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About dania201

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    Phat Poster
  • Location San Francisco, CA, United States

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  1. Sorry about your Friday. I hope you met the night with a perfect food coma, and woke up this morning in the perfect mood for comfort food. 🥓
  2. That pizza is GLORIOUS! This is how you win loyal fat ass customers! 🤣
  3. I mean, if you’re honest, it was always going to happen 🥰😇 I love it, and I’m “so sorry”….
  4. You’re beautiful, and welcome!
    This video is so on point for our kink, I can’t even. I just wish Casey could make 100 of these videos as she gets bigger and bigger. 🤣 Can’t believe the guy was stealing a video—doesn’t he know there is a charge for that?? Hahaha Honestly, can you just promise us to meet up with these friends again 50-100lbs from now to completely blow their minds again?? 🙌🏼❤️
  5. 8 Fuck Your Awards. Sometimes people wonder how somebody could let themselves become really fat. It’s easier than you think: you just don’t think about it. I mean, you do, obviously. Being really fat is something that begins to take over your life, and there are a thousand things you have to slowly change to accommodate for it. Pound by pound, things get harder and you have to get more inventive just to get by. But you also become somehow stubborn about needing to change. It’s like a T-shirt I saw once: “Sure, abs are great, but have you tried tacos?” Or, an old joke in Jordan, “dear God, please do make me holy—just not yet.” I’d love to lose weight; but the heavier I got, the less I felt ready to actually go through with it. I was probably about 400 pounds when the university offered to have me take over the security camera control room. I can’t say I was fitting well into the patrol car, and I would do everything I could to avoid getting out of the vehicle while at work. I figured out a way to stick parking tickets from out the driver’s side window, and had most interactions with students from my vehicle. Hey, I at least looked thinner and more athletic from the shoulders up. But as my fat Arab ass got bigger and bigger, soon I was sort of propped up in the vehicle and I’m sure it was obvious to everyone that I was quite stuffed in there. I’m not sure if they reassigned me to camera control room because they took pity on me and my size, or just a genuine hole that needed to be filled. Either way, I secretly didn’t mind it. It gave me more space, physically and emotionally. I actually sort of enjoyed it in a way. I could park next to the door of the campus police station and walk 50 steps all day. I could roll in with bags full of snacks, and could order delivery to kill the time in front of the monitors. I didn’t like that it was dark, didn’t like that it was less social, and didn’t like that it was boring. But I did like that I could spend the day sitting in a comfy chair, fingers free to eat everything I wanted and no one could bother me for it. About 6 months after taking over the camera room, my little quiet rhythm went off the rails. Some idiot student (it’s almost always a white male student, which, as an Arab, the irony is not lost on me) decided to bring a gun to campus. Not only that, but he decided to take it out of his backpack and inspect it in the hallway of his dormitory. I suppose he forgot that we have cameras in the hallways for student safety, and we have people like me watching those cameras. The student was arrested, and there was quite a commotion on campus about it. Our little campus police department was front page news in the area, and the president of the university decided I should get some sort of special award for “heroism.” For him, it was likely a way to keep the school in the news for a few extra days. Positive spin and all that. Either way, I’d never gotten an award like that before. There was a special school-wide assembly set up for the students to “talk” about what had happened. The president wanted me to come up on stage to be presented with this award. Since I didn’t wear a uniform at this point, and I didn’t fit into my old one, I wore the biggest blackest dress I could find. I had a bodyshaper that I figured might save me, but despite everything I couldn’t get it on. I may have been very fat, but I was resolved to make this all work. The dress was tight as hell and cut into my stomach when I sat, but it was respectable enough. Black always has a way of making you look respectable, no matter how fat you are. When you’re really big, there is a lot of pre-work you have to put in to even attending something like this. I got up early to shower and spend an hour on my hair, and carefully apply my makeup. I arrived at the school an hour early, giving myself plenty of time to slowly walk from the car to the event space so that I wouldn’t arrive too sweaty. I scoped out the near-empty room and found a seat in the back that I could comfortably sit in and moved it up front, hoping to make the upcoming walk to the stage as short as possible. Once seated, I studied the five stair