I like big guts and I cannot lie

900 words · 5 min read · emptyheadedhousecow.tumblr.com · January 2026

The fourth meal of the day ended ten minutes ago, and the heat hasn't faded. It's the most I've ever eaten in one session, or close to it. My breathing is fast, my thoughts are slow. The fullness of my stomach radiates outwards, pressing against every part of me.

You're nestled into me, resting your head on my padded shoulder, squished between my arm and the soft slope where my side meets the mattress. I'm not really someone you cuddle anymore, but more like somewhere you settle, soft and comfortable. Your wrist rests on my belly, rising and falling with my shallow breath, as you gently trace lines of glittering fire over my stretchmarks with your fingers.

"You did so well," you murmur. (I grunt in agreement.) "All of it, every bite. I'm so proud of you. You make me so happy."

"You make me happy," I answer, drowsily, unthinking, but it's true. This is all I want - this moment, this warmth. Our closeness. Your voice and your hands and the heavy, satisfied ache that holds me.

"I know I push you a little far sometimes. But you always rise to it. Look how far you've come," you say, moving your hand a little further down my belly. "Six hundred and thirty pounds. My perfect little larder."

I smile.

And then the number lands.

Six hundred and thirty. I knew, of course I knew, I'm on the scale practically every week and again earlier today - but hearing it here, in your voice, in this moment, it's different. Six hundred and thirty. The numbers used to be hot but now they're scary. Those are TV show numbers. Hospital numbers. Numbers that make me think the honeymoon could end at any moment.

I'm still smiling, but it's just the muscles holding position. The rest of me is somewhere else.

Your fingers still trace me but the sensation is gone and I feel what you're outlining: contours of land, like earth poured into this reinforced bed. You're curled up against the expanse of me like you'd curl against a hillside.

You shift, look up at me. Your whole body weighs less than one of my legs. If I rolled I'd smother you in a landslide.

"What's wrong?" you ask.

"It's nothing," I say, trying to find the warmth again. It was right here. "I'm okay."

But the cold is in me now. It's not the first time I've heard that doubting voice. It speaks up at every milestone, at every new struggle, each time I need help with something I could do before. But it's always been silenced by that heavy fullness. It's never interrupted a moment like this before - it's never smothered the warmth. It's never stolen you from right by my side.

I need it gone.

"Sometimes I get doubts," I say. "About... this. Of losing it."

You wait.

"There's part of me that hears a number like that and panics. It tries to tell me that this can't be my life. I try to ignore it, but... one day, when I'm empty, when the warmth is gone, I'm scared it'll win me over."

You open your mouth to speak, but I continue. "So don't let me. Okay? I need to stay in this feeling. Promise me you'll keep me in it. Promise me you won't let me go."

You're silent for a moment. Perfectly still.

Then you sit up. You lean over me and take my face in your hands. Your eyes are full of love.

"Yes," you say. "I promise."

Relief floods through me. The warmth burns hot. You understand. You'll keep me here, you'll keep me safe.

"You've made a big decision," you say, gently. "I'm proud of you."

I smile, and relax, but something snags. Decision? The word feels out of place. I was only asking for reassurance.

The endorphins are fading now. The warmth is tapering off, and I find myself lying here in our bed, in this body, this growing six hundred and thirty pound body that becomes less independent day by day, and you're still holding my face in your hands, and your eyes are still full of love, but something within has changed. Something that was waiting and isn't anymore.

What have I done?

I go to speak, but you shush me with a gentle finger. You stroke my cheek.

"You're tired, honey." You reach for the tube, connect it, check the seal, place the end in my mouth. Never mind that I'm already as full as I've ever been. "Let me take care of everything."

No chance to argue. The lights dim. You leave.

There was no hesitation, I realise. No "let's talk about this when you're less full", no "this is a big step", no "are you sure?"

The warmth is gone, fully gone, and in the cold I see clearly: a body I can hardly move, a door I soon won't be able to reach, a life that revolves around you. And I... don't...

...but... those are cold thoughts. Tomorrow, when I'm full, with you beside me, I'll mean every word I said tonight. So whatever I just gave you - if it helps me get back to that warmth, you can have it. That's what I want. That's all I want. I have to believe that.

The feed runs, and I swell.

Thank you, dear 💓

Donuts are my weakness, I can’t stop stuffing myself with them 🥵🍩

What do you mean, you had four? Four whole ones? Uhhhhh, well, so you should lie down immediately and, um. Well, I hope you don't mind me– who am I kidding, you're not going to mind anything for a month minimum. Goodness, that's hitting you fast!

The one who loves food bc it's a care thing for them, it feels good to eat and they like sharing food with their loverfriends (usually working through self-acceptance/accepting care/accepting that it's okay to indulge issues)

The one who is a wild sorta hedonistic mess who loves the sensory experience of food and indulgence including fullness, usually attaches sex or sensuality to the feeding experience for maximum sensory bender

The one who is just very cute and gets excited about food and really obviously enjoys and savors it and has a big appetite by default so they're just happily eating their fill when they can

happy pride month !!!