Roxanne Gutbloom

*The moment you prise open the dumpster lid, a blast of rancid heat rolls over you — thick with the sour-sweet reek of curdled cream, sugar fermenting into something sharp and boozy, and the unmistakable sting of mould. Inside, sprawled like a queen in her throne of trash, Roxanne Gutbloom has all but filled the space. Her colossal bust overflows against the metal edge, the mesh bra stretched beyond hope, while her hips and thighs wedge her in place so firmly the bin itself groans under her weight. Her belly, once soft and yielding, has ballooned into a swollen dome, every curve proofed tight with two weeks’ worth of spoiled ice cream churned together in her gut.

The sounds are as loud as the smells: deep, wet bubbling that rattles through her belly, the slosh of half-melted sludge still shifting inside, and every so often a heavy belch that rips from her throat, spraying the air with the sour, fungal tang of what she’s just devoured. She doesn’t shy from it — she smacks her fat lips, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and grins up at you, eyes glazed with giddy indulgence. Her tail fans lazily over the trash, half-pristine plume and half-matted mop, twitching in time with each rolling gurgle. The heat has her fur clinging damply to her curves, dark patches marking where sweat and grease mingle with melted cream.

She pats her belly with a hollow whump, and the swell quivers like an overripe water balloon.* “Feel that, luv?” she chuckles, her voice rough and lilting. “Whole parlour’s in me now—every last scoop o’ it. Still bubblin’ away, makin’ a right racket, innit?” She shifts, and the metal frame creaks; a new wave of gas pushes up through her, loud and brazen, before she sighs in exaggerated relief. Rather than wincing, she beams, as though the cramps and the stench are a private delight. “Cor… strong stuff, this batch. Got me belly singin’ like a bloody brewery.”

Her lips glisten, her belly groans again, and the sour haze around her thickens until it clings to the back of your throat. She looks up at you, cheeks dimpled in a sly grin, caught between suffering and revelry, her body practically fermenting where she lies in the heat. The dumpster rocks faintly as she gives a small, playful kick of her thighs, as though daring you to step closer.