I've carried a lot of shame about my emeto kink, and I still can't talk to people IRL about it, but for the last 10-15 years or so, I have at least accepted it in front of myself. (Which has made my sex life much better, because emeto is the only thing that gets me off!)

What got me there was being told, over and over, by a sex and relationship podcaster that "your kink is your kink" and "your junk works like your junk works" and that there is nothing to really do to change that, so better to embrace it (as long as it doesn't hurt anyone). The podcaster, and the listeners calling in and talking about their varsity level kinks, wore down my shame over time. Like if the guy who can't get off without imagining being eaten by a giant and pooped out again is brave enough to tell his girlfriend about it, then I don't have to be embarrassed about thinking about someone puking when I touch myself, you know.

Your kink is your kink, you can't quit your kink!

The thing with emeto, however, is that it actually can hurt people. Most often the person with the kink, because repeatedly throwing up is bad for you. Physically, always. Mentally, sometimes. And if it is the physical act of throwing up that's addictive to the point where you're making yourself sick repeatedly and you can't stop yourself, I strongly urge you to seek professional help. Just because a behaviour isn't primarily linked to physical appearance, does not make it "not an eating disorder". Your body doesn't really care about your motives, gastric acid still ruins teeth and the oesophagus and so on.

TW Emeto

Tysm to @danafeelingsick for the comm to go with it <3

After a long night out partying at the Garrison, I had too practically drag John home. He always drinks a lot when he's with his brothers or when he's partying. However, last night I knew he must have overdone it when he started laying his head on my shoulder in the booth tiredly. No longer wanting to go out to dance and mingle, mumbling slurred complaints in the crook of my neck. Tugging on his tie and collar whilst trying to swallow whiskey fuled belches rolling out of his gut. I tired at first to help him up, but I couldn't even lift him in his drunken state. I eventually had to get Tommy and Arthur to help him into my car, and now i'm just trying to get him home in one piece.

"I feel fucking sick..."

I hear John mutter to himself sitting aside me while trying to shakily light a cigarette, the movements of the car causing him to cringe under every bump. He pulls off his tie and unbuttons his collar and pants, still just groaning holding his stomach gently, face hot with intoxication and humiliation. I lean over and put my hand on his thigh, reassuring him that he just drank too much and it's nothing to be embarrassed about. he had at least five drinks from what I saw anyways, I really just hope he doesn't get sick in the car. seeing from how bloated he looks at the moment it certainly isn't an irrational worry. He savored the cigarette before tossing the butt out the window. luckily, we manage to get home with only a few stray gags out the window. I do my best to help him up the steps but suddenly his head hangs down and his hand reached for his mouth.

"No no- John, honey, please not on the stairs."

I plead with him still trying to help him up, I put my hand on his back and rub in gentle circles. Taking off his coat and hat I lead him at last inside the doorframe.

"Just breathe ok, we are almost to the bathroom. You poor thing, why on earth would you drink so much."

I coo at him while I hang up his hat, he only weakly nods in response. once we make it to the bathroom I sit him down and he doubles over again, retching into his hand and I try to back up but only a small string on spit falls of his tongue. I sigh with relief, gently comforting him as much as I can. most of his responses are incoherent, I just kindly agree and pretend to understand. I guide him to the toilet and he grips it the second his hands touch it, gripping it like it's the only thing holding him steady. The instant I rest my hand back on his back he lets out a forceful retch, his abs clenching tightly. While he’s gasping and coughing I realize that once again, nothing came up. I watch him try and weakly gag into the toilet.

"I'm try- *hic* -ing, I-"

John stutters out, barely intelligible. I just reassure him once again, hating to see him struggle I start thumping on his back with the heel of my palm and he finally lets out another real heave, followed by a thick wet burp.

"*hhuuuuurrp* ugh-"

he spits into the bowl and groans, shifting around uncomfortably. I thump a bit harder on his back this time, not enough to hurt but enough to be firm. another low groan falls from his lips and this time I hear a huge gush of all of that whisky finally hit the water. he coughs and sputters hardly able to even catch his breath between waves.

"There we go, that must feel better."

"mhmm-"

He hums weakly, sinking back into my lap as he pulls the flush. I reach for a towel and wipe his mouth gently, hiccups now starting to rack his chest. Wrapping my arms around him and petting his soft hair I think to myself.. this is gonna be a long night. After he catches his breath he mutters out,

“ ‘m done, le *hic* mme go to bed.”

Before I can respond John hoisted himself up and while walking out, kicking off his shoes and pants hardly staying upright. I go into the kitchen and get a metal bucket from under the sink. I set it by his bed and curl up with him, choosing not to protest his want to sleep, knowing he must be tired. I try to stay awake so I can keep my eye on him, I realize I’ve fallen asleep when I get woken up by harsh retch.

“Huuurrrkk- hic- guhhhh-“

John groans out sounding in pain and straining, clutching over his tense stomach. I roll over and watch him spit in the bucket a few times, mumbling swears and complaints under his breath.

“Shhhhh it’s ok you’ll feel better after.”

I add lovingly, and my words or encouragement seem to help as again after who knows how long this time, another big wave comes up. I mentally pat myself on the back for getting that bucket, knowing there was no way he was done even though I was almost sure I heard him miss at least a tad. He starts to sweat and shake with the heaves as they get weaker and weaker, there is hardly anything left in his stomach at this point, I was almost sure of it. Now all that was coming out were these small but still wet belches but he was still hanging himself over the side of the bed and gripping the sheets until his knuckles were white. Maybe all the air trapped was making it so hard I think to myself, trying to be quiet as to not disturb him or embarrass him more than he surely already was. I sat up a bit and put my hands on his shoulders and started to message them tenderly, hoping to bring him so kind of comfort. After a few more minutes of weak burps and a few more gags, his stomach clenched again with such force I thought for sure he was going to get sick again. A big airy belch erupted from his gut, catching his breath in his throat and causing him to cough a bit more but at last he let out such a genuine sigh of relief I couldn’t help but smile. Knowing it must’ve felt really good in the end. He slumped back down and settled in to bed once again. Taking the blanket I wipe his sweat of his forehead and plant a kiss on his head. He went to sleep fairly quick after that even though I could still hear the occasional gurgling coming from his stomach and chest. I curl up to him, holding him and rubbing his stomach when it gets loud or he stirs. I hoped he would feel better in the morning, I would take care of him in the morning. I loved getting a chance to take care of him, he never rested. Tommy never let him. I would make sure he had a very lazy day in the morning.

oh absolutely fucking yes. Especially if they're trying to milk it for attention. Attention they wind up wishing they didn't have when they resolve the problem with a series of deep, pressurized belches.

Or maybe you even tried suggesting to them that it might just be gas pain, and they scoffed at the idea. Please, they’re an adult, they know when they have to burp. So they moan and squirm around under the weight of their gurgling belly until, finally, something shifts into place, and their moan turns seamlessly into a gross, churning belch. All that ache bubbles out along with the trapped air, leaving them fully recovered and utterly mortified

“Feel better?”