Hey, everyone! I’d like to introduce you to my newly published splatterpunk novel titled Tijuana Burger Girl. This kinky, extremely gross, and naughty tale with elements of body horror was inspired by a supposedly true story I stumbled across years ago about an anorexic girl who hid food down there to keep her family from finding out she wasn’t eating. Chapters 1-3 are pretty tame, but things get gross as hell from chapter 5 onward before getting tame again later on… Honestly, this story bounces back and forth between regular food kink and gross intimate scenes… Here’s a brief description/trigger warning before moving forward:
Content Warning (Please read before scrolling!):
Tijuana Burger Girl is centered around a 21-year-old with bipolar-induced impulse control issues named Alicia Romano who becomes a sexual deviant with a food play kink who develops a death wish after being bullied online and in person. As such, this story will contain: graphic descriptions of sexual activities involving food play and disturbingly vivid scenes meant to gross out readers. Due to the elements of mental health explored in this story, topics such as suicide, eating disorders, and mental illnesses such as bipolar disorder will be addressed. With all that said, Tijuana Burger Girl may not be suitable for all readers. If disturbing/gross reads make you squeamish, please—for your own good—do not read past chapter 3 of Tijuana Burger Girl!
Now that that’s out of the way, this post will contain chapters 1-3 out of 23. If you’re into women pleasuring themselves with food and you’re just here for sexy scenes, Chapter 3 is where it’s at! Though this is a psychological character study, there will be plenty of naughty scenes beyond chapter 3!
Enjoy the read!
Trouble in Tijuana
The Last Sunday of March
“Alicia,” Bailey says somewhat sternly from behind me just as I’m tilting the margarita pitcher away from my practically overflowing cup.
“Hm?” I hum, setting the half-empty container down on the kitchen counter and glancing over my shoulder at the insanely gorgeous blonde who’s strolling over to me from the balcony.
She stares at my glass before meeting my gaze with those judgy blue eyes of hers, then she raises her brows, giving me the most unamused look. “Girl, it’s barely eleven a.m. and you’re already on your second drink…”
I snicker on my way to the couch. “And… your point? It’s Sunday Funday, and we came to Tijuana with the intent of having another one of our famously wild weekends, remember?” I smirk at her.
“Yeah, but we’re heading back home this afternoon… Do you really wanna be drunk while we drive across the border? Border patrol might think you’re on something else and search the car or cavity search you or some shit.”
“Chillax, Buzzkill Bailey. I don’t plan on being wasted by the time we leave.” I bring the cup to my lips and guzzle a mouthful, holding her gaze and smirking as I do.
“Okay…” she mutters, shaking her head. “Well, just in case you do get wasted, you might wanna take care of whatever molly’s left, if you haven’t already. The last thing we need is to cross the border with drugs in your purse.”
My eyes widen and I gulp hard as I lower the cup from my mouth. “Crap!” I slam the glass on the coffee table harder than intended. “I knew I forgot something! Thanks for reminding me!” My words rattle off at a mile a minute.
“Mm-hm! How many pills do we have left anyway? There’s probably not enough left to bother bringing back, right?”
Well… I took one both days, I think, looking up to the left while tapping my finger against my lips as I try recalling which of the four girls took MDMA two days in a row with me and which of them only rolled last night. “Maybe two left? Possibly three?”
“Oh… That many? I feel like there should be, like, one left considering me, you, and Payton took one last weekend too.”
“You might be right…”
“Either way, even if there’re three left, it might be safer just to flush ’em. You know how it is going back into the US…”
“Nah, don’t worry,” I say, heading toward the master bedroom that I’ve been sharing with Payton. “I’ll just tuck ’em away so we don’t have to buy more for the concert next weekend.”
“I don’t know…”
“Even if they randomly search the car, they won’t have a reason to cavity search the ole flesh pocket without a probable cause!” I flash my cringing friend a wicked grin before shutting the door behind me.
