I Swear I'll Never Again

By El Portero

For FrostByte

I swear I'll never do this again.  My body can't take it!  Why am I doing this anyway?  Year after year, it's the same routine.  Why can't I break it?  What is it about this damned holiday that flips some crazy switch in the back of my head?  "Eat," my mother says, and somehow the command sticks.  Does she not know that I need this body for my modeling work?  Does she not know how hard I have to work to keep this figure?  So she issues the annual order and I dutifully obey.  Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green been casserole, corn, yams, cranberry sauce, biscuits, pumpkin pie with gobs of whipped cream on top.  All of it, somehow, crammed down my throat by my own hand, guided by that maternal mandate:  "Eat."

And so I'm put under the spell, and it lasts while any ounce of this meal remains.  Leftovers in the fridge call my name, some secret siren song that only my cursed ears can hear.  Even while the first round sits and settles in my swollen gut, they call me.  I cannot ignore their beckoning.

I hide my shameful acts, stealing nibbles and mouthfuls whenever backs are turned.  Slowly this deluge of food makes its way into my body, forcing its way into my already aching stomach.  The pain does not deter me.

I'm thankful for that post-meal period where I am under watchful eye, when I can somehow hold back this crazed craving.  My poor stomach is filled to a point where I can no longer believe it is capable of additional contents, and yet I yearn still for those heaping platefuls.

Digestion is slow at first, and my gut feels as if it contains an enormous lump of concrete.  After a year of well-balanced diets and food planning, this initial stomach-full has a slow start, but soon it remembers what to do, begins to get a handle on the meal.  For anyone else this would be a relief, a welcomed release of gastronomic pressure.  But for me it is a perfectly-timed curse, a relapse in restraint coming at that precise moment when all others have fallen into a deep, long, full night's sleep, leaving me alone with that ivory-skinned mistress—the refrigerator.

The loud gurgling that has been emanating from my busy stomach adds to it a sharp squirting sound:  churned food being pushed into my small intestine.  Room is being made, destroying my willpower.  From this lapse, there is no recovery.  Containers are whisked from the refrigerator, leftovers poured onto plates.  The cold platters are placed into microwaves and come out as steaming piles of dietary sin.  The noise wakes no one; their heavy meals still hold them deep in their comas.

I indulge, in every sense of the word.  Shame does not ever once step in and retard my madness.  Nor does my stomach protest; for every few mouthfuls of food I send down my throat and into its confines, my stomach forces some of its prepared chyme through the pyloric valve.  For now, I've reached a state of gastric equilibrium.

I can feel myself filling up deep inside.  The parade of food through my intestine is steady, progressive.  My digestive system is back in the swing of things, remembers this abhorrent annual drill.  As my gut fills from the center, I push even further down the sweatpants I donned earlier, before all this insanity began.  The elastic band gently hugs the soft and growing curve of my abdomen, embracing the quaking mass of taunt, soft flesh.

My filling intestine begins to push back up on my stomach, giving it additional support.  The mound of my belly pushes up against the underwire of my bra, and I decide it is time to lose it.  I tear off my t-shirt and unhinge my bra, choosing instead to sit there topless in the dining room.  My dignity is officially out the window.

Then comes the extra-loud squirt I've been waiting to hear.  On my lower right side, I can feel the force of the food being shoved into my large intestine.  It was now just a matter of time before my ultimate shame began.

It's hard to explain the guilty joy of feeling as I do at this moment.  My insides are in a constant state of motion, churning, pushing, digesting, and it feels like nothing else.  It's as if I've been empty all my life, and only now discovering what it means to be whole.

I rub my right side; it's filling up inside me.  Like a ticking time bomb, the column grows.  My bowel is working overtime, solidifying the digestive remains it has been dealt.  Not even the knowledge of this growing log of shit inside of me deters my quest.  It rises up, turns, slides itself under my churning stomach.  Its gastric motions only encourage the forward progress as I rub my aching left side.  A shameless passing of gas signals my switch of venue.

The remaining plates line the bathroom counter; still so much more food to go.  I kick off the legs of the sweatpants, slide the panties from my ass as I sit down on the cool porcelain.  I can feel my rectum filling as I continue to eat.

The knock on my back door comes.  Nothing has stopped me to this point, and so now why should this?  I relax my anal sphincter, feel the thick log of shit poke its way out.  I swallow another large bite.  It makes its way into my churning stomach, pushes a bit of food out into my small intestine.  The additional pressure makes its way along the coiled length, shoves more into my stuffed colon.  The muscular walls spasm, and more is forced out of my body.  I can feel everything happening inside of me, and it feels amazing.

I continue to eat, forkful after forkful.  I look down past my bare breasts and see the pulsating, quivering mound that is my belly.  I can see digestion through the tight flesh, hear its glorious roar.  And as I eat, I feel the smooth sensation of shit sliding through my asshole.  Having memorized the maximum amount the toilet can handle, I squeeze my rectal muscles, cutting off the continuous flow, and flush.  The toilet works hard to force down the heavy load I've given it, but it manages.  Again, I relax.

It continues like this for the better part of an hour, until the final drop of food has made its way inside me.  I set the last plate down and breath a sigh of relief as I pat and rub my swollen belly.  I savor the moment, because the nightmare is about to begin.

It's as if my body knows that there's no more food coming.  Like a spoiled child suddenly deprived of more, it begins to horde what it has.  The pleasant sensations of internal movement are replaced with the sharp, cramping pains of excessive fullness.  I squeeze my bowels, try to force them to move, but nothing further comes.  I cradle the massive sphere of my gut and wince as I shake it, trying to knock something loose.  Instead, I am greeted with blinding pain, the walls of my colon swelling with trapped gas.

Through the pain, I wipe my ass clean and flush the toilet.  I hide the evidence of my inappropriate behavior.  I load the dishes and empty containers into the dishwasher.  Like every year before, everyone will wake up from their turkey-induced sleep and forget all about the leftovers.  Secretly, I think my mother knows, but says nothing so that she doesn't have to deal with the extra food in the house.  And as I finish cleaning up, I wonder if I shouldn't blow my own cover, so that perhaps this madness will end.  But shame keeps my secret hidden, keeps this addict coming back for more.

I reach into the medicine cabinet for the only thing that will bring me relief:  MAX-LAX.  I sit back down on the toilet as I pop off the bottle cap.  I upend the enormous bottle and dump its entire contents into my stomach.  The thick, cool liquid coats the mass of food churning within, begins to do its dirty work.

I brace myself for the horrific, literally gut-wrenching experience I am about to undertake.  The gurgling in my stomach grows louder as the laxative kicks into full-gear, causing the over-extended organ to cramp down hard, forcing large amounts of partially-digested food into my already full intestine.  I can feel the massive amounts of pressure welling up inside me as food is forced deeper and deeper into my gut.  My colon begins to swell; the pain is more than I can stand.  I cry out, but no one hears me.

The liquid chyme forces its way around the solid waste sitting in my large intestine and begins to pour out of my open anus.  I keep flushing the toilet as fast as possible, but I can barely keep up.  Finally the laxative begins to soften the solid stool remaining inside me, and it slides out of my body as an enormous and intact log.  I watch it between my legs as the toilet struggles to flush it away, can see the undigested kernels of corn poking out of its mass.  It takes a few flushes, but finally the last of it is gone.

I ache everywhere, and my breathing is heavy.  I feel completely empty inside, as if all my organs had been flushed away with that unholy meal.  I try to slow my breathing, to gather my wits.

I swear I'll never do this again.