Sometimes I hate my body.

Tick tock.  His heavy hand accidentally marked me.

“You ready?” He stood in my apartment, his gym bag over his shoulder.  I was dressed in my work clothes still.

“Yeah, gimme a sec.”

He followed me back to my room and flopped down on the bed.  Faisal jumped up to purr and meow and twist himself about The Neighbor.  I peeled off my barely opaque white v-neck and my breasts bounced.

“Mmmm,” I heard from the bed.  I flexed my abdomen and tried to push my insecurities away, focus on this man’s approval.  I bent over to roll my skirt down over my hips and sucked in my stomach hoping the swell didn’t pooch out too much.

“That’s right baby, show me those tits.”  He watched me beyond the end of the bed as if I were on stage; I clenched every core muscle I owned and stood up straight and smiled as I reached behind me to unhook my bra, trying to look nonchalant and confident.  His eyes followed my every move as I tried to morph my body into that of a lithe dancer’s: arch my back, pull my shoulders back, face the audience, be lean and beautiful.

I gathered my workout clothes and scrunched up again to thread my legs into my leggings and cringed at how much I must seem the Michelin Man from the side.  I imagined shaking it off, these thoughts invasive and cruel.  Where was this coming from??

TN had stretched out on the bed and begun to absent-mindedly stroke his bulge.  I tucked my breasts into the little shelf of a sports bra and said, “You know, I was about to jerk off when you knocked a minute ago.” I walked around to the side of the bed. ” There’s still time before class starts.”

The ugly voice inside my head was shouting at me, relentless.  I felt awkward in my skin, undeserving, foolish for all of it.  Orgasms can be my reprieve from such thoughts.  TN didn’t spark them when he dropped by, he’d only walked into a snarling ant pit of self-loathing.

“Well, then let’s get going on that,” he replied as he watched me reach for my Hitachi.

I rested my knee on the mattress and planted my foot on the floor, my left arm straight and strong as I pressed the vibrating head to my crotch.  Instantly I was on the magic carpet ride up, up, and up.  TN had a front row seat to my cleavage cradled in white, an expanse of belly which I allowed to be whatever it was going to be — though I hoped it looked flat and muscular — and the swell of my hips encased in transparent Lululemon-like yoga pants.

He moaned a little and kept rubbing.  I kept my eyes latched onto his hand, then I felt his free hand sweetly trace my breasts.  “Is this ok?” he asked.


But it lasted only seconds.

Instead he pulled his shorts down and flopped out his erection, big and juicy before me.  His hand began to whir and the sound of fap fap fap deliciously filled my ears.  My ride was spiraling its way to the clouds, my lashes fluttered, I could see him staring at me as if I were a unicorn passing outside his window.

The orgasm shook me and just before it stole my breath I managed to whisper, “I’m gonna cum!” knowing it turned him on more than anything.

He quickly and neatly replaced his cock beneath his layers of clothes and pulled me into his arms.  I hung on to his middle and laughed, waited a minute then pulled my shit together for the gym.

We worked out side by side, muscles bulged, faces red.  I stared at myself in the mirror hating every goddamned music-pumping second of it.  The orgasm relief had been fleeting — as I knew it would be — I was again beating myself down.

Other women in the class were athletic specimens, all narrow hips and beautifully wide shoulders, firm buttocks and roundly muscled arms.  I was…. not.

I caught TN’s icy blue gaze on my cleavage in the mirror more than once, an appreciative gleam in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to protect me from myself.  Yes, I thought, I have nice tits, but what about the rest of me??  I resigned myself to the Pig-Pen-cloud of low self-esteem and smiled wanly to the other class members as we put our weights away.  I really just wanted to go home and lie down.  Maybe die a little, hide under a rock, whatever.

When I get like this, seized by self-doubt and hate, I undoubtedly make a decision that will support this belief.  That night, it was making Mac n’ Cheese out of a box for dinner — something I rarely eat, but will always make me feel at once comforted and like a complete failure.  I ate 2/3 of the box in bed while watching The Taste, took a shower, and texted TN for our nightly cuddle.  I wanted to skip it altogether, but he’d asked me to text him and so I did.