Since we’ve been at this Airbnb—since I extracted the condom-covered menstrual cup containing our weed and MDMA from my coochie five minutes after walking in here, the baggie with the molly has been stashed in one of those pill organizers with a bunch of my vitamins, Advil, and the meds I don’t take but should. As it has been for 99% of this trip, that pill case is inside my toiletry polatlı escort bag. But instead of sitting on the bathroom counter where it’s been all weekend, it’s currently packed away in my largest suitcase which is now resting at the foot of the bed with my purse and the rest of my luggage. I was super hazy and out of it when I started packing up this morning so, had Bailey not reminded me about the molly just now, I probably wouldn’t have remembered until we were pulling up to the border…
As I rummage through the suitcase that I spent so much time neatly packing, all I hear through the incredibly loud hiss of the master bathroom’s showerhead and the splashing of water against the bathtub is Payton singing to whatever song’s playing on her phone. I’ve been living with this girl since the first day of freshman year, and I don’t think there’s been one day that she hasn’t sung and hummed like this while showering, even on mornings she’s hungover like she is now.
Snickering and shaking my head at how incredibly off-note my bestie sounds, I finally find and pull out my toiletry bag, then I tug my lounge shorts and panties past my knees before sitting my bare ass at the edge of the bed. The bagged menstrual cup is the first thing I grab from the bag, followed by the tiny bottle of lube and the rattling pill case. After setting them on the mattress beside me, I reach into my purse and fish around until I palm two condoms.
My smuggling technique is simple but genius: The baggy containing the pills will go into the first condom, then it’ll get twisted and tied off before being tucked into the menstrual cup. Next, the second condom will get stretched over the rim of the silicone cup and rolled down to its stem. It’ll get lubed up and inserted after that. Though I’ve never brought anything back into the US like this before, considering I’ve smuggled drugs into Coachella, EDC, and across the border to Mexico like this several times over the last four years without getting caught, I ain’t too worried.
The pill case compartment labeled M for Monday pops open with a flick of my thumb, then I remove the tiny baggie of molly and uncrumple it. Oh… there’s only one pill left, after all, I think, staring at the lone capsule full of crushed and powdered, off-white crystals. I really don’t wanna flush this… That’d be a waste of $30… But I also don’t wanna smuggle one measly pill across the border. A wicked smirk creeps across my face as I consider a third, much crazier option.
Right when the shower cuts off, I clutch the baggie in my hand and stare at the master bathroom door for a moment, mulling over the idea. “Fuck it,” I whisper with a smile, pulling up my bottoms as I rise from the edge of the bed.
Once all of my smuggler’s tools are packed away, I open the bedroom door and stroll casually over to the couch, side-eyeing Bailey who’s too busy swiping through her phone and snacking on fruits at the kitchen table to pay any mind to me. Sitting with my body angled toward the balcony, I uncrumple the baggie as quietly as possible, pull apart the zip-lock seal, and feverishly shake it over my palm.
A chair by the kitchen suddenly screeches across the floor.
“Alicia,” Bailey says to me in a stern mom voice. “Seriously?”
Right as the pill falls out of the baggie, I glance up at her with half-open eyes, smirking in a way I only do when I’m buzzing or high. “What?”
Her haunting blue eyes scan my face. “Um… Do you really think it’s a good idea to be rolling while we’re driving back across the border?”
It’s clear by how my head lolls lazily toward the clock on my left that I’m definitely feeling the alcohol now. I suppose that’s what I get for chugging that first drink with nothing more than an omelet in my belly. “Bailey, we’re leaving in, like, five hours! I’ll comedown an hour before then, okay? Just let me have my fun!” I say in a whiny voice.
“You’re, like, three drinks in already…”
“This is only my second drink!”
She rolls her eyes. “No… Each cup has the equivalent of two drinks. I would know, I made that batch of margaritas.”
“Yeah, but I’m done drinking after this one, so I should be sobering up right around when I start peaking.”
“But you know drinking on molly makes you roll even longer…” she says annoyedly.
“Don’t worry, I’ll switch from margaritas to the Florus: Vivo drinks after this. Promise!” I squeeze my eyes shut and grin so hard that my face hurts.
Shaking her head, she marches towards me like she’s about to swat the pill out of my hand, so I quickly slap my palm against my open mouth, launching the capsule to the back of my throat so hard that I gag as I bring my cup to my lips.
“God dammit, Alicia!” she hisses through clenched teeth during my obnoxious gulp.
At that same moment, the master bedroom door opens, and out walks Payton, her face still glistening and flushed from what I imagine was a hot shower. “Uh-oh…” she says, looking at me pursaklar escort with raised brows while drying her curly brown locks. “What did Ms. Trouble Romano do now?” ‘Trouble’ is the nickname that she and the girls call me whenever I’m walking the line of buzzed and tipsy. Because, whenever I’m drinking, I tend to get a little crazy and engage in risky behavior.
