Ice Cream

An excerpt from a piece I'm currently working on:

...There's something about the sheer hunger, something very masculine about the concept of devouring--Takeru Kobayashi's world famous hot dog eating eating contests, frat boys downing bongs. It definitely has something to do with the fact that once he has filled himself to capacity--the good ones, the "feedees", can drink almost a gallon at a time--he is incapacitated. No bondage cuffs could hold a pretty boy as willingly in thrall as the warm, heavy belly and the loggy feeling that comes after an orgy of overindulgence. To my mind, there is nothing so sweet to look at as a naked, full-bellied boy "sleeping it off"...

It's a lot like bar hopping in that I drop down into a crossfire of conversation, a hungry boy latches onto me, and if he passes the first tests of grammar and basic articulateness I take him aside into a private chat-room. We'll stay there for the first "getting to know you" paragraphs and then switch to Yahoo chat for the webcams. The little screen opens and I see an unfamiliar bedroom, a new body.

He's naked in an office chair. I can see his brush, his dick...oh, and his belly. He's just a little plump, so it contrasts nicely with the rest of his body, not to big or too small, and I can't see the rest of him because he's angled the camera to cut out his face. Once when he moved to the other side of the room to get something something shifted and I spied the color of his hair before he bought up his hand to cover his face like a prima donna hounded by the paparazzi. I want to respect his privacy and yet at the same time it seems so frustrating and pointless not to be able to see his face.

Beside him is one of those plain plastic tubs of ice cream you can get at the grocery store. He says he's let the ice cream inside melt, so that he can swallow it more easily and it won't give him a tummy freeze. Such details fascinate me, all the little bitty things that can't be thought of, but can only be realized through experience. Like a sailor talking about proper knots or a foodie describing the various ways to make a single dish, you can tell a true expert by the attention to detail, the little things he does to make the job easier.

He lifts the whole thing to his mouth, like drinking from a bucket. There's no way he can drink a gallon, but he's going to try. My clit swells as I watch his throat move, and if I watch carefully I can even see his tummy grow a bit with each swallow, each gulp traveling down to press it out a little more. A loop of melted cream falls across the soft flesh just above his nipple, and I offer to lick it off.

He stops, overwhelmed. He can't do it, though he made a good try. His tummy is noticeably bigger, rounder. fuller. This pleases me: that he looks better, that my favorite part of him is more exaggerated, that his senses are overwhelmed with sweetness and richness and gluttony. He runs his hand down his belly, caressing it, then, without asking me, begins to jerk off.