I lay there anxiously, tired, a pain pill shivering through my veins.  I heard him snap his fingers through my darkened apartment and appear in my doorway.  He removed the kitten, shut the door, turned out the overhead lights and flipped on the closet light for ambiance.

“What’s going on?” I asked, nervous, irritable, feeling like utter and complete shit.

“I’m going to fuck the shit out of you, that’s what.”  He came around the side of the bed and dropped his shorts.  I reached out for his erection and it bobbed hot, thick, and clean in my palm.  I chuckled half-heartedly and rolled away from him, my whiteness stark against the aubergine bedding.

“What are you doing?” he wondered aloud.

“Making you work for it,” I answered.  He growled and pounced on me, wedged my knees apart and slid deep inside my body with one easy stroke.  His clean strawberry dusted body thrust into my own vanilla scented one and we made a warm body dessert out of two naked people.

I clung to his hindquarters with my legs and wrapped my arms around his broad, fuzzy back; he grunted and kissed my neck and collar-bone.  When he sat up to hitch my ankles on his shoulders I refused.  My irritation and discomfort with my body had grown — my belly felt rounder — and suddenly, the fucking routine that went missionary-to-folded-in-half-to-orgasms seemed tired and only stoked my irritation.

I slipped my left leg between his knees and turned on my side.  He held my right leg with his hand and nailed me to the headboard.  I cringed when thoughts of Troy crowded my sad, addled brain — this had been a favorite position of ours.  I quickly rotated again to my belly and I heard the soft smacking of our bodies on my bottom and Troy thankfully exited stage left.

From his new vantage point TN brought his free, lead hand down on my flank.  Three excrutiating times.  I cried out and went rigid, the sting down to my bone, and then I was granted a reprieve when he got a charlie horse and was forced to stop.  We laughed at his misfortune and pulled apart.

I lay next to him and rubbed his massive hamstring chatting easily.  I was waging a stupid little war with myself and decided to let him in on the secret; I felt shy and worried about opening up to him about my self-loathing and odd flash of low self-esteem.

“I feel really bad, TN.  Like out of control.  I don’t like the way I look all of a sudden.  I hate feeling like this.  I feel so stupid and dumb.”

He crooned to me and pulled me into his arms and tried to rationalize my irrational behavior.  “Maybe you think you’re fatter than you are because your tits are so big,” he suggested not unhelpfully.

“Maybe…” I murmured.

“Hy, you’re very sexy and I think you’re extremely beautiful: your tits, your ass, especially your face.”  I flushed at the compliments and with shame for needing to hear the words.

I thanked him and took a deep breath to embolden me to open up more.  “So, there’s something else.”  I heard him hold his breath a little.  “When I’m in this kind of mood — feeling down on myself — what I really want is for you to throw me around.  But,” and his low timbre joined mine perfectly, “I/you don’t know how to let you/me know that’s what I/you want.”

“Right,” I nodded into his chest.

“Well,” he said sitting up quickly.  “Telling me to work for it is kind of perfect.”

He grabbed my wrists and I said quietly, “Work for it,” and held his gaze.

He repositioned himself between my legs and I tried to wriggle away, but he had me pinned.  I was tired, yet thrilled at this little game before he had to leave and before I passed the fuck out under that rock I’d been pining after earlier.

He slammed into me, stroked me from the inside and nuzzled my neck, gripped my wrists like he was hanging over a cliff and I came once then twice with big, round blooms of pleasure.  It was fast and fierce.  Perfect.

He pulled out abruptly and I lay there bathed in light from the closet, my thighs rested on the tops of his as he sat on his heels.  He ran his hands up from my hip bones to my ribcage and across the soft, mostly-flat plane of my belly.  He groaned approval and apologized that he had to go.  I nodded assent and assured him I was ready for him to leave.

He came around the side of the bed and wrapped his hand around my throat, tilted my head back as if to give me mouth-to-mouth and gently suckled my lips, his tongue soft and pliant while his hand gently squeezed — a kiss so unlike his usual hard, punishing, immobilizing goodbyes.  I melted away into those lips of his surrounded by a little sea of scruff.

