i have a hero

The throb in my pierced lip is offset by oxytocin and dopamine released at the simple touch of your skin. You ate your cheesy chips—50 month aged cheddar from Aldi is the shit—then immediately fell another 60% asleep. Barely conscious on the couch, you lie down on your back to give me best access.

I’m reminded of times in the past, before I had sacrificed so much of myself and my fellow prey; before your own insatiable hunger for life led you to take down people already packed with fat. On this very couch I’ve managed your tummy as it struggled to deal with some incredible influx.

Presently, you doze in warm contentment on a meal that would serve six to eight. My palms glide through a silky sea of glorious fat, diving deep to engage the organs we have so diligently stuffed.

Once upon a time this meal would have been excruciating for you. Don’t get me wrong, I think you would have done it. But, thinner, my touch would have been far lighter, both because you had so little chub to push through and because your stomach and guts would have been so stretched and tender. My hands remember the feel even now. How I would feel the ridge of your ribs to tell me where your stomach peeked into your abdomen. Not like I needed it, as it would distend clearly with your filling meal. You tended to hide how much it hurt but more than once I saw you with tears in your eyes for meals not as large as this midnight snack.

Your hips! Now swaddled in beautiful, smothering chub, those days they stood out like beacons. I could see clearly the bowl of your pelvis; how, later into the digestion of your food, it would cup the bulge that worked its way down. Your belly button would physically rise on a tide of chyme. I wish, wish, wish we had taken video. Perhaps stop-motion.

Hehe, later today you will sit on the armour-plated megatoilet I had installed for when you shit out your more egregious meals. You will have to manually pull apart the great slabs of shapely flesh that are your buttocks, just so your anus has a clear shot at the waterline. On the occasions I wipe you, as an act of loving devotion, you sometimes let your cheeks clap together and they grip my wrist.

Those days, not that you’d have dreamt of letting me watch, the affair was far simpler: standard toilet, upright posture, gorgeous but more compact bottom requiring no special handling to do its work. I recall seeing you enter the bathroom with one hand cradling the sight bulge imprinted by your thoroughly-defeated prey or food, and then emerging later, empty and trim, save for the subtle glaze of additional padding you’d extracted from your feast.

In every incarnation, every gradiation of size, you are beautiful. I feel so grateful to have witnessed your growth.