dessert

Here’s the thing about filling jars with rocks, stones, sand, and water. The metaphor didn’t work if the jar empties itself.

You’re snuggled up on the settee under a blanket, playing through the Sky Base Zone, when your stomach by some awesome effort emits a sound like a gas vent forcing air up through layers of sediment and mud. I’m curled up with my back against your legs, almost at ground zero. We both freeze: you from mild embarrassment and me because I wasn’t sure if a half-full drum of water was rolling down the stairs.

“… ‘scuse me.”

I turn to look you in the eye. You offer me a crooked smile. Clearly you’ve got over your momentary shock.

“Surely you’re not hungry again,” I say, a little awed.

“I’m no~hwooAAaulrp~t hungry-hungry, just snacky.”

I smirk up at you. “You didn’t excuse yourself for that one.”

You lean down and press your nose to mine. Another plunger-sound booms distantly within the belly you’ve folded over into a concertina of gorgeous folds. This belch isn’t so violent but it’s long: ~guf-frrruuough~ carries hot sharp air thick with blood and tomato past my face. “You want me to stop?”

Aching with the fatigue of blood loss I nevertheless drag myself around to face you. Taking your face between my gentle hands I kiss you, deeply. When I break off I’m a little out of breath. “Even your gas is sexy. No. Don’t stop.”

Your smile is pure wickedness. We’re both thinking of the time you saw fit to share a peck of that gas with me in a more direct fashion. My cheeks grow hot—I’m not blushing, am I?

Unbeknownst to us both, the boy’s lungs finally gave up to your stomach’s rough treatment. Another detonation signals the collapse of his ribcage under your assault. You swallow down the burp, hoping to send it the other way.

“Dessert?”

We have nothing in, but I have an internet connection and all the ingredients for cupcakes. You watch me slowly, carefully get to my feet, pausing to let my heart settle down. Then I’m off to the kitchen, where I very methodically prepare the batter. You go back to your game.

Vanilla soon fills the air and there is the sound of an electric whisk. You’ve just finishing whooping Robotnik’s arse for this zone when I emerge carrying twenty-four cupcakes on two trays.

“Careful, they’re hot!” I say as you pluck one from its place and cram it into your mouth. It is indeed piping hot but you suck cool air through it. Fluffy golden vanilla wholesomeness fills your mouth.

I had planned to feed them to you but you demolish twelve of them in the time it takes me to cut circles in the tops of the other twelve. Each gets a dollop of buttercream and two fairy wings of the extracted sponge. You kidnap one of the new fairy cakes and show it where its departed cousins have gone in just three bites, chewing and swallowing mechanically.

Now I have free hands I take on the role of feeder. The remaining eleven grace your lips briefly. I watch the muscles of your jaw work as you bite, chew, swallow; bite, chew, swallow. It’s no time at all before they’re gone and you’re licking your lips of buttercream.

An appreciative belch is music, to me. I stroke your cheek with the back of an affectionate hand and we both sigh simultaneously.

“Same again? / More, please.”