Having a bigger body while getting laid and getting pleasure from it seems to be too much for the poor dudebros of the world.
Two nights ago, I checked my filtered mail on Facebook. Lo and behold, this was in my inbox:
First: I have no idea who this person is (a person of the male gender) and why he sent me this message—well, aside from trying to insult me, that is. I suppose he found my blog, looked up my name (yes, I gave it up) and found me on Facebook with all the glorious pictures of good old fat me.
Oh yes: I weighed myself this morning, and I am exactly 181.8 pounds. For a 5’1″ girl, that’s not small.
But neither is it bad. My weight is my weight, and I’ve done a lot of work to be able to accept myself at any weight, while keeping my eye on remaining healthy. Because, duh, weight is not always (not even often) a mark of health.
Anywho, my weight is not really the point of this post.
The point of this post is: Yes, I have a bigger body. Yes, I’m getting laid. Yes, I am receiving pleasure from said sex. Why is it so threatening to some people that they feel they must let me know they don’t believe me? From the other side of the world? On the internet?
I’m fat. That’s a fact.
I weigh over 180 pounds. My BMI (however bullshit that measurement is) is in the obese range. I’m fat. That’s a fact. And that’s okay.
I don’t mind being fat. I feel comfortable with my body. Plenty of people think I’m beautiful and attractive. I’m not obsessed with working out or eating “clean” (orthorexia anyone?). I’m healthy though: no cholesterol or pre-diabetes. My cardiovascular health is excellent. I walk 1+ hours almost every day. I can’t run a marathon, but then running a marathon is not how you evaluate one’s cardiovascular health.
So, in short: I’m fat, but I’m not a slob. I can’t do a million pushups or run a marathon, but I can do what I need to do on a daily basis. I can lift my grocery bags. I walk. I even bike sometimes(gasp!!). Not crazy fast, but fast enough that I’m satisfied that I can make it downtown in 7 minutes.
Also, my health is none of anybody’s business.
Fat is just a descriptor for a kind of tissue. Fat is nice. It keeps you full when you eat it. It keeps you warm in winter, and keeps you alive in case of famine. It helps absorb and distribute all kinds of vitamins and minerals in your body. Without fat, we’d die.
Being fat is not a moral failing. In these days where “traditional” morality is constantly questioned, it seems that fatness is the last acceptable bastion of discrimination. Because of course, if someone is fat, they have somehow failed as a human being because of a fatal character flaw, like laziness. (And then we could get in the whole Protestant work ethic, and see how THAT influences the whole of our fat-phobic society… but that’s an essay for a philosophy course.)
You know what I’m not, though? I’m not a judgy bigot. (Or at least as much as I can, and when I judge someone I catch myself.) I’m not mean-spirited or evil. I’m not cruel or greedy. I try to live a life of awareness and kindness.
I’m getting laid. I don’t care if you don’t believe me.
Whether or not you think I’m a real person who’s telling the truth, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m writing from a place of vulnerability and truth and openness, because these are things I value in my life, and I want to model them.
So, whether or not you believe me is not my problem. Yes, I’m getting laid. Pretty well too, if you ask me.
I was walking this afternoon thinking about this post. I started thinking about the guys who think they’re doing you a favour giving you attention despite the fact that you’re fat. Trust me, dudebro person, you’re the one who’s lucky if I pay attention to you after you’ve been turned down by all the conventionally pretty girls. Trust me, you’re not as awesome as you think you are. Trust me, I can tell that every girl thinks you’re asshole, and so do I.
Trust me, your only action tonight will be with your own hand, while mine will be getting fingered and fucked until I wake up the neighbours, and giving amazing head to the lucky guy after he tastes the delicious wetness between my wonderfully thick thighs.
Maybe you wish it was you, and you know I’m going to reject you. Maybe that’s why you feel you must lash out to me without my even having heard about you ever, while you live on another continent. But whatever your reasons are: I don’t care.
I have wonderful men in my life who want me, for my body, yes, but also for my mind and my heart. Because they’re the best I have to offer—the body comes after you have the rest.
Fat girls have fun too
Here’s another thing that bothers me about all the assumptions involved in this message, and related to the idea that fat people are somehow morally deficient. It’s the idea that fat people can’t derive pleasure from their bodies.
Fat = morally corrupt. Morally corrupt = no healthy pleasure. It then seems like a short mental hop from “fat” to “can’t possibly feel pleasure from her gross, morally corrupt body”.
Well, I’m here to dispel this not-so-wonderful myth.
I have a shit-tonne of pleasure from my body. Whether it’s having good food, or getting my back gently stroked, or being fingered so hard my vulva hurts from the knuckles hitting it: my body gives me pleasure.
My fat doesn’t get in the way of my nerve endings. My clit is still throbbing. My cunt still gets uncontrollably wet. My nipples still get rock hard. I can still touch myself in just that right way to give myself the best orgasms. You can still make me squeal and moan with the right angle, the right pain, the right touch.
My fat body is not an inert body. It moves and feels and reacts. My body is not my morality. My body is mine, and not anyone else’s to judge, or evaluate, or moralize over.
You don’t have to find it attractive. There are many bodies I don’t find attractive. But I don’t think a person lesser because their body is less attractive to me. It’s like calling the same book “bad” and “good” depending on its cover.
Patriarchy says that a woman a specific man doesn’t find attractive isn’t possibly attractive to anyone else. Because, obviously, all men find all the same women attractive. I remember watching Van Wilder and seeing the whole fat shaming thing and thinking, “why can’t you let this guy find his fit? If he likes big girls, why make fun of him for it?” Guys who like fat girls are called “chubby chasers”, but the ones who prefer conventionally slim girls are what? Normal? There is no normal when it comes to sex and attraction. There is only experience.
I don’t want “chubby chasers”. I want men who value me for who I am, and yes, find me attractive. But attraction goes beyond skin-deep. The men I’m seeing right now would tell you of my wonderful curves and soft skin, but they’d also tell you of my sharp mind, witty words, and emotional honesty. I am more than my body. And the people I sleep with see that. The people I choose (yes, I have choice!) to bring in my bed see me for more than my skin and fat and bone structure. They see me as a human being.
Want to sleep with me? Do that. Treat me like a human being with interests and goals and desires of my own. Show me how you can fit in my life, fulfill my desires, match with my goals. Show me you can get along with me for more than 5 minutes before and after you put your dick in me.
My body, fat or not, is a miracle. I’m a miracle for breathing, for eating, for writing these words. How many people in the world cannot even type? My mind is a miracle. How many people in the world are stuck with minds that can’t access the outside world? My consciousness is a miracle. How many beings in the world cannot express that they are conscious and self-aware?
Treat me as more than a vagina to stick your penis in, and I’ll treat you as more than another penis desperate for a vagina to stick yourself in.