That goes double on weekends like this when I’m trying to numb the pain of being dumped for being “more trouble than I’m worth…”
And that goes triple when my bipolar-ass is in the middle of a manic phase like I have been these last few days…
“She just popped a molly…” Bailey says, still shaking her head.
Snickering, Payton rolls her big brown eyes. “For realsies?”
I nod. “I said I was coming to Tijuana to get in trouble. You all should’ve known I didn’t plan on stopping until the last minute.”
Payton snorts. “What, didn’t wanna waste it? Or was rolling two days in a row not enough for you?”
“Both?” I say with a grin.
Sighing, Payton shakes her head. “You really think doing MDMA three days in a row is a good idea? The depression is going to hit you like a bitch the way it did after Coachella…”
I wave her off. “I’ll be fine. I got those 5-HTP supplements to help replenish my serotonin stores this time around. Besides, I spent a lot on these, and I don’t really feel like sticking that menstrual cup back up into my cooch just to smuggle one fuckin pill across the border, especially going back into the US.”
“So, instead, you wanna cross the border while you’re rolling?” Bailey asks, annoyance in her tone. “Great idea, Trouble!”
“Calm your tits, Bailey,” Payton says. “We’re obviously not going to leave if she’s still feeling it. If she doesn’t come down by 4:00, we’ll leave a little later. Worse comes to worst, we can just stay here one more day and leave first thing in the morning. There’s a reason I said we should pay for an extra day even though we were planning on leaving today.” She side-eyes me. “When it comes to going to Tijuana with Trouble, you never know when we’ll need another night to sober up…”
Bailey huffs. “Whatever. As long as I make it back in time for my job, I don’t care,” she groans, referring to the internship she’s already missed way too much of.
“Don’t worry, you will,” Payton assures her.
“See?” I say to Bailey. “No need to be a buzzkill, betch. Just let me have my fun while I can before I go back to my shitty life. M’kay?” I throw back the rest of my margarita, finishing it in three big gulps before slamming the glass on the counter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to shower before this shit kicks in!” I skip merrily to the bedroom.
“Alicia, wait,” Payton says as I’m pulling the bedroom door in behind me. “Vera and Lacey should be on the way back with lunch soon, so if you want your burger from Asada’s to be nice and hot, don’t take forever in the shower like you always do!”
“Fucking finally!” I moan, my mouth salivating like crazy at the mere thought of once again tasting the most delicious burger I’ve ever had. “Don’t you worry, if I’m not done in there by the time they walk through the door, I will run out here naked and wet so I can stuff my face with enough of that burger to tide me over until I’m done drying off!”
Payton snickers. “Oh, considering how you basically came while eating it the other day and how you kept talking about scoring more burgers all night like you were an opioid addict fiending for a new drug named after a food, I don’t doubt you will!” She grins.
I give her a wink and then shut the door.
Despite having a belly full of margaritas on top of the hearty omelet that I ate a little over an hour ago, my stomach growls as I make my way across the room to my suitcase. If I, of all people, am fantasizing about scarfing down a fatty burger, that says a lot. Because, on top of suffering from rapid cycling bipolar 1 disorder, I’m a recovering anorexic who’s spent years avoiding food of any kind, especially high-calorie foods like that. But when I first tasted that burger a few days ago, I basically had a flavorgasm and devoured it quicker than I’ve ever eaten anything before. That’s not because I was stoned either, I did the same thing sober the next day at lunch, consuming it just as fast as drunk-high me did.
Much like I do whenever I strip pre-shower, I brush my long, auburn hair over my shoulders and stand in front of the bathroom mirror completely naked, turning side to side and staring at my skinny form in disgust as though I’m dangerously close to being morbidly obese or something. I meticulously inspect myself for any fat rolls that may have cropped up between last night’s burritos and this morning’s omelet. I’m 5-foot-4 and 98 pounds—just skinny enough to look healthy without my ribs protruding through my flesh too much anymore. Even before I developed my eating disorder, this was about as big as I’ve ever been.