steps up to the stage level and tried to estimate their height and the strength of the handrail. I had snacks in my purse to pass the time as the room filled up. I sat and waited for my cue, trying to look pleasant and small. When they signaled me to come up on stage, I worked my way to the steps. Unlike when you are thin, each tread required both feet before moving to the next. I leaned heavily on the rail. The room got quieter. I was taking too long. I was focused on the physical feat of hoisting 450 pounds up stairs that I couldn’t see beneath me. But I could hear the air leave the room when I neared the last step. I paused at the last step. I don’t know why—I’m not sure if I lost my concentration with the eyes on me, or just because I was exhausted and needed to catch my breath. But somehow I was one step shy of the stage and everyone was watching me. I leaned on the rail as I caught my breath and put myself back together, but it started to bend. My nightmare. This was a fucking nightmare. By some miracle of God I willed my way the last step up to the stage to receive the award before the rail actually gave out and my fat ass went tumbling off the side. In a way, it was weird that they never let me say anything, not even a “thank you” into the mic. I’m not sure if it was because I was a woman or because I was fat. On the other hand, I needed time to catch my breath anyway. I heard something about being “one of the good ones”—I’m sure a racist reference to the fact that an Arab (of all people!) had saved them from a potential shooting. It didn’t matter, I just wanted off that stage and out of the leering eyes of everyone. The next day, I saw the photos of me accepting the award. It made me sick to my stomach. I was glistening with sweat, red in the face, and fucking huge. Absurdly, monstrously huge. My black dress did little to hide the outline of my shockingly wide hips and ass and my low, sagging belly pulled the dress’s fabric to its limits. Why were photos so high definition now? I studied the pictures—I had no idea I had gotten so big. No wonder the room gasped at the sight of me struggling to get on stage. If this is what I looked like, I would have gasped too. I was red—sweaty, breathless, and red. My upper arms seemed unhumanly puffed and bulky; my absurd beachball stomach hung low and mispositioned. You could see my navel pressed unwillingly against the thinning black material, confessing my gluttony to all the world. My breasts were absurdly huge, comically stuffed into what had been my largest bra. Below the vast dress, folds of white fat peeked out from my knees and calves, leaving no doubt that my shocking corpulence was comprehensive. I held back tears that this was how I looked on display, in front of everyone in my finest hour. Please, please don’t publish these photos online. Please, please don’t let Yousef google my name someday and find these. All because of some stupid made-up award for the fat Arab lady. No university has “heroism awards”. I was just doing my job, I didn’t need an award. I didn’t need an award for putting down my Cheetos long enough to call the real police. Americans hand out awards for everything. And you know what? The only person that kid fucked over in the end was me, and all because of this stupid award. I wish I could take it all back. I don’t know why I had been proud of myself about the award; it ended up being the most embarrassing day of my entire life. No, the second-most embarrassing day. An even more embarrassing day would come later. I vowed to change. Again.
  6. 7 Fuck Dating. From the moment I landed, I ate. My diet—my apparently completely useless diet—had been such a bitch. If you love food the way I do, it's excruciating to do. Even when you get the hang of it, you always sort of know it’s not real. It feels like you’re pretending to be someone you’re not, someone everyone else wants you to be, certain solving your “weight problem” will solve all the others. It’s like get-rich-quick schemes: no one does it for the joy of the scheme itself, but they push through in the hope that being rich will solve everything else bothering them. It’ll be worth it. Problem is, almost no one really gets thin and no one really gets rich. Look around--if these things worked, we’d all be thin and rich. I’m not quite sure how fast I regained the weight, but it was fast. I still remember my first bite home--it was into a Carl’s Jr Western Bacon Cheeseburger, the kind with crispy onion rings on it. I remember the crunch, the sweet barbeque sauce oozing its way through, and the excitement of the onion rings still in the bag. I could feel bliss. It was fucking wonderful. Bite after bite, all the bullshit of Jordan, of the diet, of my family, everything just faded away. I had myself back. There is nothing they could do to take that burger out of my hands. I was safe, I was home, and I was happy. Then, of course, the burger was gone and the onion rings were too. Part of me felt as empty as the grease-stained paper bag in the passenger seat. I started to cry. I pulled through the drive thru again to order the same