

Wait, just a quick addendum before we continue. Keep in mind that I was sixteen, and it was 2002 at the height of Paris Hilton’s fame. There was no such thing as body positivity. And even if there was, as I said, I wasn’t fat. I was just trying to lose a couple of pounds. Realistically twelve, but I would have been happy with eight. Anyway, back to the story.

“Dane, my best friend?” asked Scott.

“Yes. Maybe he could step in for you?” I queried, knowing he wouldn’t be happy, but I had to try. By this point, my stomach was roaring, so even though I could see the exhaustion and the pain in Scott’s face, I didn’t really care…

Scott got up and almost screamed. I guess having my parents sound asleep a wall over definitely helped keep this fight to a minimum.

“Are you crazy? No, you must be joking. Tell me you’re joking,” he ascertained.

“Listen, I don’t need to eat straight from the source. Believe me, I have no interest in sucking Dane. But he’s your friend. Maybe you could ask him to fill up a bottle, just like you were doing,” I reasoned. And he stopped to think about it. I could tell that for a solid twenty seconds, there was a real clash inside his head between his nervous system, guided by the pain his penis was feeling from being grated nonstop, and his stupid male pride. No surprise who won.

“No. It’s fine, I can do it,” his mouth said despite his body screaming the opposite. “But you owe me one.”

“Sure! I’ll give you unlimited blowjobs for the next week.”

And that was it for day four—nothing like the fear of not looking macho enough to drive your man. Scott and Dane had been friends since I could remember. They played on the football team together. They skipped church together. And if the rumors were correct, they once plowed Vanessa Lynn together while Scott was dating her.

I decided not to let my brain mull over why he was okay sharing Vanessa Lynn and not me. But my point was, if they were as close friends as they said they were, Scott wouldn’t have a problem asking Dane for a bit of his semen. It’s not like I was trying to have his babies or anything.

The following day we were late for the first period. I started stroking maybe a minute after he picked me up from my house. The ride to school is about twelve minutes on a bad day. We stayed in his car in the parking lot for about thirty more minutes. That’s almost an hour of sucking, stroking, licking, and whatever else I could do to get him to cum already. If it were today, I could have tried playing some porn on our phones, but even that, I feel, wouldn’t have helped.

I decided not even to try to have lunch. The time it would have taken to get him there just wouldn’t have been worth it. At least on the drive home from school, it was a bit easier. But not much came out. My past ten meals were already very arid. It’s like I was having a diet on my diet. Imagine my surprise when I got home, and my mom was there already, and she wanted me to join her for grocery shopping. I was sixteen and starved, and I wasn’t the easiest person to be around.

During the entire ride there, she interrogated me. I guess my pale skin tone, the bags under my eyes, and my lack of energy translated as drugs to her. I was just happy other people were noticing my weight loss. I was not in the mood for her parenting, and she was not in the mood for, well, my mood. So, even though I had done nothing wrong – that she was aware of – I got grounded.

When we arrived at the grocery store, the air was filled with awkwardness and tension. But my mind quickly took a turn when a punk-rock girl who was protesting outside the market approached me. “Are you vegan? Do you know the benefits of a vegan diet?”

For a second, I froze. Not that I don’t care about dead animals. But also, not that I do care. But I felt like, at least at that moment, I was on a vegan diet. Right? It was technically an animal product. But was it? Obviously, I didn’t stop her to ask whether human derivatives were considered vegan. All I know is I ignored her and kept walking to the store, but I felt good about myself. All this time, I was thinking about the impact my diet was having on me. Me looking skinnier. Me fitting in my dress. Me making everyone jealous once I entered that gym with Scott. It was me, me, me.

What I didn’t account for was the good I was generating for the planet. For the past six days, no animal had died or been mistreated because of me. I was still planning on hitting Chick-fil-A after the dance for a late-night snack, where I would reward myself for all the days I was dieting, but that does not erase this good deed.

And that’s when the sixth day came around. I was only a couple of days away from the big day, but I guess my body wasn’t having it anymore. Neither was Scott’s. I gotta give it to him, he was holding his own like promised.

The night before, he gave me two good loads, and that morning he didn’t take that long. I, on the other hand, looked like a walking dead. I was completely pale, and feeling very dizzy. One thing was for sure: either I had gone so long without food that my tastebuds were dying, or I was developing a taste for semen. I started craving it from how hungry I was.

Lunchtime came around, and we were back in the second-floor bathroom. Now, I’ve read one could go up to three weeks without food. Gandhi claims he did twenty-one days a few times. I don’t know if I buy that, even if he was consuming his own loads. So, it could have been the lack of food, the putrid smell around us, or the fact that I had to exert way too much energy to make Scott orgasm by this point. More energy than I had. It probably was a mix of things, but all I know is that I woke up in the hospital hours later.

The official diagnosis: malnourishment. At the time, my gut reaction was to get angry at Olivia. I called to confront her, and she said it was my fault. That I simply wasn’t having enough cum to keep me nourished and that she always broke up with her boyfriends before doing this diet. I believed her. Of course, now I know it was stupid.

Scott was right. About Scott, he also passed out. Another mix of things: the smell, the physical exhaustion, and the shock of seeing me pass out on his dick. At least he had the time to pull up his pants. Luckily he was out for only a bit, and the nurses said he would be fine with some rest.

I was also going to be fine. They gave me a saline solution and stuffed me with hospital food once I woke up. My parents were furious; they forced me to stop my diet right away (no, I didn’t tell them what I was dieting on) and grounded me. I guess they grounded me more since I was already grounded. But it was for real this time since they forbid me to attend the Winter Forma. I fit in the dress, but I missed the ball. Ridiculous.

And as if my life wasn’t ruined enough, Scott still went to the dance. WITH VANESSA LYNN… Stupid Vanessa Lynn. Stupid Cousin Olivia. And I guess stupid teenage me.

I can’t say it was all in vain. I learned a valuable lesson that day about dieting. But my husband would tell you that out of all of this, the true value came from somewhere else since practice makes perfect.

Photo by Maria Lysenko on Unsplash