What Stands in the Way of Good Sex
I got asked out on a date. By I guy whose conversation I enjoy, and he's not bad to look at either. Sounds great, right?
And yes, on one level, I'm very excited. Flattered. Tickled even.
But.
After the initial excitement, I think about the likelihood that if he is interested in me romantically enough to ask me on a date, he is probably interested in me sexually as well. He presents as a cis-het male, and the world being what it is, if he wasn't interested in me at all sexually, he probably wouldn't have asked me out.
And it's not that I don't like sex! I'm quite fond of it, in fact. I masturbate regularly, and I love the sexual responses of my body. I love the experience of achieveing orgasm, and that mellow feeling afterward that all is right with the world. So why does the idea that a man might want to help me reach that great place, and go there with me, why does that frighten me?
Well, I am a woman of size. I'm not obese, by either the old or the newly revamped and much more broad definition of that term. (Heh, "broad," get it?) I am probably around a size 16. Maybe even a 14, in the more deliberately flattering design labels. But I'm not "slender." I'm not "athletic" or any of the other buzz words we use to hide that we are specifying someone who is skinnier than me.
(And isn't it telling that I felt I had to qualify that? That I felt I had to make the distinction that I am a little fat, but not a lot fat?)
I'm also an activist for body acceptance. I read, recommend, and link on social media articles from blogs like The Body is Not an Apology, Dances With Fat, Fat Body Politics, This Is Thin Privilege, etc, etc. Hell, I co-hosted a 12 month live-stream discussion series on Women, Food and Body Politics that examined every aspect of women's relationship to food and our bodies! So intellectually I know that my body is just as rad as anyone else's, and that I should be proud of all that it is, not punish myself for what it is not.
But.
Those messages are everywhere, aren't they? Those messages that tell you that you should be skinnier, younger, more fit, eating less, eating better (I eat very well, btw); that you should just be better? That romance is really only the purview of the physically fit? Tell me, when have you last seen, in television, movies or print, hell, even in a work of literary fiction, a woman of size having a physically satsifying and healthy sexual relationship? I mean, I can barely remember the last time I saw a woman of size at all in the media, much less having a satisfying sexual life.
So I think about the possibility of this new man putting his hands on my body, seeing parts of my body unclothed, and I shudder. Not out of excitement, not out of anticipation, but out of horror. Out of shame. Despite the fact that I know that's bullshit. That I know I shouldn't feel that way. That insidious, pervasive message has snuck in behind my logical defenses and lodged itself firmly in my insecurities, in my nervousness, in my fear of the new and unknown.
Men and women of the world, know this. There are scores and scores of women out there with whom you could be having healthy, wonderful, enthusiastic sex. Whose bodies you could be enjoying as much as they enjoy them. With whom you could be having the very, very best kind of sex: joyful, mutually satisfying, skillful, generous, sex without shame. But standing in the way of that is all those messages that Hollywood, the media, advertisers and religious zealots are sending over and over to women that sharing their bodies, sharing their orgasms, is only reserved for the worthy few. For the young, for the skinny, for the males who selfishly take what they want.
For everyone else, for women like me, the only thing I am expected to feel about my body is shame. And that, my friends, does not lead to good sex. At least not easily, not joyously, not effortlessly.
And That. Just. Sucks.
And yes, on one level, I'm very excited. Flattered. Tickled even.
But.
After the initial excitement, I think about the likelihood that if he is interested in me romantically enough to ask me on a date, he is probably interested in me sexually as well. He presents as a cis-het male, and the world being what it is, if he wasn't interested in me at all sexually, he probably wouldn't have asked me out.
And it's not that I don't like sex! I'm quite fond of it, in fact. I masturbate regularly, and I love the sexual responses of my body. I love the experience of achieveing orgasm, and that mellow feeling afterward that all is right with the world. So why does the idea that a man might want to help me reach that great place, and go there with me, why does that frighten me?
Well, I am a woman of size. I'm not obese, by either the old or the newly revamped and much more broad definition of that term. (Heh, "broad," get it?) I am probably around a size 16. Maybe even a 14, in the more deliberately flattering design labels. But I'm not "slender." I'm not "athletic" or any of the other buzz words we use to hide that we are specifying someone who is skinnier than me.
(And isn't it telling that I felt I had to qualify that? That I felt I had to make the distinction that I am a little fat, but not a lot fat?)
I'm also an activist for body acceptance. I read, recommend, and link on social media articles from blogs like The Body is Not an Apology, Dances With Fat, Fat Body Politics, This Is Thin Privilege, etc, etc. Hell, I co-hosted a 12 month live-stream discussion series on Women, Food and Body Politics that examined every aspect of women's relationship to food and our bodies! So intellectually I know that my body is just as rad as anyone else's, and that I should be proud of all that it is, not punish myself for what it is not.
But.
Those messages are everywhere, aren't they? Those messages that tell you that you should be skinnier, younger, more fit, eating less, eating better (I eat very well, btw); that you should just be better? That romance is really only the purview of the physically fit? Tell me, when have you last seen, in television, movies or print, hell, even in a work of literary fiction, a woman of size having a physically satsifying and healthy sexual relationship? I mean, I can barely remember the last time I saw a woman of size at all in the media, much less having a satisfying sexual life.
So I think about the possibility of this new man putting his hands on my body, seeing parts of my body unclothed, and I shudder. Not out of excitement, not out of anticipation, but out of horror. Out of shame. Despite the fact that I know that's bullshit. That I know I shouldn't feel that way. That insidious, pervasive message has snuck in behind my logical defenses and lodged itself firmly in my insecurities, in my nervousness, in my fear of the new and unknown.
Men and women of the world, know this. There are scores and scores of women out there with whom you could be having healthy, wonderful, enthusiastic sex. Whose bodies you could be enjoying as much as they enjoy them. With whom you could be having the very, very best kind of sex: joyful, mutually satisfying, skillful, generous, sex without shame. But standing in the way of that is all those messages that Hollywood, the media, advertisers and religious zealots are sending over and over to women that sharing their bodies, sharing their orgasms, is only reserved for the worthy few. For the young, for the skinny, for the males who selfishly take what they want.
For everyone else, for women like me, the only thing I am expected to feel about my body is shame. And that, my friends, does not lead to good sex. At least not easily, not joyously, not effortlessly.
And That. Just. Sucks.