milkshake is a food group

I roll over, into the deep dent you’ve left in the mattress – a permanent hollow. I shuffle my hips and shoulders, making sure I’m in the very deepest part. The moment in so many monster movies where the human characters realize they’re not in a crater at all, they’re in the beast’s enormous footprint: that’s how I feel as I lay in your mattress dent. How small I seem, my entire body comfortably encircled by this record of your enormity, this testament to the rippling waves of lard that have ruined what was supposedly a bariatric mattress.

We only bought it six months ago; now one side looks crushed. “Side” isn’t quite right because it implies an even split. I’m lucky if I get a quarter. But I don’t mind; It’s no sacrifice. The more I feel your growing body pushing me into an ever smaller sliver of the mattress, the prouder I am of you and the more pleasure I take. Nor do I mind that soon it’ll be a new mattress, and a bigger bed, too. Whatever it costs to keep enabling your descent into becoming nothing but an embodiment of greed itself, a gut without a brain, I'll pay gladly. After all, the far greater cost will be yours, someday.

You take so long these days in the bathroom. I can hear you grunting in there, I can hear those inhuman farts. The bowl will be a mess, I know. That’s what happens when you eat nothing but grease every waking moment.

So, I know I have a several more minutes to luxuriate in the mattress dent, this testament to all I’ve done to you – all we’ve achieved together. It smells strongly of your body – never quite fresh any more; too much skin rubbing against skin; too much effort to shower. It’s damp with your sweat – which now comes at the slightest exertion, even the mere swallowing of yet another bite of ultraprocessed junk. The relics of all those artery-destroying indulgences are strewn all around. Wrappers, crumbs, slicks of sauce.

You really have become a slob lately. You don’t seem to care anymore about living in your own filth, when just a few months ago you would’ve been appalled at the mere suggestion of something so undignified. Too late for dignity now, piglet. Who needs dignity when all you ever need to do is open your gaping maw and chew whatever I push into it.

I peel myself out of the dent and leap up from the bed, chuckling at how easy I find it compared to your struggle a few minutes ago. It ought to be easy, after all, this simple task of getting out of bed. What kind of takeout-addicted, food-crazed travesty of a person eats herself into such helpless, monstrous oblivion that getting up from the mattress feels like torture? My brave girl, that’s who. Don’t worry, piglet; keep going and you won’t have to worry about getting out of bed ever again. Won’t that be a relief for you?

I walk past the bathroom. I pause a second to listen, with my smile wide and my dick throbbing, to the sound of your continuing struggles on the other side of the door. Do these moments ever make you wonder if you’ve gone too far, past the point of no return? If they do, the fear doesn’t last long, before desperate hunger comes rushing in again and blots out every other thought from your dumb little head. One thought always overwhelms all others: more food, as much of it as possible, shoveled down your groaning gullet as a matter of urgency.

Even now, I know, while you’re in there, struggling to make your wrecked digestive system perform its most basic and necessary of functions, struggling to keep yourself clean, struggling for breath, you’re already getting hungry again, fantasizing desperately about what I might bring you next. The thought is making you wet, I know it is.

That's why I walk on down the hallway, to the front door, where two large bags have just been dropped off. One from Wendy’s, one from our favorite local Mexican spot – remember how we used to go there before you outgrew their booths? Maybe I should let you choose which bag you’d like me to feed you. Not that it's really a choice: we know you’re going to eat both, and it still won’t be enough for either of us.

Just as I put the bags down on the table by your side of the bed, making space first by clearing away the frankly grotesque number of takeout boxes and cups that have accumulated in just the past couple of days, I hear a moan.

“Baby, I’m… finished… I think.” I hear you panting; you never seem able to catch a deep breath any more. “Can you come… help me clean up?” Amid the panting, another long, sloppy fart and a pained grunt.

“Are you really sure you’re finished, piglet?” I chuckle. “Sounds like someone’s still working on something.”

“Don’t tease me!” you protest, weakly, wheezing. You can’t hide the smile in your voice, the twisted pride in being humiliated. “I’m definitely done now. But oh, God, I feel so faint. Can you please come clean me up? I need to lay down again.”

I rustle in one of the bags, pull out one of three Baconators.

“I’ll be there in just a second, little piglet. Everything’s okay.”

I ought to stop calling you “piglet” – you graduated to “hog” or “sow” a long time ago – but something about it just feels right for you, even now. There’s still something so sweet and delicate in your face, only enhanced by the thick casing of fat in which those pretty features are now submerged. You’re a spectacle, an abomination, a beast, and that’s exactly why you’re so beautiful to me.

Opening the door, I’m greeted by your perfect degradation; a mountain of panting, sweating lard, a body collapsing in on itself from constant abuse of every one of its organs. The smell in here is like nothing a human should produce. The overworked toilet itself is completely invisible beneath your hanging folds. Someday soon you’ll rip it clean off the wall, and I’ll punish/reward you with a feast. Another milestone to commemorate. You couldn’t be more perfect. Well, maybe just another 50lbs. That’s funny, I have a dim memory of us saying the same thing 200lbs ago.

“Help… me.” That’s all you can muster now, utterly exhausted.

I approach you, unwrapping the burger. The grease begins to coat my fingers. I see your weary, fat-smothered eyes light up, your mouth hanging open, beginning to drool.

“We’ll clean you up in just a second, piglet. But first I want to see you finish this."

You stare intently at the burger in my hand. I can see that it’s a conscious effort not to lick your lips. I come closer and trace them with my grease/smeared finger, teasing you with just a hint of what you crave.

“Right here? Right now? While I’m on the...? And I'm still...? Oh honey I don’t know… I’ve had so much today already and my chest is so tight for some reason and I…”