The first time we had sex it was sweaty, and sensual, and hot. But we werenвЂ™t alone. Despite all my one-woman pride parade confidence, the male gaze had slipped back into the bedroom, as if for a horrible threesome IвЂ™d never asked for.
The way another womanвЂ™s body mirrored my own had brought me a sense of comfort before, but here I was with a woman more conventionally attractive than me. By which, of course, I mean she was much thinner. I remember her on top of me. My thumbs ran along her hip bones, whereas mine were buried under flesh and fat. Her breasts were round and pert, but mine were unruly, drooping with weight. Her smooth, flat stomach slid on top of my rolls. She had a little pale heart on her hip, a mark left by a sticker when she went tanning вЂ” the type of shit hot girls do, I thought. And I, in that moment, did not feel like a hot girl.
I kept thinking sheвЂ™d made a mistake, like she was suddenly going to realize sheвЂ™d brought a fat person home and kindly ask me to leave. I remember fighting the urge to cover my stomach with a pillow on the way to the bathroom, as if she hadnвЂ™t looked at me the whole time we were in bed. I didnвЂ™t just feel like crap about my body, but that IвЂ™d let any bit of hetero beauty norms invade my sex life. Not only was I tearing apart my own body, which IвЂ™d been so inspired to love all over again вЂ” I was reducing the woman I was with to nothing more than a collection of parts. Continue reading “As a teenager, I was convinced I was choosing to be fat because I was too weak, too undisciplined to be thin.”