Too Bad She's So Fat

“She has such a pretty face.”

Fuck you.

Sometimes, you gotta throw in the towel of introspection and let her rip.

***

It’s ten o’clock on a Sunday night. I have just poured myself a glass of Chateau Luciere Bordeaux, 2006. I’ve put on my Pandora “Bitch” station, dumped my clean, needing-to-be-folded laundry on the couch and have my P.S. I Love You DVD on, muted in the background, because Gerard Butler makes my loins wet and somehow gets me ready to take on anything.

I sip my wine. What the fuck is going on here? Virtually every one of my male friends is obsessed with tall, thin, blonde women. Okay, so say they drop some of those criteria for the sake of giving their dicks a breather. You can be brunette, short, dark, or light, you can even have no teeth or one tit, but don’t you dare be fat.

Right now, I am not interested in having a conversation about why this topic bothers me. I’m sick and tired of talking to men and being their safety valve. They don’t get a hard-on around me because I have exceeded round, curvy or even plump. I am, in the world’s eyes, 100-percent, certified fat.

I heard a story once about a rock star who had the world in the palm of his hand: fame, fortune, looks, talent, and the most beautiful five-foot-ten-inch, big-boobed blonde on his arm. This man got into a serious car wreck. He was in a coma for months, lost everything, was crippled, and guess what? His wife left him. He was a shallow prick who chose her because of her form, and she was a cold bitch who left him when his form no longer met her expectations. A fat girl probably wouldn’t have left; she wouldn’t have had the heart, or at least not the confidence.

I have been playing a ridiculous game called I Can’t Be a Bitch Because I Need My Personality to Get By. Fuck that. I’m a bitch, too. I’m not playing that game tonight. I tend to have these long, drawn-out conversations with some of my male friends about women and bodies and beauty, because I want to understand where these guys are coming from. Well, I’m over it. I have enough of my own shit to deal with regarding being fat and feeling unsexy and lonely and safe and “just a good friend” and “she’s got such a pretty face” and “too bad she’s so fat.”

By the way, I didn’t stuff myself silly today. I won’t right now. I’m too good. I have ten times more to offer any man than that skinny blonde who dumped her crippled husband.

I’m talented, funny, good-looking. I bring depth to any conversation. I’m present, available, and responsible. A great mother, a good friend, reliable, loyal, compassionate, loving, kind, committed, and I give a great blow job. I’m just fat.

I love sex. I love to please; I love to be pleased. I don’t hold back. I’m a screamer, and I can fuck you up, down, sideways, and silly. I’m just fat. I clean up well. I’m classy, have a nice home, a wonderful son—hell, I’m even on good terms with my son’s father. You don’t have to worry about baggage and resentment and long, lingering fights with me. I say it as I feel it, allow you to say it as it is, and let it go. I’m the whole package. I’m just fat.

Stop telling me about your obsession with women, your primal instinct to plant your proverbial seed, or how it’s in your nature to want to screw any and every hole you see. I don’t want to know how you get a hard-on every time the wind blows or how you cheated on your wife, but it was just sex, you didn’t love her. I’m done hearing about how you want “that” and “that” and “that” and “that,” while compulsively pointing at any moderately decent-looking, not-fat woman who walks by you.

Quit coming to me with your “poor me” bullshit about being dumped by the trophy you had on your arm. I don’t care, and you probably deserved it. I have stuffed and stifled myself for years for you. I have given up my dreams, and bought the lie that I cannot do it because I am fat.

I have ambitions and desires. I’m not finished with my life yet. I am a beautiful soul living in this skin, learning and questioning and walking forward, just like you are. I am a passionate being who wants nakedness and orgasms and men and whipped cream rubbed all over this body of mine. I want a harem of men to adore me. I want to be the prettiest, the best. I want sex to mean love and I want you to want me forever, just like you want to be wanted forever.

I can be a bitch on wheels. I am not always nice and I don’t always like you. Even when I hug you and tell you I do, sometimes I don’t. I love my child more than my own life, but guess what? Sometimes I don’t want to be a mother. A mothah-fuckah maybe, but certainly not someone who does it all on her own because my relationship didn’t work out as planned—yes, just like yours didn’t.

Let me tell you who I am not. I am not invisible. I am not a prude. I do not watch only Hallmark movies—I have indulged in the occasional porn flick. I think woman on woman sex is hot, just like you do. I am not simply just an ear, a good friend, “unthreatening,” and thus a cozy, safe place where you can land because you won’t think about having sex with me. I’m not your mother. It’s a sure bet that I have probably thought about having sex with you on more than one occasion. I may have even masturbated with you on my mind—yes, that’s right: I’m fat and I masturbate, just like you do. I am not sexless, uninterested, done, resigned, and I am definitely not willing to hide myself for your sake anymore.

I don’t want your pity. I will not shut up or be ignored any longer. And guess what? Your mother, sister, aunt, cousin, thin, tall, short, young, old, in their forties, fifties, sixties, seventies, eighties. . .they all want to have sex, too, even if they are fat. They deserve to be adored and ravished. Sex is not exclusive. It does not judge, it does not save itself for only the young, collagen-ridden faces of this world. It is for every shape, size, color, creed, species, woman, man, bug, human, and animal, period.

Open your mind. Evolve beyond your current condition. Grow a pair of balls big enough to consider all women, even the fat ones. When was the last time a fat woman talked to you about her sex life? When was the last time you watched a fat girl have sex, or even kiss someone, onscreen?

Who I am is my decision, not yours. Stop using me and my body to justify your need to live in La La Land, and quit pretending you’re going to stay young forever. When you look at me, see all of me, not just my fat. If you can’t, well, fuck you.

How liberating is it to say all of this? Really, dig down deep and scream it out with me:

FUCK!

I know it’s not the whole truth, I know there’s more to the subject, but let’s speak this layer first. Let’s call a fucking spade a spade. Let’s talk dark, dirty, crazy truth. Let’s let her rip and see what is born on the other side of this. Maybe this is where health and healing reside. Maybe this is where the diets end and self-care and free movement and natural healthy bodies come into play. Maybe fat isn’t fat after all; maybe it’s the protective cover of hidden thoughts and unspoken words that, if only spoken, could be transformed and morphed into love and acceptance and sexy connection.

What is sexier than connection? What is sexier than “Get that perfectly-sculpted-by-God ass of yours over here and let me touch it”? What is more fun and delicious than “I hear you, I know you, and I deeply embrace your mind and humanness—take off your clothes and let me express myself to you with my flesh because it’s the best I’ve got on this trip.” Or, “I want to express my open mind to you through my open legs.” Or, “Having you inside me seems to be the closest I can get to God right now.” Or, “Yes, right there, keep going until that familiar moan and chill down my spine and surrender overcome my body and let go into me. Hold me until I see blue seas and white clouds and fresh air and constant, eternal tears of joy and pleasure.”

This is who I am, even fat. Your fucking loss.