I have a really great butt.
I didn’t always know this, but I do now. My butt is cute. Other things about me are cute too – my dimples, my great smile, my blue eyes, my strong legs…I have never loved the way I look as much as I do now. This might sound a little bit crazy, but I actually enjoy looking at myself in the mirror. There are still things about my body that I am not completely satisfied with, but I am at a point where I can accept myself as the way I am. I am not disgusted by those parts of my body.
I would not be able to love my body as much as I do now without other people loving it for me first.
I sent my first nude a couple of months ago. Before I snapped the picture, I locked my bedroom door and made sure that there was no chance of any one of my family members figuring out what I was doing. My heart pounded as I got undressed. Thump, thump. I took off my shirt. Thump, thump. I unclasped my bra. Thump, thump. Holding the phone in my sweaty hands was practically impossible. Arching my back and pursing my lips, I snapped the picture. When I looked at it, every single imperfection in my body seemed to have a neon arrow pointing to it. I deleted it and took another one. And then another, and another. Every single photo highlighted my flaws more than what I was really trying to feature. I thought that taking a nude was going to be empowering, but it was just making me feel horrible about my body. I decided to take one more. I sent it, even though I definitely did not feel beautiful.
The recipient responded almost immediately. I was shocked when he asked for another photo. Didn’t he notice my pale skin? Wasn’t he disgusted by my chubby stomach? There’s no way he would want another photo if he had seen my stretch marks. But, his texts were clear – he wanted more. My curiosity got the best of me, and I sent him another photo. Could he really think I’m beautiful? His response to the second photo was similar to the first. And again, he asked for more. He needed more. We continued on like this for some time, and I became increasingly confident. I took more scandalous photos. I was actually starting to enjoy myself. Getting him turned on was turning me on. Never once did he mention my pale skin, chubby stomach, or stretch marks. Instead, he commented on my sexy figure, my gorgeous smile, my beautiful eyes.
My first hook up happened with a guy named Eric*. It was also the first time that a partner had seen me completely naked. The lights were on. FRIENDS was playing. From the moment we started kissing, I knew that I didn’t want to be there. It felt wrong and dirty, but the thought that I owed him something overpowered those nasty feelings. I kept kissing him. I let Eric undress me. I let him undress himself. I let him look at me. I heard him say how beautiful I was, but I was too focused on not looking at him to register the significance of that comment. As much as I knew I should have been enjoying this experience, I wasn’t, and I didn’t know why. Until he started touching me.
Feeling Eric’s hands on my body wrenched my heart into the most unnatural shape, forcing it to drip forbidden memories. I became ten years younger. His hands became my father’s hands.
After pushing him away, I got dressed. He drove me home. My eyes welled up, but I did not dare let myself cry. I had to ensure Eric that everything we did was consensual, even though that may not have been true. I disclosed that being with him made me a helpless girl instead of a strong and sexy young adult. Once I got home, I scrubbed his presence off of me. I have not spoken with Eric since.
How could this have gone so wrong? Why did I think I owed him sex? Was I a bad feminist for thinking that? Was it consensual? I wanted to say no as soon as we started, but I didn’t feel like I could.
Recently, I lost my virginity to my (new) friend, Ben*. I was on my period, and I didn’t take out my tampon before we started having sex. (Honestly, I simply forgot. I was distracted!) I could feel him pushing it further into me, so I went to take it out. Only, I couldn’t get it out. He came to check on me and see what was taking so long. Having your partner see you squatting over a toilet trying to retrieve a stuck tampon is not exactly sexy. Enlisting your partner’s help in retrieving the aforementioned stuck tampon is even less sexy. But, because I was comfortable with my body, I was able to laugh at the situation instead of feeling mortified. My night with Ben ended up being amazing.
In the time between Eric and Ben, I re-discovered what I had learned when I sent those first nudes, and what years of building a strong body through exercise has taught me: my powerful, beautiful body is exactly that – mine. No one, no matter what they do for me, is entitled to it. I am the one who chooses who to share myself with.
I am glad I chose to share myself with Ben. I am glad he chose to share himself with me. When he came into my room, I wasn’t expecting to have sex. When we started kissing, I wasn’t expecting to have sex. There was no part of me that was thinking “okay, we need to kiss, and then get undressed, and then have sex, and then it’s over and he’ll leave”. The situation unfolded in a natural (albeit, comedic) fashion. With Eric, the end could not come soon enough. My body knew that I didn’t want to be there; I had to consciously tell it what to do. I kept going and pushed past my body’s reaction because I wanted to please Eric, but in the process, I hurt myself. My needs, and my body, are more important than my partner’s wants. In the same way, my partner’s needs are more important than my desires. Confidence is not only seeing myself in a positive light, but it is also becoming more in tune with my body’s intuition. It is trusting myself and believing that it knows best.
My body does not have flaws; rather, it has aspects that make it interesting and unique. My stretch marks are bolts of lighting and my scars tell my story.
I have a really great butt. I didn’t always know this, but now I do.
*Names have been changed