freya 02
Freya struggled, melted, poured into your intestines, desiccated inside your colon. Each stage we tracked, both of us fascinated by the mysterious process that converts a living, breathing human being into— well, I have to make assumptions, having never borne witness to the whole of the end result.
I’ve certainly seen where some of them goes. You spent a slightly hungover day playing videogames. Over the course of twelve hours Freya ceased to be a distinct lump and dissipated into a diffuse spongy fullness within the whole of your abdomen. I’m sure I saw your middle growing fatter with, well, fat. Your fat, though, not something stolen. Freya was gone or going, and in place there was more of you.
Not just your belly, but all over. Your thighs in particular caught my attention, and I had to kiss them. Your inner thighs are so soft, it drives me wild. You laughed and peered around me at the television, holding your PS controller at an angle. When I showed no sign of removing myself you clamped your thighs tight around my head and suggested a game. If I could distract you so much you lost a life, I would get to breathe.
You lost two lives, and I almost lost one, three times.
Now we’re in bed and my friend Freya has spent twenty-six hours of her post-life existence being in contact with your most secret places. I am intensely envious. Melting, pouring into your intestines, desiccating in your colon: so much happens. Yes, we all think we know the stomach, but the intestines even beyond the duodenum secrete more chemicals to aid in digestion. Freya was not left in peace for a second, though you slept at ease.
A rumble from your gut is eased by a cock of your hips and a burst of gas. When you’ve devoured a chubby girl we tend to leave the bedroom window open, not that I ever complain.
You make a low sound in your throat and swing your legs over the side of my bed. I watch as you stand. The light of a waxing moon catches the plush curves of your hips, the angle of a shoulder blade, the heart-stopping swell of your perfect backside. I sit up and you half-turn to smile at me. There is no invitation to the smile, though. This is private business.
I watch as you slip away into the bathroom, and remain sitting up. You’ve never shared the final trip with me, and it’s one of the few times I’ve seen you blush, whenever the topic comes up.
Maybe someday we’ll get to share it, both confused and excited.
Maybe tonight.