i got a hero
Despite having not really slept I’m buzzing as we walk back to my place. It takes effort to keep from talking loudly enough to wake the dwellers of the rows upon rows of terraced houses we pass.
By the time we get there it’s gone half four. As we enter the living room I practically pounce you and enfold you in a hug so tight it pushes your arms out to the side and squishes your belly flat between us.
“Thank you. Again. It means a lot to me that you’d go to such lengths.”
You smirk over my shoulder and lean into the hug. “Not all heroes wear capes?”
“You must be knackered. The bed’s a bit mussed up from where I was tossing and turning but—”
With impeccable timing, some resonant part of your gut chooses that moment to slacken off and let gas equalise. In an empty tummy, the resulting squeak is prolonged and amplified.
“… or I could maybe whip you up a midnight snack? Show my gratitude? What you ate didn’t exactly fill your belly.”
You flash me a brilliant and encouraging smile by way of agreement, then brush my cheek with your hand. “I’ll wait here.” The couch becomes your fort, complete with fluffy scarlet blanket.
I disappear into the kitchen.
Sounds of pots and oven fans and plates and cutlery very quickly indicate that this is not a midnight snack, but a feast. When your tummy growls at you again you decide that maybe this is for the best.
First, there is an amuse bouche. “Didn’t want my heroine to have to wait,” I say with a grin. The tray I lay down in front of you is a simple but competent charcuterie board. Cured meats line themselves up for you, artfully folded into paper-thin ripples for ease of picking up.
“Panchetta, honey roast, Iberico,” I say, indicating each tranche with a finger. “That Iberico is to die for. No salamis because garlic, and you are a stereotypical vampire.”
You bap my hand away and I chuckle as I withdraw once again into the kitchen.
Also on the tray are little pickled cornichons, sweet black sable grapes, fricking miniature pretzels in a bowl and two cheeses—cheddar and something that smells like it contains truffles. No soft cheeses. I know you’re not a fan of wet textures that don’t spring from the vein. Thick-cut, floury bread is artfully piled up, next to a patty of butter and a bowl of olive oil smothering a pool of Balsamic..
I’ve gone full middle-aged dinner party nibbles on you.
As the purcussive hiss of deep frying begins in the kitchen, you begin your feast. Each slice of ham is almost insubstantial in itself, but carries salt and flavour that set your mouth watering. The Iberico is a punch of flavour. It melts, almost literally, in your mouth.
You dabble with the pickles but hit the cheese next. Both go nicely with the crispness of the grapes. Not filling, not for you, but the flavours build and set your stomach growling for more.
You get to be greedy with the butter. Maybe you’d have preferred toast, but the charred, crusty bread has a magic all its own when slathered with butter. I return to find you crunching your way through a slice and set down a mug of tea on the coffee table.
“Was planning a dinner party with you. Can rebuy or replan. Think it’s best if it ends up inside you now.” I give you a look of such warmth, pride and again you regret that your cheeks are full of half-masticated bread.
You swallow roughly and offer a smile in return. “I should save you more often.”
Tea, finish off the cheese, munch your way through the pretzels. Then the last slice of bread dipped with the peppery oil, which I don’t know if you like but you finish it, and then you demolish the last few slices of Iberico. You sit back and pat your stomach, hitting only a healthy buffer of fat. A sensible starter for, oh, six people disappears without a trace and only convinces your tummy that real food is on its way. You feel hungrier now than when you started.
“How long?” you call out, a note of desperation in your voice.
“Five minutes till next course?” I answer.
“Hungry now,” you say, chewing your bottom lip.
A moments bustle in the kitchen and I re-emerge with the loaf of bread on a cutting board. You take the knife before I even set it down. I kiss your forehead as you saw off two slices and reach for the butter.
The important thing is to keep eating. Wholesome granary bread goes down in a mechanical series of bites and swallows. You’re just finishing your fourth extra slice when I back in through the door with a fresh tray.
