There I was fully-dressed, looking normal until you saw the bulge. Not that kind of bulge. I stuffed an entire vanilla cake into my briefs, cheeks spread wide to squeeze it in, the soft sponge desperate to burst free with every step. Zipped up. Walked out. To the store. People looked. Did they know? Could they smell the frosting sweating through my jeans? Then outside cold yogurt poured straight into my sneakers, toes squelching, each footstep a silent scream of shame. Every second expecting someone to point, laugh, record me. But I made it home only to be punished: cake smashed into my face, cream dripping from my hair, Nutella smeared across my chest as I ripped shirt after shirt off each tear a confession, each stain a trophy of my ruin.

This is humiliation at its most delicious. Would you survive the walk?