Until recently, I existed in the in-between world of not exactly thin but not exactly fat: the sizes twelve-through-fourteen instead of six-to-eight. Not obese, but heavy enough that people assumed I was the type of girl who lived in the blissful world of overeating.
Back then, when my breasts could look either voluptuous or matronly, sex was simple. I gave my first blowjob when I was fourteen, at summer camp. Another kid and I ended up unchaperoned in the student room, his whole cock in my mouth. When my eyes locked into his, I realized that I was the one who held the power, which was a huge change. As soon as he came, he stood up. "I generally prefer girls who are thinner," he said. "Thanks, though."
From then on, whenever I was with a guy, it was in the role of runner-up. Sex was mutually understood to be nothing more than fucking. Within the first fifteen minutes of conversation at college parties, guys would mention that they knew of an empty room, where maybe we should get to know each other in private. As soon as we were by ourselves, the lights would go out and our clothes would come off. After a few vague caresses, his cock would be offered reverentially as he pushed me down on my knees. Then we might quickly fuck while he whispered about how hard he wanted to pound me and I moaned encouragement.
At a bar, whenever a guy passed by me to talk to one of my thinner friends, I'd hate myself. Invariably, I would act out by fucking whomever I could. As the night got later and it became apparent that I was the only girl willing, some guy would become friendly. I never allowed myself the luxury of deciding whether I wanted to fuck him — if he was willing to fuck me, I would do it. "Are you even attracted to any of them?" one of my appalled friends asked me. The answer was simple: Not especially, but I wanted to prove I had something they wanted. I would always feel a surge of pride when my gynecologist asked me how many sexual partners I'd had in the past year. That number was proof I was desirable.
There was one guy who gave me a fake name, which I didn't realize until after we had fucked and I glanced at the unopened mail lying on his hall table. Still, it didn't matter, because I had made him come, and I had done it with my fleshy thighs, bulky calves, protruding stomach, all the parts I would catalog by taking pictures of myself on my back, on my knees, leaning over with my mouth open suggestively, wanting to see what they saw.
I became intimately aware of the back of my throat as I learned to give head, determined to go as deep and far as possible with each new guy; to never, ever say no. I liked the way that guys who would barely talk to me in public were turned on by my willingness. I pierced my tongue, my clitoral hood and both my nipples. I wore shirts with plunging necklines, fishnets and short skirts, and lots of eyeliner. I never declined any suggestion
"But I want to make you come, " he protested. I looked at him. When I was heavier, guys never said that to me.
— handcuffs, whips, spontaneous sex with his roommate while he watched. Sex was a kind of contest: me versus the skinny girls. I wanted to prove that even if I wasn't as pretty or thin as they were, I had no boundaries. I would make lots of noise and tell him to fuck me so hard it hurt — and he would love it.
Things are different now. Thanks to cigarettes, double workouts and not really eating, I've lost more than forty pounds. And the men I date treat me differently. I'm never expected to fuck right off the bat. On a first date with a guy I had met at a bar, I reached down and touched the undeniable bulge in his pants as we were making out. He pulled my hand away and put it back in my lap. "Let's slow down," he said. "I want to get to know you before we do anything." When we finally did fuck, he sent me an e-mail the next day: Thank you for last night. That was amazing. And it wasn't, not especially. I had been drunk and sort of passed out halfway through. But just agreeing to fuck him was enough. I took out the piercings. Before, they seemed kinky. But once I lost the weight, the universal response wasn't hot but why? They didn't fit with my new figure, with the thin cotton T-shirts worn without a bra.
I had amazing sex with the most recent guy I dated, largely because of the strategic mirror placement in his bedroom. I constantly repositioned myself so I always had a view. I could have watched forever: the easy way my stomach concaved in from my ribs when I lay on my back, the way my slim legs wrapped around his bulk I let him enter me. Once, I asked him to pin me down on the mattress and make me fight. As he lightly wrapped his index and thumb finger around my wrist, he asked me to please let him know if he began to hurt me.
"Never mind," I said. Before, this was never a problem. I wouldn't even have to ask.
"But I want to make you come, " he protested. I looked at him. When I was heavier, guys never said that to me. Now that one had, I was completely turned off. Why did he want to make me come? For my sake or his? I wasn't comfortable with the idea of him doing anything for me; I wanted to be the one in control.
One time, we were lying around, talking about our childhoods, one of those meandering and ridiculous conversations that feel natural after fucking. I asked him if he thought we would have gotten together in high school. He looked at me, playing with my fingers.
"I don't know," he said, pretending to consider. "Were you fat?"
"No," I lied, flooded with memories of my high-school self.
"Good," he said. "Because if you had been, I definitely wouldn't have fucked you."
I broke up with him soon after that. My shadow self — the angry, defensive, quirky, zaftig girl — was the type of girl he had considered untouchable. And today, even with the weight loss and the daily affirmations that occur when I see a guy checking out my ass, I'm still the fuck-and-run chick, just trying to settle down in a body I feel comfortable in. n°
|ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
J.L. Scott is the pseudonym of a
writer/editor in New York City.
©2006 J.L. Scott and Nerve.com