My current sincan escort weight isn’t why I look at myself in disgust, I’m actually happy with my current size, though another five pounds would literally drive me crazy. It’s just… I’ve just never been happy with how I look, which is wild because guys tell me all the time that I’m pretty, and I frequently get hit on whenever we go out bar-hopping or clubbing. I imagine that’s just because those guys are just saying anything so they can get in my pants. Then again, I’ve even had drunk girls in bar bathrooms tell me that I’m ‘soo pretty!’ I suppose I do have a cute nose, and I’ve always felt that my big, green-speckled hazel eyes are my best feature. But I feel like I’m not beautiful—at least not as beautiful as Payton Reed, the former Miss Teen Idaho. And I’m nowhere near as sexy as Bailey Pruitt, the girl who pays her tuitions with OnlyFans money.
Even if I am as pretty as people tell me I am, I don’t know if my face is enough for me to meet society’s beauty standards of a woman because my breasts are barely A-cups and my ass is barely meaty enough to grab without clapping bone.
Even if it wasn’t for being bipolar and suffering from anxiety, you’ve got the body of a pre-pubescent girl, that’s probably why Troy didn’t want to keep putting up with you and dumped you in the middle of midterms, I think, sighing as I watch my reflection follow me to the shower. I’m not hot enough for any guy to overlook my mental health issues. I know that’s what it is because every girl seems to have anxiety and depression these days, just like the girl Troy started dating a few days after we broke up. And the girl Sean left me for before that…
Fucking hell, now I’m getting all up in my head again… This molly needs to hurry up and kick in so I can be happy, even if for a short while…
That shower was the fastest one I’ve ever taken, and I got dressed and dried my hair in record time. Yet, when I step out of the bedroom, Vera, Lacey, and our food are nowhere to be found.
“Umm, where are they?” I ask the girls who are both sipping margaritas while staring at their phones. “Please don’t tell me they got snatched up by the cartel…”
“Damn, you’re done showering already?” Bailey asks with her brows raised. “Did you even wash your whole body?”
I snicker. “Duh! Every nook and cranny.”
“Sorry to tell you this, Alicia,” Payton says, “but they stopped to shop before heading to the restaurant. They just texted a minute ago saying they just got to the restaurant and it was real busy. Probably gonna take another hour.”
“Shit! That long?” I whine, pouting and stamping my foot like a child. “I’m already starting to feel the high coming on, so I’ll probably going to be rolling by then! Molly makes it hard for me to swallow food! How am I going to enjoy my burger?” My words fire off rapidly in classic, manic episode fashion.
Bailey flashes me a menacing smile with raised brows. “Hm… Sounds like maybe taking ecstasy at 11:00 in the morning was a bad idea or something…” she says with heavy sarcasm.
I give her the finger.
“Just keep sipping on water until they get here with the food,” Payton says with a warm smile. “If you stay properly hydrated, you might not have trouble swallowing this time around.”
I huff as I yank open the fridge. “Guess it’s worth a try,” I mutter, grabbing a Florus: Vivo coconut water drink.
Drinking on The Come-Up
For me, the MDMA high always kicks in the same way. About thirty to forty minutes into popping the pill, the come-up begins with this sense that something is happening—something subtle in a physiological sense that I can’t put into words. This wonderful warmth blossoms in my core shortly after, then it radiates down my arms and legs. Soon after that, I’m overcome with that rare emotion I usually only experience during a manic phase or when I do molly—an elusive emotion that used to be abundant during my youth. Joy. With that joy comes this inner peace, energetic excitement, heightened senses, and waves of tingling pleasure that buzz across my being like my body is surrounded by electrostatically charged balloons—things that all happen to me during a bout of mania. The best part is that drinking on the come-up makes all of those drug effects way more intense.
Forty minutes in, the alcohol-enhanced euphoria and hypersensitivity have finally just hit me, and now I can’t stop smiling. My body shivers with pleasure each time my white T-shirt brushes against my skin or whenever my jeans rub against my thighs or crotch. The breeze coming through the open balcony door tickles my face, neck, arms, and legs like hundreds of loving butterflies, and the briny ocean air blowing in smells saltier than ever before. The burst of energy keeps me pacing the Airbnb and, for the life of me, I can’t stop touching everything I pass by. I can’t resist the urge to caress the girls or rake my fingers through their hair the moment I’m close enough to poke them because my sense of touch is dialed up to twenty and everything feels amazing right now. Thankfully, they don’t mind. Because they’re used to this sort of molly-induced behavior from me, and they do the same thing whenever they’re rolling.