And just like that, for that magical moment, the cloud lifted and I felt a bright, shiny love on me, my idiocy be damned.  “G’night, Hy,” he said as he left.  “I’ll lock the door behind me.”

“Good night!” I called out after him and then whispered smiling, I love you, as I have begun to do nightly.

The terrible feelings about my body and my looks were there when I awoke the next day and I am still waiting for them to subside.  I have committed to health, not looks, and I refuse to fall victim to the old bully of self-loathing.  I love my body and what it can do; I love my tits, my hips, my little pot belly.  I don’t know where this sucker punch has come from and I don’t know how long it will stay, but I’m going to do my goddamned damnedest to get rid of it.  Fuck it to hell.

I’m hoping lots of cuddles and fucking are just what the PhD ordered.

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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35 thoughts on “Sometimes I hate my body.
  1. This touches on so many things that have percolated through my head over the last year. I dunno whether I wanna hug you, shake you by the shoulders, or bury my face in my hands.

    Simple fact: we all age and our bodies wither. So does that mean it’s a progressive path downhill once we reach the peak of what we consider society’s acceptance of our worth, physically? That sounds like a shit sandwich, ’cause it really devalues anything and anyone over a certain age.

    So… what to do? Find partners who appreciate our aging selves, who are continuously younger than our age bracket? That’s one insidious way of showing ourselves that we’re still attractive to that “acceptable” age group. But it’s shoring up a leaking dam, kinda, instead of being happy with the now rather than putting the past on a pedestal.

    I realize it ain’t gonna help much, but I’ve recognized this in you for a while (and in myself, in somewhat different ways, but still similar). And that’s why my comments (mostly) aren’t “nice tits!” or “nice ass!” but “I fucking like Hy” period.

    And if it’s attractiveness that feels good or preferred to you, it’s regardless of the physical attributes. Meaning, it’s about your person and personality – and I think that holds true for pretty much everyone who’s part of your community here, eh.

    Instead of beating yourself up about shit, take some time to think about the other side of the scale that makes you awesome, eh.

    1. Thanks for this thoughtful note, Dave, but it feels as though you’re addressing something I wasn’t exactly saying. I don’t want you to think that I think I should look younger or different, necessarily. What I’m currently struggling with is a sudden case of low self-esteem despite not looking any different than I did a few days ago when I felt pretty great.

      I have always noticed that you address the Me parts of my posts and not just the tits parts and that is beyond kind and wonderful (God, I hope you know how much I esteem you!).

      I just don’t know what to do in these instances when my brain slays me like this. I mean, where the fuck is this coming from??

      I want to look 37 and feel good. I don’t want to look 21. I know that’s impossible! And when I’m all down on myself I need the irreplaceable (and embarrassing) injection of praise about my looks. I can’t tell you how ridiculous I feel for needing it, but, there it is… I do. Meh.

      I wish I could take a pill that would right my wonky brain right now. Any suggestions? lol xx Hy

      1. I want to look 37 and feel good. I don’t want to look 21.

        Yes and no…

        …and cringed at how much I must seem the Michelin Man from the side.

        You’ve got 37 years on your odometer. Bodies change; hell our metabolism keeps slowing down. Childbirth has an effect on that too, eh.

        What I mean isn’t a conscious desire to look 21 again, but a subconscious comparison – and coming up short – to how you see yourself now versus what you see now of yourself then. Which is always a losing proposition.

        My armchair intuition about that need for that praise is because you’re not happy with the now-you. And, bluntly INTJ-style, it’s easier to get external validation than face why you’re not happy with the now.

        Shit, my take on the pill to solve that – or work towards it – isn’t an easy one…

        1. Dammit, Dave! Yes, those are the words I’m saying, but it’s still not the point lol. I don’t normally give a shit about the rolls or the pooches or whatever happens when you bend and behave like a functioning human being, but lately I do, and *that’s* my point. That for no reason I can figure out right now I suddenly feel self-conscious like I did 15 years ago. And I have only very rarely felt that way since I left my husband 3 years ago.

