grow a vagina

A kiss closer to home…

“Ow, ow, too hard, too hard!”

You feel the stab of pain under your rib immediately stop as I flinch away, looking stricken.

“Sorry. You’re that sensitive?” I hover my hands over your belly, implicitly asking permission.

You shuffle yourself back on the couch to sit up a little straighter, then take those hands and place them against your swollen tummy with feather lightness. You feel me barely moving the simple black T-shirt you’re wearing, barely touching your skin, but each brush makes you aware all over again just how full is the organ right below the surface. You’ve already undone the button of your jeans. No food can possibly have made it that far down but things are so packed inside that you needed the space.

“Make big circles… That’s nice, like that.”

So much. I brought so much Chinese. A gross miscalculation meant you were faced with three people’s food. Only afterwards did it occur to you that I might have bought food for myself. There were no complaints, though, as you scarfed down chicken balls, a spicy chicken dish over egg-fried rice, all the duck pancakes and that chicken/prawn/pork dish I kept going on about.

I made each duck pancakes for you. Early in the meal you ate with gusto, devouring each proffered roll in three bites. Your eyes shone with mischief as your incisors scissored shut nearer and nearer to my fingers.

Neither of us discussed it but since we’d started with me feeding you I carried on. You kicked back your chair from the table and I, perched against the edge of it, brought forkful after forkful of fried, sauced, MSG goodness to the pretty oblivion of your burgundy-painted mouth.

It was such a strange sensation, reveling in the act of eating—intensely intimate and meaningful—but in the presence of someone who understood what you were. Someone who had even shyly offered to show you his NHS Sexual Health Clinic clean-bill-of-blood-health letter, in case you should desire a more liquid lunch in the coming days.

You are brought back from your reverie by a surprising, wet-sounding burp. “~BaaUgphh~ oh my God excuse me.”

The only acknowledgement I make to your belch is a knowing smirk. Even in the midst of your feeding frenzy, you would blush after every explosion of gas, no matter how many times I told you it was okay, it was cute, it was sexy.

You don’t really care if I’m smirking, though. My hands and their broad circles are making you aware that even your flanks feel stuffed. How big must your stomach be to push your intestines around quite this much?

Oh god. I’m kneeling by the side of the couch, quite low. Your abused intestines are making their displeasure known. You clench but this isn’t a battle you’ll lose eventually, and you couldn’t even roll to the bathroom right now. You decide to warn me to get back. “Andr—”

That’s as far as you get. Perhaps it’s the ducks in the pancakes making their revenge. A duck’s quack, grumbly and moist, paints the air. We’re both temporarily stunned.

It’s the charmed laughter that’s the worst part, you think to yourself. The cushion you hold over your face won’t block that out.

A kiss, feather-light on your abdomen. “You know, Raven, I worried you couldn’t exist.” Sounds like I’m ignoring your guff. You are a hundred percent on board with this.

“Like I was catfishing?” you say into the cushion.

“No,” comes my thoughtful voice. “More like… Every predator I met online was just, at some level, when you got down to it, a character. Even the players who thought of themselves as predators wouldn’t, I think, ever go through with it. But you…” You feel the cushion being pulled down and let it happen. My crooked smile greets you. “You experience the visualisations so vividly you’ve lived them. You know what it would feel like if you, I don’t know, opened up and crammed me in your stomach right now. And you’d do it if you could. It wouldn’t even be a question. It would be me in here right now.” My broad hand looks small on the protruding dome of your tummy. My gaze on your gut is lingering, adoring, tinged with sadness. Sehnsucht indeed. “I needed to know you exist, because it turns out I’m just the same. Only in reverse.”

You wonder if I was so much in the blast zone that I got carbon monoxide poisoning or something. As I recommence the pleasurable massage/belly worship, you reach out and touch my face.

“I’m glad you exist too.” The look of surprise and joy on my face gives you a warm feeling inside. Or perhaps that’s the glow of digestion, your gut beginning to demand more energy to do its work. “Even if I would stop you from existing if I could.”

I look like I’m about to say something—probably something saccharine, or romantic. I stop myself. Yep, you made me blush, too.

A gurgle announces that your stomach is now in business. We both rest our hands on it like expectant parents feeling for the kick.

“Gosh, I’m so full!”

“You ate so much… I couldn’t believe it. It was like a slow, sexy massacre.”

You stroke your belly fondly. “It had it coming. Being so edible and right in front of me.”

“You were greedy,” I say.

You close your eyes and squirm on the couch. “I was hungry.”

“No, you’re a glutton, Raven Roberts. You ate and ate and ate. Like a pig.” I kiss your belly again. “My beautiful, gorgeous, gluttonous piggy.”

You realise you’re squeezing your thighs together. With a burst of frustration you throw your head back. “I’m so fucking horny!”

“If you just become bi we can talk, baby.”

You hit me with the cushion. “If you just grow a vagina we can talk, food.”

I wish you a grin and go back to the massage. Your hard belly fills your whole world, makes you ache with longing. In a moment you’re going to have to throw me out for a walk or something before you explode. But for now I’m making you feel cute and loved and safe.

“We have,” I say, with deliberate care as I chase a shy gurgle around the circumference of your pale belly, “the strangest relationship.”

“Lower, please. Think some of it is going into my intestines.”

“… But I wouldn’t change it for the world, my dear Rey.”