year of the body

by Sophie

In the last month my entire life has been upended, strewn about, thrown into boxes and moved from one place to another. In the process of moving I have found artifacts of a more active life: a very used yoga mat, two pairs of worn running shoes, weightlifting gloves. As I shoved these into a box I swore I would put them to use again…someday.

I am a very strong woman, able to carry a lot of weight. I am also very flexible, able to throw my legs over Jamie’s shoulders or pull my knees to my chest. My legs are toned and muscular and there is evidence of the same in my arms. Jamie, when asked recently what I feel like “under my skin,” replied “solid.” He’s right; I’m not a fragile flower. Despite this, in the last few years I have lost a lot of muscle. Jamie and I have spent a lot of time lazing about the way happy lovers do, our only real exercise coming in the form of vigorous sex. It is both a blessing and a curse that Jamie loves my curves, having said nothing but sparkling praise about the composition of my body. He is appreciative of my softness, even the swell of my stomach which often makes me ever-so-slightly insecure, but in his glowing appreciation I have become more lazy about physical self-care than I have ever been. In the past I have been a gym rat, a makeup-wearer, rigorous about a facial care regimen, a regular tooth-brusher. In the last two years I have become, in some ways, “a dirty hippie,” and let those things slide while enjoying Jamie’s judgement-free embrace.  And while it has been fun, things have to change, if only so we can more healthfully enjoy one another.

Jamie agrees. We have been joking about 2020 being the “year of the body” for months now. Ironically, while I could stand to tone up a bit, I am currently at one of the lowest weights I have seen as an adult. In my former life as a lady of ill repute I was at the gym all the time. I worked out probably about ten to twelve hours a week, endless amounts of cardio to keep extra weight at bay though I was never a tiny little slip of a woman. I am moderately tall, busty, prone to gaining and keeping extra weight, so I will never be “skinny.” But in my escorting days I was as close to skinny as I will ever be. It was the name of the game. The aughts were not as friendly to women of size as the last decade has been, and in order to make the most money possible, you had to be marketable, and (generally speaking) men want to pay for what they’ve grown accustomed to seeing in pornography. To that end, for a couple of years my free time was spent on ellipticals and stairmasters and rowing machines; salads were the dinner (and lunch) of choice. The money made it hard to be miserable, but for a hedonist like me, I craved cake as much as I craved cock. 

As I moved into a long term partnership and the end of my days as a high end hooker I fell into “bad” habits and gained the weight that comes with a happy relationship. My love didn’t mind. I didn’t mind. I ate all the cake I missed, and then some. By the time he proposed to me, I was at the highest weight of my adult life, and I realized how unhealthy and miserable I had become, physically speaking. A personal trainer was hired, Weight Watchers was joined, and by the time I married I had lost sixty pounds. Somewhere along the way I realized that being thin wasn’t what was causing my new happiness, being strong was. Every day I entered the gym and lifted some sort of weight. As I picked up the pounds, weight was being lifted off of me. I really found myself in physical activity. The years post-wedding went on, however, and I fired the personal trainer, my weight began to shift back and forth again. This was also the time my relationship opened wide and I started fucking other men again – one in particular, one who profoundly damaged my previously unbreakable self-esteem. Despite my size I have always been a vain woman with a reason; I am particularly beautiful and I know it. This guy wrecked my sense of self-worth with one conversation, one that repeated itself over and over during the time we were “together.”

It was Christmas time, a few years back. I had realized that we had a connection that was deeper than just “fuck buddies,” or so I thought. Standing outside his apartment, shivering in a velvet dress in which I had just attended a Christmas party, my head reeling from champagne, I told him that I had feelings for him. He invited me inside, to sit, and took a deep breath.

“When I divorced,” he said, “I told myself I was never going to ‘settle’ for what I didn’t want. And, well,” he gestured to me, waving his hand towards my stomach, “you’re not what I want.”