meal, staring forward the whole time. I tore into my second round trying to find the “high” from the first burger. It wasn’t there, and I could feel my chest welling up. I must have spent two hours going from drive-thru to drive-thru that night, holding back tears only long enough to place each order. Soon I was so full I couldn’t move. I’d sit in my car with the stereo on until I could muster the energy to go home; then I’d only make it far enough to the next place. The jetlag kept me up, and I filled the time with just about every bite of food in Orange County. I didn’t care what people said back in Jordan, but it wasn't long after arriving back in the States that I started to date anyway. It was sort of this double life—I was well-behaved for work and dating, and then a shitshow once I was alone. But I needed to do what I needed to do to get by, to cope with everything. I didn’t eat as bad as I did that first night, but I didn’t eat that much better either. I knew it wasn’t good that I was eating like that, but I tried not to think about it so that I could focus on my new project: dating. I signed up for eHarmony, for Tinder, and for a third one that I forget the name. Online dating was both weird and refreshing at the same time. The first several dates I had were duds, but I enjoyed being out. I hadn’t really done dating the American way, but I’d seen enough movies. I realized that I thought the men on these dates were going to be much more handsome and funny than they actually were. Such is the way with things you see in movies. But despite my “striking features” and “mysterious personality”, I was probably well over 300 pounds, so I’m not sure they felt that excited by me either. At one point I started seeing this man named “Harold”. He would try to go by “Rolo”, I think because he thought it sounded tough. He was sort of tough and gritty, at least in a very American way. He was dark and tall with facial scruff, and somehow always looked like he needed a haircut. He looked like a bouncer for a dive bar and had some sort of hard construction job. But I don’t think anyone actually called him “Rolo.” Harold was good in bed, which was interesting. He wasn’t a guy who talked much, in or out of the sheets. But Harold had a way of touching me that I really appreciated. He could hold my softening waist in a way that made me want to be held. When my fat stomach pressed up against him, it seemed to just draw him to me. And in bed he would wrap his strong arms behind my wide hips, making my fat body feel like exactly the right size for him. He could make my soft ass shake in slow rhythm in a way that made me feel like I was swimming inside of sex itself. All the fat on my body moved rhythmically in a way that made my clit message perfectly against him. Then he would adjust where my belly was, or some other fat part of me, and the sensations would change brilliantly. We didn’t have to change positions. I remember thinking that if I could somehow only be fat while in bed, I would. As time went on though, things with Harold started to get weird. I never really met any of his friends. We always made our way back to mine, or sometimes a motel—but never his place. We were obviously close enough to have sex, but then things never got much deeper. It seemed like he wasn’t afraid to be seen out with me, just not by anyone he knew. I started to feel hidden away. I remember talking it through with Ashley while I was at work. It was embarrassing to bring up, but she pounced to my side like I’d never seen her do before. Harold clearly had crossed some sort of boundary for her. Hell has no fury like a scorned woman. You’d have thought the scorned woman was her. “He has a fucking skinny girlfriend. I am nine thousand percent sure.” “Nine thousand percent?! Okay, well, how can you be so sure? You’ve never even met him.” “Okay I am ninety percent sure. But I will stalk the fuck out of him online, and then I will be nine thousand percent sure. And then I will kill him.” “I don’t want him killed.” “Too bad, if he has a skinny girlfriend, I will kill him.” She never found anything online. I appreciated her trying. But two weeks later he gave me a ride, and I spotted a red four-inch high heel shoe in the back of his dirty-ass car. Fat women don’t wear stilettos. I spent that night alone and ate an entire frozen cheesecake by morning. And that was the end of that.
  7. Also I like the role play video idea—what about dressing up like a superfat princess (with padding?) and going out trick or treating? Idk seem like there could be something fun with padding and costumes …
  8. That’s right! Hehehehe maybe this year you’re promising not to repeat the mistake? 😶😉🥰
  9. Thank you for sharing this! Hoping things keep going well! I always figured it was a fun benefit of our sexuality that bodies have a tendency to put in weight as we age anyway. For normal people in relationships that’s a fear, for us a bonus! ☺️
  10. Oh my, this video sounds amazing! Maybe a bit about what hot fat situations you hope to fix nd yourself in in the future?
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