          My thoughts have been ridiculous and unfair lately (as you’ve rightly pointed out) and it’s a mystery to me as to why now? This time last week I was struttin’ my stuff!

          Feeling like this has been so rare over the past 3 years that now that I’m feeling it again it’s really wiping me out.

          Am I making any more sense? Quit thinking I’m bitching about the way my body looks! What I’m really bitching about is this new and awful attitude about my body! Make it go away!! Love you! xx Hy

          1. Okay, you’ve goaded my INTJ-nature. Consider yourself disclaimed. ;)

            A coupla points:

            (1) Feelings of all sorts are a series of ups and downs. That’s being human. Riding a wave of euphoric or good/great feelings means, eventually, it’ll start to decline. That’s how we can work ourselves back up to feeling better. Especially you ENFPs, often seeking out the next “hit”: to get that good/great feeling back. So, with that in mind, something’s prolly cycling in you due to your nature and it sucks right now. But you know it’s not permanently down… right?

            (2) You’re normally happy with your appearance. I call semi-bullshit on this. You’re happy with yourself, to a larger degree, when you get external validation of it – which becomes your internal validation. Logic behind that is how you consistently post tit pics for IBF, when you know your writing stands on its own.

            (3) I’m not thinking you're bitching about how your body looks. I'm interpreting it as you're not happy with yourself, and that's how it's manifesting. In essence, trying to figure out how to become happier with yourself – and the easy, tangible thing is to exemplify that related to physical. That's the attitude I'm seeing – unhappiness with self, which ain't really the physical.

            (4) You tear yourself up over wanting to be loved besides being desired. You wanna know it, hear it, accept it. When you feel it, you’re happier. And by extension when you don’t feel it, you get down on yourself and panicky. That’s kinda the bottom line of explaining… what I’m trying to explain, heh.

            Make it go away? I’m doing my best by giving you my fullest attention I can tonight. And you know this. ;) And in a way that’s helping… at least for the moment, no?

          2. Oy. You INTJs! Yes, yes, yes, and yes… to a degree. I’m too spent to address them all now, but suffice to say you’re not completely off base, so that’s good! haha

            I have a couple of other theories about why this thing has popped up now, actually: other things are beginning to fall in line and go well — their volume has gone down, so to speak — so now maybe I can hear this body-issue thing more OR perhaps now that other things I’ve worked so hard on are now going much better I finally have a little emotional real estate to assign to my self-image issues OR maybe I’m hormonal and I’ll feel perfectly fine tomorrow (it could seriously happen like that).

            I’m sorry to have spurred you on to give me all this attention – for real. Get some sleep already! xx Hy

          3. Grr. Don’t be sorry or you’ll piss me off. ;)

            That was – is – my choice. I give you my attention, which is time, because I value you, period. Not because you’ve coaxed me into it; it’s because I wanted to. For you, lady.

            And I’m an adult (kinda). I can stay up past curfew at times. ;)

  2. I agree with Normal on this. I liked this account but it also bothered me because before anyone else can accept your body, you have to accept it and, yeah, if you ain’t feeling that muffin top, do something to make it disappear and keep your self-confidence high at all times and, as Normal said, “…take some time to think about the other side of the scale that makes you awesome…”

    1. You’re missing my point, KDaddy. I usually feel really great about my body and the way it looks, but the past couple of days I’ve been plagued by horrible thoughts about myself; so unlike the new and grown up me! It’s like I’m 25 all over again and I’m trying to figure out what’s up with that and rectify it because it makes me feel all kinds of crazy.

  3. Total aside:

    Every. Single. Time. That you write something about you (you know what I mean) it inspires me to write an in-depth response post like the one last week. (Which triggers some of my self-conscious shit – remember that? It’s convoluted and complex.)

    Take that as a serious compliment from my side. Very, very few people have that knack for inspiring me like that, especially regularly and consistently. I can count ’em on less than one hand.

