I am imperfect. Maybe it’s a newsflash to you, but it’s something I’ve been far too aware of for my entire life.
As a kid, I was plagued with health problems. It wasn’t until my early teens that my epilepsy went away and we discovered that the causes of my endless troubles ultimately stemmed from a rare kidney disorder.
Nearly two decades later, my health issues are things of my distant past, but I’m still a member of the bonus lover plan. I’m not some svelte sexy thing who’s able to squeeze into a size six, and some part of me doubts I ever will be. No, like my personality, my body’s larger than life, and it suits me fine.
I’d rather not ever be thin, despite struggling to lose nearly 20% of my body weight these past two years. During that journey to toneness, I’ve gained a better sense of self than I’ve ever known. Who I am, though, is larger than life, and that’ll never change. Presumably, my body will remain the first clue of my nature for others.
On that same journey, I’ve discovered something else. The “ideal” beauty is seldom our “real” beauty in the eyes of the everylover. While we all lust after our glossy magazine celebs, when it comes to having them as lovers, day in day out, we wouldn’t be interested. Why is that?
I’ve been trying to understand the seemingly incongruous nature between lust and desire. I’m more than able to lust after nearly any man I see, since sexuality for me isn’t a formula, but rather something almost impalpable. You have it or you don’t. When it comes to desire and attraction for the longterm, though, I find myself zeroing in on men who carry a little extra weight on their large frames, provided they dress well and groom well. What is it that makes me want them? I’ll never know, but I know they’re what’s in my mind when I touch myself in the dark.
The point is, we all have a certain make and model that drives our desire, and it may not be worthy of a glossy magazine spread, but they’ll spread just fine for us, thank you very much.
Until this past year, I was always aggressive in my interpersonal dealings, in an attempt to mask my everpresent insecurities. Somewhere along the way, probably when I escaped death last August in a scooter (think Vespa-ish) accident, I realized the insanity of not loving myself for who and what I was, since I had almost ceased to be and had another chance at this merry-go-round called Life. Loving myself then became my number one goal.
After all this time, all this work, I can say it’s true now. I’m a vixen in my own right, in my own way. I’ve also discovered something I’d forgotten: No man has ever complained about my body size to me. The contrary. Back in the day, though, I thought they were trying to make me feel better. I didn’t want to believe they could want me or love me for who I was… because what would that say about them, then?
Now, what it says about a man is evident to me: They understand passion, desire, and they know it when they see it. They see me for all of what I offer — intelligence, wit, charm, stylings, deviousness, sensitivity, romance, dominance, submissiveness, all wrapped into one package that’s just the right size to hold the dynamism of what I bring to the bed and to life as a whole.
A few years ago, I read a study that revealed those who were carrying a little extra weight generally had better sex lives. The scientists were at first stymied by this discovery, until they realized a very simple truth: Food, when done the way food ought to be, is as erotic and sensual as anything we can experience. Those who were overweight were in touch with their sensual selves and sought to enjoy all the delectable goodness offered by life, in whatever form they came, be it bed-bound, baked, or otherwise.
I have found myself besieged by young women of late, all of them emailing me about their inabilities to orgasm. I find myself having to keep explain to them that they got to love themselves — physically and emotionally — before they can handle the Big O. The odds are against them, though, and it’s largely why we sexually peak in our 30s. As young women, we suffer through the most inexplicable expectations from society and the hang-ups we develop are legion. There was a good mainstream example last year in the form of a short-lived TV show called Life as We Know It, with Kelly Osborne in it. A guy fell for her, but admitted he couldn’t handle having her as a girlfriend, because what would his buddies think if he was slapping thighs with a tubby girl?
We live in a society that’s so hung up on appearances that we’ve forgotten the beauty that comes from within. We’ve forgotten how incredibly hot and sexy it can be when someone simply digs themselves for who they are, regardless of their appearance, and can bring that passion and goodness into play in every thing they do every day.
I recall once being asked why I wanted to lose weight. I bit my lip, looked at the ground, thought about it, and responded “Because I want my inside beauty to match my outsides.”
These days, on a good day, I know I already match. In the last decade of my life, I have overcome enormous obstacles — the death of a parent, massive debt, illnesses, a couple near-death experiences, and writer’s block that hounded me for half a decade. But my greatest accomplishment is this: Loving myself.
One of my all-time favourite quotes is Oscar Wilde’s. “To love one’s self is the beginning of a life-long romance.” What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart, and now it shows.
Without getting into it, “things” are confusing. The sex I thought would be regular thus far isn’t. Geography’s a bitch. So’s reality. It is what it is, baby. But that’s all right.