“What do you mean?” I was stunned. We had been having hot sex for months. I mean, sure, it was a little one-sided, with a lot of him coming on my face and calling me names and pulling my hair, but I’ve always liked a dominant guy. “I thought.. I don’t know, I thought you felt the same way.”

“I do.. I mean, I like you a lot. I really, really do. You’re funny, you’re smart, your face is gorgeous.”

I felt like my gorgeous face had been slapped, hard. Heat began to creep up my chest and my cheeks. “My face?” There it was. 

Every fat girl has heard this. “You have such a pretty face!” I’d heard it before. I didn’t think I was going to hear it from this guy. I was ashamed in a way I haven’t been about anything before and I don’t think I have been since, except to admit that after this fateful conversation I continued to let this asshole fuck me for a few more years. 

“You’re just not… physically what I want in a long-term partner.” 

There are so many facets of this conversation that I could go into, so many things he got wrong when I admitted to him that I had feelings for him. The misconceptions he pulled from my simple sentence had ramifications that managed to further ripple the choppy waters of our misguided pairing for years. Those aren’t germane to this story. What is important is that I sat on that asshole’s couch and cried, ugly cried for an hour. “What could I do to make you want me?” I asked. “I can lose the weight,” I remember blubbering. “I will lose the weight.”

I didn’t lose the weight. In fact, I gained some more. I think I almost did it out of spite. I couldn’t believe I’d made a promise to change myself for a guy who would have the audacity to ask. 

He apologized a few days later, but the subject came up time and time again during the time we saw each other and every time it did it hurt just a little more and cut a little deeper. By the time I finally told him I couldn’t see him anymore, my perception of my strong, solid, able body was torn apart. The confidence I gained through the years of escorting and weight lifting and yoga had been demolished. My cheerful, happy-go-lucky nature was minimized to nonexistence. 

I licked my wounds for a couple of months before getting back in the saddle. Turning to Craigslist for validation helped a bit. Pleasing partners has always been a comfort to me. I guess I’m just a people pleaser. Over the next six months or so I met men who were interested in me despite my “flaws,” and I had some – a lot – of fun. Leaving that asshole behind became the catalyst for me to actually lose the weight, and I began dropping the extra pounds without much effort – but I still hadn’t gained the confidence to go back to the gym. Still haven’t. 

Then I met Jamie. Jamie is a guy of average weight, but he has the same solid musculature under his skin that I can feel in mine. His legs are ropy with muscle and his ass is shaped perfectly from a few years of sport – a few years ago, just like me. His chest hardens when he is working above me and I love placing my hands on him to feel him straining to please me. I love his furry torso and his smooth shoulders. For the first time in years, when he touches my soft stomach – which he does, he makes a point to do so – I don’t feel insecurity. In fact, I feel powerful and beautiful and strong. Except.

We are sexual olympians, as Jamie likes to say. And we have been remiss. The stubborn extra weight I still carry is starting to bother me because I want Jamie to fold me like a pretzel, more than he already can. I want him to fuck me against a wall. I want to meet him with my hips like we are making a bridge, I want to be on top for hours, I want to do everything with him that I know we can. I want to reinvent the very act of sex with him and part of that reinvention requires physical prowess. 

To that end 2020 will be the year of the body. I am going to do yoga naked in his living room, teasing him until he plows me in plow pose. I am going to take up weight lifting again so I can strengthen the back that has been weakened by my physically demanding day job. Jamie and I are going to quit smoking (oh, how I love smoking, I am going to miss it so much.) Our health demands it. Our sexual pleasure demands it.

I want to be the best I can be for him. I know he feels the same way. We are both a little apprehensive to take the plunge, mostly because will require commitment and we have carefully curated the commitments we have made to one another. Just as he has helped me heal from the psychological warfare that asshole waged against my self-worth, he is going to help me get back on the wagon toward physical health, and I am going to do the same for him. These are the things you do for someone you love regardless of commitment, and I love him. 

More importantly, I love myself, and it’s time to get back to the business of actively treating myself well. I deserve better.