First i'd feed you. Not to the point of being nauseous but slightly queasy.
Then i'd walk you to the car get you all settled with a drink and bags in case we are successful.
And then i'd hand you glasses. Glasses that make your whole view blurred. Imagine having clear view in your peripherals, blurred in Front of you, while your moving, not able to really see where to. Your last meal tumbling around inside your too full gut, just rolling around with your disoriented body.
Not the mention my hand that is rubbing over the confused organ, randomly adding pressure.
Think your stomach could handle windy roads in those circumstances?
Ohhh my head’s spinning just from thinking about this….
I’m not much of a drinker but my solid frame gives me a pretty decent tolerance now. I just….cant hold my liquor once I get that drunk. I’ve never actually been that drunk
I’d have to start drinking with dinner. Make sure I get into the car when I’m silly and just starting to slur my words. When the alcohol stops tasting like anything so taking gulps from my bottle will be no problem. Make it a fruity drink. One I love the taste of (so you can ruin it for me forever). I’ll be sloppy drunk in no time.
I wouldn’t be able to notice that my burps are getting heavier when we hit the curviest part of our road trip. Wouldn’t feel the violent bubbling rising from my belly. I’d even be inclined to take more sips to soothe my suddenly icky throat.
You’d hear my burps get wetter. See my arm tighten around my waist, my eyebrows furrow and eyelids slam shut when I glance out the window. See me grip the plastic bag I somehow kept in my fingers. Hear the guttural “ohhhhhhhh” right before my forehead thumps against the glass. You’d ask if I’m alright, and when all I could do is shake my head you’d start to slow down. We’re alone on a distant road. You’re not worried about other cars.
All I’deed to hear from you is “don’t forget the sick bag in your hand” and I’d start gagging. And so drunk my gags would need no help to start pushing out the toxins.
We’d make eye contact in the review mirror when the first wave of drunk sick spills from my lips and down my chest. It’s mostly alcohol and juice and tastes so much like rotting fruit I start retching loudly. But once my body gets the excess liquid out, I’m all dry heaves and spit. I grip the bag and gag over and over but nothing. No relief: not from the nausea, not from the spinning, not from the fact that the pressure made me piss my pants and your car seat…
And my stomach? It’s humongous.
Not my lower belly. Not my middle guts. My stomach. The starch-filled, bread centric meal you fed me has formed a ball and clogged everything. I’m gripping my puke bag so tight my knuckles are white. It’s hard to even open my eyes but somehow I manage to burst out, “pull over!” And the force rips the wettest, sickest belch from beneath my ball of dinner that it ends with a sob.
Turns out…you already pulled over minutes ago. While I was busy making a complete mess of myself, you had turned off the car, unbuckled your own seatbelt, and started rubbing my back. So instead of following my request you take the opportunity to get out of the car, open my door, unbuckle me, and slide yourself between me and the passenger seat.
With both hands now holding me firmly by my belly (and the puke filled bags forgotten on the car floor), you get me on my knees. You ignore my whines of being too drunk to puke, put away the increasingly desperate and sick burps coming from me for later use, and whisper “Just follow my lead. I’ll make you feel better,” not a second before slipping two fingers in my mouth and a fist below the mass in my stomach.
My body’s response is so fast I almost pass out. The combined pressure you put on my stomach from beneath and the pull of the gags you elicit from above draw my dinner and the remaining alcohol from my tummy. Streams of chunky sick projectiles into the grass and dirt in front of us. I lose all power to hold myself up, so you do it for me, the arm used for gagging me now gripping my shoulder. We both feel my stomach deflate faster than we’ve ever experienced; you gasp in my ear as your hand quickly goes flat against my belly. Removing the food weight doesn’t stop my tummy from sloshing and swirling, but after a few massive gushes I’m back to dry heaving and spitting and dribbling in agony.
We’d stay like that for a while, both of us nervous to get back in the car and move me faster than 0mph. But the sun is starting to go down and we need to go back home. When you ask me if I think I can handle the car ride back I laugh…which triggers another round of gags and moans. I know you packed water and crackers for this exact situation, but I also know everything my stomach receives will be sent back swiftly and painfully. We’re on solid ground the but the world is still spinning behind my eyes. I feel like a human whirlpool. But eventually I agree and, with your help, climb back into my seat, which you let me lay all the way down so I can curl my knees into my sick tummy and cover my eyes from the moving window.
You’d go much easier on the way back. You’d have to. You took the first sharp turn too hard, and, having no bags to puke in anymore, I forced you to pull over again. Then again when you went too fast while I sat up to see where we were. Then again when we passed a McDonalds and I smelled the late night grease (and we pulled into their lot for revenge). By the time you got me home I’d be aching from head to toe, head throbbing and body hurling back up anything we put into it.
And the next day when I’d look at your car, my tummy would gurgle so loud you’d chuckle and ask, “you think it worked?”
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