  4. Something you’re not addressing about is adjusting your focus on your body…but you’re not mentioning what “that” is … And you know what- so what. You’ll swing back soon enough. TN was sweet about it. Nice that you could tell him how you felt and he heard it and responded – very nice! xo, Jayne

  5. Dear Hy
    I can so relate to your self loathing thoughts. As you know I am a very big girl. I usually feel confident and sexy but there are times when I let the self loathing thoughts get the better of me. We are all basically good. Mind and body. TN appreciates your body. You should to. Your smokin hot! Every inch. Keep telling yourself that and try to defeat these negative thoughts. It is so pervasive in our culture. I wonder why there is no equivalent word for self loathing in Tibetan. It’s our North American culture and advertising constantly telling us we don’t measure up and need this product to do so etc. etc. Be proud of the whole person you are.
    All my love

    1. Thank you, Ging, for understanding this has nothing to do with what I actually look like, but that it’s a mind over matter/slip of my grip kind of thing.

      It’s literally women like you who behave confidently and strong — despite looking less like “the norm” than I do — that help me keep myself in line and things in perspective.

      I wanted to share, though, that even with that knowledge that I, too, struggle with my esteem on occasion. It sucks and it’s stupid and really frustrating!! I’m gonna buckle down, though! I’m already feeling better than I did yesterday — go fucking figure — so that’s nice! xx Hy

  6. The sexiest thing about a woman’s body. . . is her mind, attitude, and body language. Has almost nothing to do with the body actually.

  7. Do I ever understand this. My issues with my body seem to be at their most intense after I’ve been with someone. Then all I can think about is how I looked to them. Was my ass too big, my boobs too small, and… And the stretch marks. I’m glad he was a respite for you, a reassurance if only for a bit. I think you’re gorgeous. No smoke and mirrors.

    1. Oh, Cara, how terrible that you’re your own worst enemy after a romp! As I’ve written about before, I feel my most confident when I see myself through another’s eyes (why I post pics/date so much).

      I can promise you that no one objects to any of your “perceived flaws”; they’re just thrilled to have a sexy, willing, naked woman before them.

      But I knew you’d be able to relate. Sadly, I know a lot of women will. xx Hy

  8. His clean strawberry dusted body thrust into my own vanilla scented one and we made a warm body dessert out of two naked people.

    I love your naked pictures – I really do. But this is what I come here for. You are such a beautiful person, inside and out.

  9. Like I said above, I vote hormones as cause. Actually when you explained your other theories, emotional real estate etc. I feel that could be it too. I just have noticed that dark cloud moves fast and it feels bad. And I can’t think right now because of the kids but I wanted to send hugs and glad its getting better.

  10. I feel the exact same way about my body, EXACTLY. Thankfully, it motivates me to work harder to lose weight. I admit, I am more about looks (obv, or I never would have had my boobs done lol) but no matter how hard I work, how well I eat, or how focused I am – one week out of the month, nothing can stop me from feeling that dark cloud. You are certainly not alone.

  11. I echo those telling you that you’re not alone. I want to love my body all the time, too.

    You are such an incredible writer, I wish you’d stop apologizing for being away from this space. We’ll be here when you are.

  12. I’m thinking I might right a post entitled, “Sometimes I like my body!” I’m hoping to reach a point eventually where I am not so hard on myself. I adore mac and cheese as well, and it has exactly the same effect on me.

    You are beautiful Hy!

  13. I am so glad you asked for what you needed, and he gave it to you. I could relate to so much of it, including the “fuck it” vow to get beyond it.
    Thank you for your raw and lovely post.

  14. Dearest Hy,
    Your post resonated to me on so many levels. I won’t get into the fact that I’m overweight, and if that isnt a buzz kill I have thyroid disease. Trying to loose weight for me is no easy task. I would like to compliment you, your picture is beautiful. And however over or underweight, you have to accept and love yourself. It’s a struggle not to let those “boogie men” or I prefer “boogie girls” come out and take over your self esteem. Give yourself a Hug Everyday! You are Beautiful!
    Your Friend,

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