Fat count sex dating
I’d spent those years dating men, experiencing the sort of body shame only heteronormative romance can bring. Did he only like me because he has a fat girl fetish?
When I stopped feeling ashamed of my queerness, I thought I would stop feeling ashamed of my body at the same time.
If I could look at and touch these women with fondness and attraction and lust, then I believed they could do the same with me.
There’s something magical in that — being two women whose bodies are considered too much, too undisciplined, too far outside the accepted norm, pleasuring one another for the sake of pleasure itself.
I didn’t just feel like crap about my body, but that I’d let any bit of hetero beauty norms invade my sex life.
Not only was I tearing apart my own body, which I’d been so inspired to love all over again — I was reducing the woman I was with to nothing more than a collection of parts.
The horrible thought that ran through my mind was that she’d reviewed my photos again and changed her mind. The way another woman’s body mirrored my own had brought me a sense of comfort before, but here I was with a woman more conventionally attractive than me. Her breasts were round and pert, but mine were unruly, drooping with weight. She had a little pale heart on her hip, a mark left by a sticker when she went tanning — the type of shit hot girls do, I thought.