You travel a lot, my dear Crow. And as a young man, or at least as an entity in the body of a young man, you have needs. Some of those needs require even more intimate physical contact than is normally required on even the most liberal dating scene, and preclude the development of long-term, stable relationships. What I’m trying to say is that you’re on a lot of dating apps, Crow.

Your body runs hot right now. Every part has been used to its potential. You worked, you hunted, you ate, you fucked, you ate, you fucked. Do you know how much chewing it takes to convert a whole person into meat slurry for your tummy? And then you spent a significant proportion of the evening with your mouth open in orgasm, further straining your poor jaw muscles. After your warning-stroke-dare to me about touching your mouth or arsehole, while your strength lasted, you teased me mercilessly.

In time we satisfy the lust sparked by the weight of meat in your guts. The slap of my thighs against the backs of yours was echoed by ripples traversing the fat of your arse and by heavy chyme sloughing back and forth within bloated intestines. At its height, it felt like you were being fucked throughout your entire digestive system at once. Afterwards, once our breathing slowed and we had cooled down, I regretfully informed you, “I definitely burned the pizza.

You flash me down with an airy wave and I indicate to pull over. Something in your smile and body language makes me suspect you’re a little drunk, but you didn’t sound drunk on the phone. You saunter over inasfar as someone hauling an entire person minus a skeleton can saunter. “Can I check your Uber security code?” I call through the passenger window. You giggle and open the door. Suspension springs protest as you slide inside.

There is a theory that humans, who as a species are oddly good at long-distance running, in fact evolved to hunt at pace. The theory is that we could carry water and run all day, hounding some poor speed-built gazelle, and eventually they would just lay down and submit. You have been running for an hour and a half. Once you had to sprint to force the young man who is your prey to turn away from a path that would lead to dwellings, but otherwise you have been steadily persuing him into wilderness.

I passed out on the fangs of the deadliest creature I know, and yet tomorrow I will wake up. Why? I’m unconscious so I can’t see your expression. Are you regretful when you kiss my wound closed? How much of you wants me to live, and how much wants to consume me? Are you 80/20? 49/51? Has it changed over time? Do you barter yourself off me with a compromise of slipping out into the night and assuaging your blood thirst on the life of another?

“Twist,” I say. The smirk doesn’t leave your face. “It wasn’t funny the first three times you did it either, dummy.” “Raise, then. One.” “Call.” From our positions sprawled on the floor of your living room you burn a card and place the turn face up. A Nine of Hearts now sits among an Ace of Spades, a Jack of Diamonds, and a Three of Hearts. Your own belly is your pillow.

“You’re being silly, you know,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. It comes back clean. You must have licked off all the blood. “I’ll jump.” “You’ll fall.” The chase had been a farcical affair where the young man ran off into the bushes. You’d both slipped and skidded down a fern-studded embankment, till suddenly the edge seemed very close indeed and the view became pure frigid blue sky.

Whenever the trickle of blood from my lip begins to slow you bite anew, casual as biting a banana. You feel my shoulders and hands tense and tremble as you do but I hold still. It turns out that suckling blood over a long period of time like this, coupled with belly rubs on a gloriously stuffed belly, is a perfect soporiphic. You are lulled to sleep by the constant, contented blurping of your own digestive tract.

As established, you don’t need me. Doesn’t stop you wanting a little comfort every now and then. “She was only, like, ten stone,” you moan from my bed. Your bra is gone but your panties remain. You don’t want me getting distracted. “Why has she ~bwarp~ made me so ~ghuuuUrp~ gassy?” The gas is being helped along by two experienced and greedy hands. I practically dig through your waistline as I knead at a stomach currently stripping the last of the flesh from the bones trapped inside it.