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I used to tell friends that I wished I were just a brain in a jar or a consciousness without a body.
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On the first warm days of the year, I’d watch men my age peel off their clothes with abandon, donned in shorts and tank tops or no top at all, while I sweated under a jumper that I wore like a comfort blanket. Summers, I remember, were the worst of all. Shopping for clothes meant time spent scrutinising myself alone in some changing room on the high street, which meant misery and crying jags. I avoided mirrors, sometimes covering them altogether as if I was sitting Shiva.
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Photographs of myself – dressed or undressed – would plunge me into a depression that could last weeks. I had used words to soothe and challenge the fixations of my mind but, in doing so, I had also learned to avoid the tricky and inescapable issue of still having a body.īut the world has a funny way of reminding you that you have one. Although I had, by all accounts, challenged the disordered eating that had plagued my teenage years, I had done so, in large part, by fleeing from my body. Although I no longer had a disordered relationship to food and exercise, I began to experience debilitating body dysmorphia. I learned about the extent to which fatphobia is engrained in our society, the toxicity of diet culture, and to challenge the ideologies that assign value only to certain types of body. Through therapy and through some reading, I was able to find words to challenge ideas that fuelled my disordered eating. With some time and some help, I was able to work on my relationship to food and body image. A fear of food, flesh and fat haunted me. I became extremely thin and, more troublingly, extremely miserable.
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Excessive exercise and extreme dieting were the only ways I knew how to exact control over my body. But, in part because I felt so distanced from the hetero-masculine culture of bodybuilding as a young gay man and lacked the know-how of how to build the kind of body I fantasised about, I soon developed signs of anorexia. As a teenager, I began to experiment with exercise to try to change the shape of my body. I have always had a desire to be big – bigger, at least, than the frame I naturally developed as an unathletic, anxious and effeminate boy. So, in the case of gaining, a little personal history can help illuminate how growth is about so much more than the mere accumulation of mass.
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A little glance at subjective experience can help to illustrate how fetishes are life-enhancing, world-building and far exceed what gets you off or what you do in the bedroom. But I do think life history can be a path to understanding the personally affirming power of fetish. I do not think it is always helpful to unarchive the roots of fetishes, since this tends only to pathologise queer and non-normative forms of desire (after all, no one ever asked a heterosexual man why he likes boobs so much). The meanings with which growth is invested vary from person to person and the route to the gaining scene is deeply personal – rooted in life histories.