It all started with Emma and the dreaded triple-dog-dare. We were bored and so we engaged in a game of truth or dare that eventually devolved into a simple game of dares. I, of course, dared her to do a handstand. She was wearing a thin summer dress and so when she pressed her upside-down legs against the wall, the hem of her dress fell over her face. I was a ten-year-old boy, but I suppose you could say I was developing early for my age. I knew exactly what I was doing. She was nine and as she scrambled back to a standing position, red in the face, she reared back her tiny fist and slammed into my chest. I laughed. She did not.

"So, what's my dare?" I asked through a fit of giggles.

She straightened the edge of her dress and squinted at me through pouting lips. "I'll tell you later."

"You can't think of one!" I proclaimed.

"Can too!" She screeched.

"Nuh-uh." I said.

"Yeah-huh."

The rest of our play session continued as normal, sitting around a cardboard square in the floor. "Sorry!" I said, slamming her plastic piece off the board.

She flipped the game board and stomped away. Emma was always the melodramatic sort. I was only joking around. I was only ever joking around, of course. She just needed to relax. As her parents came to pick her up, we hugged one another and she grew red in the face as my dad said, "Awwwww."

"Gross." She said.

"Yeah." I grinned. "Emma's gross."

"I meant you!" She stammered, slamming her foot onto the hardwood floor.

The adults laughed. I watched her go.

It was summer and so the following day, my parents and me went to Emma's house. Her parents greeted me at the door, and I noticed Emma poking her head around the edge of her father's pant leg. She was wearing jeans and a look that could kill.

We played in the backyard as our parents made drinks in the kitchen. Both mine and Emma's family were of the idle wealthy, so our days were filled with our parent's listless faces, gin and citrus coming from their smiling mouths.

She took me to her small bedroom, painted in all things Cinderella and princesses. There was a new look on her face. Devilish? Without a doubt, there was a smile there I could not fully interpret.

Emma had a cat named Emma. Confusing I know, but that's what happens when you allow your eccentric child to name her pet. I pet Emma as she hopped on the bed and Emma watched me.

"I know my dare." She said.

"What?"

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"My dare from yesterday."

I sat Emma off the bed, and she scurried through the door into the hallway. "You can't do that. That games over."

"I'll give you a dare if you let me have this one."

I smiled. "Okay."

She crossed the room, and I heard her slide something plastic along the floor. It was Emma's litter box. Emma lifted a dry old crusty piece of cat poo up to me with it pinched between her thumb and forefinger. "Eat it."

"Ew. No." I swatted her hand away. The turd darted across the carpeted floor and disappeared beneath the dresser.

She stared at her feet, then the litter box, then me. "I double dare you."

"No."

A long pause followed before her eyes became clearer. "I triple-dog-dare you."

Not the fabled triple-dog-dare. Anything but that. No one could back down from a challenge like that.

"I get to dare you to do anything if I do this?"

She nodded, a broad smile returning to her face.

I walked over to the litter box and lifted the driest piece I could find, holding my nose with my free hand. "You promise?" I said.

"Promise." She put out her pinkie.

We interlocked pinkies and I opened my mouth, placing the feces directly onto my tongue. I gagged, but the taste was not what you might think. In fact, it was good. I swallowed.

Emma ran away, squealing, "Ew. I can't believe you did that." She disappeared down the hall.

Emma stood in the doorway, flicking her tail, watching me with wide eyes. As though she knew what I'd just done.

I never did get around to daring that little girl in return, but the memory scarcely left me. It was always there. The next time I was over at Emma's, I found every opportunity to sneak away from the girl and our parents. They were like delectable treats. Honest. I would chew them and let the thickness of the pieces slowly run down the back of my throat. I cannot explain how good they are. In passing I would hear Emma's mom say something to Emma's dad about, "I think there's something wrong with the cat. Can cats get constipated? I'm going to take her to the vet in the morning." I can't say whether or not they ever did take Emma to the vet, but I can't say I care either.

I begged my parents for a pet. "How about a puppy?" My father would say. "Dogs are good for little boys like you. You guys could be best friends."

I would shake my head and demand a cat.

All throughout my teen years, I ate Whisker's feces. Whiskers was a good cat. As I moved out on my own, I bought up several cats from the pound and became a recluse. I did not keep in touch with Emma. I didn't have any friends. I know how this sounds. I'm some crazy cat man, shoveling cat shit into my mouth. But that, I tell you, is the life.

Then Fluff got the worms and it quickly spread to all of my other twelve cats. I knew I should stop, but I couldn't. It was too good. I'd learned how to plate it properly with garnishments and all. I would dig into the pile of thick brown curls. The worms hardly moved as I bit into them. How was I to know that parasites could jump species so effectively?

I stared into my toilet bowl at my own defecation. A two-foot-long worm writhed in the runny shit there. I should have gone to the doctor. I should have stopped. What was I to tell my doctor? Yes, hello, I like eating cat poop, please help.

The worms came from around the corner of my eyes. One at a time at first, then it was as though they'd found the exit and told their friends for the small things would spill out en masse. I would tug at the thin skin of my bottom eyelid and the wriggling tube-like bodies would fall from my face like tears. I stopped doing that.

They come from every hole in my body. I could feel them moving. I don't know why I'm not dead.

My stomach bulged as though I were pregnant. It's swollen and I rub it down with oil every morning. The stretchmarks are red and infrequently rip open; when they do, I cry.

I want to stop. Even now, I feel hungry. I want to scream for help!

I'm going to go have some dinner. Please, excuse me.