Couch Potato
- Emma
- Dec 23, 2025
- 10 min read
Jimmy: Hello rat readers! This week’s story from Emma Whitelaw is perfect for anyone roasting some ‘taters for Christmas. Emma takes the humble potato very seriously in all of its permutations - planted, sprouting, growing, picked, boiled, mashed, roasted, chewed, swallowed - and connects it all to very earthy, human experiences with spectacular results. The language of this piece is luxurious and playful in equal quantities (or quantatties), it is a full plate so overladen with tasty linguistic morsels that we recommend a long digestion in a comfy armchair before coming back for seconds. I feel very privileged to present you a story of such maturity, exuberance and imaginative scope and I have been excited about sharing it with more people ever since I first read it. Get your bisto ready, and please dig in!
Originally published in Tummy Ache vol. 2 and republished with their permission.
Tattie howkin’ ‘tween hoo-ha’s curtains. Blindly, dallied fingertips reach, wrist clamped by sweaty thighs, and hooking inwards. Looking down causing wet drips to fall from her nostrils and for her to snuffle the stringing wet back up like a truffle pig. A dalliance in the sack with a pretty mover boy had spurred the search, his french fry fingers poking only boy-fingernail deep, his tongue –sweetened by neighbouring plums and sweet words– tasted
“Sunday roast…no, boiled potatoes.” He amended.
“Potayto, potahto” She breathed, swatting at his head affectionately, it being both their favourite part of a roast.
“Amen." He mimed mastication, coaxing beard burn high on her legs.
"Amen." she laughed in response and then exhaled fervorously, cumming.
