Christopher tastes like cheap whiskey, and his mouth is so open that I graze a bit of tonsil with my tongue. I turn my head and the sandpaper of his five-o'clock shadow chafes my cheek. He kisses my neck, his hand finding the place on my thigh where garter meets stocking.

"Ooh, strappy. I love strappies," he says, kissing my ear. The sound of teeth scraping metal breaks my trance.

"If you choke to death on my earring, there will be so many awkward questions," I tell him. South Park plays on the television in front of us. Mr. Mackie is explaining why you should never say "fuck."

As I sit next to Christopher on the sofa, I am thirty-five years old and a virgin. I used to weigh 600 pounds. When you weigh that much, you don't get a lot of offers. I didn't want to fuck creepy fetish guys. I also felt ashamed of my body, trapped by all the layers of fat and hanging, bulging skin. Letting someone else touch me would have ruined the illusion of normalcy I clung to, despite the evidence of mirrors, scales and size-ten-XL granny panties (white cotton, ordered online from a specialty store). I lost over 300 pounds, had some skin chopped off, and now I'm ready for love — or some similar entanglement.

His hand finds its way under my skirt, a black plaid number I chose for the special occasion of "watching a movie" at Christopher's place. I wore the cute skirt and tight sweater, not to mention a black bra, matching panties, and a black lace garter belt with stockings. I liked knowing I had them on, knowing that he'd notice them the second he put his hand on my thigh.

He breathes in my ear. His lips find a spot just over my collarbone. I flush. He kisses me and I taste whiskey. His hands move under the tee, the sweater having long since found its way onto the floor.

"Do you still have a bed?" I realize I've spoken the words aloud. Christopher is moving, and his apartment — a cracker box of no particular architectural style — is all bare white walls and empty stretches of beige industrial carpeting.

"I do." He leaps off the couch and leads me by hand to the bedroom. The room, empty save for a king-sized bed with no headboard, has all the charm of a cheap motel, except that it hasn't been sanitized for my protection. Before I've stepped fully into the room, Christopher is naked under the covers.

"Darkness is good," I say. My body needs work, though I'm constantly exercising. I swim laps until my shoulders ache. I dance alone in my apartment, arms up, thrusting my hips. I can dance for forty minutes without a break. My body feels very good. My thighs have smooth skin and nice, tight muscles. My skin has absorbed gallons of Satsuma body butter. I have soft, curly hair and a plump pouty mouth.

But too much light ruins the illusion. You don't see muscle or softness or smooth skin. You see hanging flesh on my legs where all the fat used to live. You see stretch marks and broken veins, scars on my shins and another from the edge of one hip, cutting through my pubic hair and exiting the other side. My torso has a line down the center, round at the top, shaped like a spoon. I have extra skin on my back. My breasts hang a bit (amazingly, not so much more than you'd expect for a woman my age). I haven't got a navel. They incinerated that along with the forty pounds of skin the surgeon sliced away just four months ago. Darkness is my best friend. Christopher snaps the light off.

"Do you have condoms?" I ask.

"No," he says. "I can pull out."

"I've got some in my purse," I tell him. "I stole them from my mother." I can make out his expression, despite the near-darkness. He looks confused. I don't explain. I retrieve the condoms (banana-flavored Durex, lubricated) and close the door. I hand Christopher the condoms and have my own clothes off in about ten seconds, garter included. I dive under the sheets. My teeth chatter. Christopher drapes himself over me. I feel the heat of his skin, the roughness of hair and the heavy muscle in his shoulders. I feel his warm body, but continue to shiver. I can't remember ever feeling so cold.