It appears that I have fried you a contingent. “Schnitzel und Spaetzli,” I say proudly. “Honestly can’t remember if I’ve made this for you before. Enjoy!”
I depart after squeezing a lemon slice over the breaded, deep-fried pork cutlet. It overhangs half the plate. The other half is occupied by a mound of Spaetzli, which are little freeform pasta-y things enriched by a lot of butter. Simple, hearty food. Your stomach sings as you tuck in.
It just keeps going. You’re saturated with crispy breading by the time the Schnitzel is safely tucked away. The buttery Spaetzli go on much longer, a glorious endless saga of stodge. The mound diminishes and disappears with each mechanical forkful.
This time I get the timing absolutely perfect. You’re mid-burp when the next tray enters the room.
“Did you enjoy? Next is sirloin. Favourite cut, for delicious but uncomplicated steak. Cut thinnish, seared hard. See what you think.”
Two steaks, storebought peppercorn sauce on the side. Your eyes light up when you see what they come with.
“Chips!” you exclaim.
“Yes!” I say, laughing. “And there’s more for later. If you’ve room. With cheese.”
You give me a look that very clearly says there is always room for cheesy chips, then crack into one with a fork. Fluffy and crispy. I’ve been practising these for weeks.
It disappears within the appreciative void of your mouth. Its brethren begin to follow.
I kneel beside you and take the steak knife and a fork. At my height I can hear your gut working away on your food, reducing it, crushing and blending it, mixing it with a naturally caustic enzyme cocktail.
To this, it is my pleasure to add meat. I cut you pieces of steak and offer them to your lips. Your teeth crack through a caramelised layer of cinder carrying that treasured charred-meat flavour then meet in a soft core. You alternate between feeding yourself chips and me feeding you steak. Twice you have to stop to feel your tummy, now fully palpable when you press below your ribs.
By the second steak you’re comfortably full. That is definitely enough calories for a day and your tummy is heavy, turning your mind to fuzz with the digestion haze.
So we continue. The steak and chips continue to be delicious with every mouthful but increasingly challenging to swallow. You slow down enough for me to get ahead with cutting up steak, so I begin kneading your gut, massaging intestines and stomach and helping them work on your feast.
You inhale deep when the last forkful passes your lips. You are most definitely human-full. A low belch into your fist alleviates sharp pressure beneath your left rib. I see where you’re rubbing and take over from you, allowing you to collapse back into the couch. Your tummy bulges slightly, an extra round dome atop the slopes of pale bellyfat.
“What’s… next?”
“A comedy round,” I say with a grin. “Sec.”
I take the tray with me. There’s a moment to yourself in which you weight your overhanging belly by jostling it with your hands. Lust fights the oncoming coma as you explore your curves.
The penultimate tray enters the room. I seem pleased with myself. Before you is laid a diorama in food.
“Turkey dinosaurs?” you say, looking up at me?
“On a mashed potato volcano,” I confirm, nodding rapidly.
“Weird dinner party.” You grunt as you sit forward. “It all comes out the same. Feed me.”
I kiss you hard on the mouth and withdraw before you reflexively bite my lip. Then I set to my role.
Dino after dino goes extinct between your molars, mashed into pulp and then gulped down into a caldera all your very own. The volcano is disassembled, its buttery mashed-potato substrate barely altered by the trickle of gravy lava. Broccoli trees are destroyed whole. Everything goes down into darkness.
You throw back your head and let out a belch that might actually wake the neighbours. The tray is pushed aside to make room for me to kneel in front of you. I kiss your belly button and a trail up to your sternum, then commence a massage with enough vigour that your whole body rolls with it, breasts to belly to hips.
“That was a nice midnight snack,” you murmur, 20% asleep. Liquidised ham, cheese, pork and steak course their way noisily through tubes leading physically deeper into your body, eager to be assimilated. “Did you say cheesy chips?”
I kiss you again. You’re simply perfect. I let you bite my lip this time, and just about manage to pull away before you chew. You give me an innocent smile stained red. I fall for you all over again.