“I’m free tonight. I could come over…but if I do, I’m spending the night. It’s a long drive.”
My stomach turned as I read his text. My divorce was still fresh, and I hadn’t “done this” in years. Was I going to be good at it? Did I even remember how to have sex? Were my pictures misleading? What if he doesn’t realize I’m fat? A million questions raced through my mind. But I made the conscious choice to quiet them—to still the voices of self-doubt that bubbled up inside of me. Maybe I couldn’t stop them from rushing in, but I could control how much real estate they occupied.
We sat on my couch and talked for hours. I watched as he stretched back, licked his lips, shifted his pelvis. We kissed on our way to my bedroom—tripping over our own feet as we moved. He was passionate, and a great kisser. The best part? He was as hungry for me as I was for him. And in that moment my size was the furthest thing from my mind.
We laid facing each other, spending the first few hours just kissing like teenagers. Slowly at first, then building. His hands are in my hair, mine on his face, then his neck, drawing his mouth deeper into me. I feel the passion boil up, setting my skin on fire. We deliberately take our time, and with the flick of his tongue, and the pulse of his hips, he makes waves move inside of me…for six hours that night.
People are surprised when I talk about sex now. Almost like they think it’s a miracle I have an active sex life, let alone a fucking hot one. But it doesn’t surprise me one bit. Because I’ve decided that self-love defines me. I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am horny.
Riding the high of sleeping with the vegan, I continued dating and meeting men. First the hot finance guy, the male model, then the neurosurgeon. Once I got back into the swing of flirting, to my surprise, no one was off limits. There’s no type of guy I’m “not allowed.” I spent a few weeks with a blond San Diego boy who loves to wear Celine. Then I spent a night with a 23-year-old in the Hamptons. I find magic with a sustainable fashion guy who is the best sex I’ve ever had. And the journalist, a devastatingly handsome man from Connecticut, reminds me about romance—and gives me orgasms that leave me shaking.
With each exploration of my sexuality, and each new partner (every one vastly different from the next), I marveled at how hot it all was.
At first I attributed it to being lucky. Somehow I just happened to find these secret sex gods. Then I realized it’s not that they are sex gods—it’s that I am. Once I became comfortable in my fat body, I was able to stop getting in my own way. I love my fat body now. The security I have in me radiates out. This isn’t to say that every experience has been perfect, or that my body is for everyone. Plenty of men still heavily subscribe to fatphobic rhetoric, and plenty of those men troll me on dating apps. I won’t even repeat what they say, because it’s not worth the time or energy, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t hard to receive those kinds of hurtful messages. But at the end of the day their fatphobia is their problem, not mine. Occupying public spaces (like dating apps), and giving my fat body the pleasure it deserves, is an act of defiance against a culture that still very much wants me to shrink, hide, and punish myself.