I love the term food-drunk. Not just because I love to see it--a boy whose brain has gone foggy with excesses--but because I love how it acknowledges the compulsive way some very good boys chase the pleasures of the table.
They order extra helpings and additional desserts, they go back for thirds or fourths, they get as many scoops of ice cream that'll balance on the cone just to try every single flavour; and they do it because everything tastes so good and feels so good that they conveniently forget the limits of their own physiology. They can't resist a food-bender, gorging themselves until they literally can't because they love how it makes them feel so very, very much.
I love the self-deception. Of course I have room for one more. Of course I am still up for milkshakes after. Of course I will finish that for you. Even while they are already so full that they can no longer sit forward with their elbows on the table, belly too tight and hard to squish in their lap like usual. They're too food-drunk to notice they've been reclined, knees splayed wide, flesh showing where their shirt won't meet their waistband, for a while now.
I love the lack of inhibition. Burping, rubbing the protruding shelf of their stomach, slapping their bulging gut and giving it a confident shake, aware of how bloated and swollen they are, but proud of their excesses. Who can be embarassed when they've been so impressive? They've moved past quietly overindulging into arrogantly grandstanding, showing off. Food-drunk and reckless, they unbutton at the table and lay a hand on either side of a swollen gut to show off their appetites. Slow down? Why? This tank can hold so much more.
I love the moment of regret. They didn't see it coming, but after they polish off the latest burger and snatch up the last scraps of fries, it hits them like a truck: oh god, they are stuffed. It was all so damn good, the courses just kept coming, and the drinks were flowing, and they'd lost count of how many burgers that really was, but suddenly they can feel it. They slump back in their chair and palm their belly, surprised in their food-drunk state at how fucking huge it is, and growing rapidly. It just hit them now, but they'd been eating so quickly and enthusiastically, it hasn't even caught up with them yet. They scramble to loosen their belt and slide down in their seat to relieve the growing pressure everywhere--all that food is packed in and making room. Their gut bulges straight out, round as a basketball and feeling distinctly like it is gonna pop if anyone were to jostle them too hard. Why did they do that? That third appetizer? The rest of the pie? The last two burgers crammed on one bun so it wouldn't go to waste? What were they thinking?
I love when they've finally really succumbed. Head lolling back, struggling to stay awake, desperately massaging their aching belly and too food-drunk to know or care what they are saying. Oooh, god, look at me. I have never been this huge. How could you--*hic*--let me eat all that? No, I can't stand up, I'm too fat. Nnngh, look at this. One more--*burp*--pint and I'll have housed a whole cask. UuUugh, let me just die here. Nnhm, actually, that feels good. Mmmhm, yes please. Keep rubbing. Yah, yah, I'll finish your cake. Uuuogh, kiss me, you monster. I didn't eat myself this fat for nothing.
