Punching

CW: body dysmorphia, eating disorders, mention of self-mutilation

I’m seeing this guy I really like. I keep referring to him as Perfect Guy, because to me, he is. He is everything I’ve hoped for in a date and more (the superstitious side of me, tiny as it is, can’t bear to refer to him as a potential partner just yet). I won’t bore you with the very lengthy list of his glorious qualities, but there are three that need highlighting: he is funny (in that, he makes me laugh but also laughs at me, both of which are my sexual kryptonite), he is emotionally intelligent, and his cock is glorious

There is one problem though; I’m utterly terrified of fucking him. 

Yes, me, the person who flagrantly fucks strangers in hot tubs and sucks off dates in public and wanks on the beach. Our third date is imminent and PG has made it abundantly clear that he wants to do a lot of very un-PG things both with me and to me. Not in a pushy, demanding way, since he is too perfect for that, but in deliciously filthy messages that I have made myself cum whilst reading. More than once. 

His perfection is a clear driver behind my emerging feelings for him, but also the very thing causing my anxiety to surge uncontrollably. You see, I feel he is out of my league. And I know, upon reading that, a lot of people are going to start screaming at me; I’m screaming at myself! I know it’s bullshit! I know there isn’t a league table for attractiveness! I have read this by GOTN repeatedly to try and drum into my head that there is No Such Thing. He is just so irresistibly good-looking, in a very classic way: his body appears to have been hewn from marble by a sculptor who was clearly horny that day, his adorable smile really does brighten up a room, and his cock, did I mention it’s glorious

And me? My body hasn’t been hewn, it’s been thrown together like wet clay on a pottery wheel. I’m not about to get too down on myself; I do alright. I know I have a pretty, if unconventional, face and a fantastic arse and tits that hypnotise grown men into quivering, snivelling simps.  

This isn’t me. Thinking I’m punching above my weight, isn’t me. I’ve never ever considered someone above or below my league. If I think someone’s fit I will pursue them (either gently or aggressively), whether they are considered the hottest person in the room or the 50th. Unconventional facial features, in particular, really turn me on. As a person with a crooked nose, I can say objectively that crooked noses are utterly sexy; think Jake Johnson, who should be everyone’s fantasy flatmate. A crooked nose tells a story that I definitely want to hear. Whenever someone asks me what my physical type is, I can never answer, because, remember, I eat everything and I am attracted to all kinds of people. There is no one body type that makes me wetter than others; all bodies are beautiful to me. 

All bodies, that is, except my own. 

A pervading thought with body dysmorphia is that you have a defect. It starts off quite small, and it’s usually something no one else notices. Like everyone else, like “normal” people, you entertain the idea that there’s one part you think would look better if only it were different somehow; smaller, bigger, longer, shorter, lighter, darker, less, more. Then, the idea grows. Then, it starts to consume you. Then, you start obsessively researching cosmetic surgery; then you research it every single day, at all hours. Then, you change your image and buy clothes that you think hide that part. Then, you start obsessing over that part of other people’s bodies and comparing yourself negatively to them: “mine is smaller/bigger/longer/shorter/lighter/darker/less/more”. Then, you stop going out because you just know other people are going to look at that part and be disgusted. Then, you can no longer look at that part in the mirror because you’re disgusted. Then, you dream about mutilating yourself. Then, you actually try to mutilate yourself. 

For me, it’s my stomach. It’s always been my stomach, ever since I was 15 and bought one of those rollers that help you do sit ups because I felt very seriously that it should be flatter, despite it already resembling an ironing board. I started doing 100 a day and persuaded myself that it made a difference. Whenever I gain weight, my stomach is the first to show it, and whenever I lose it, it’s always the last place to give it up. In this, I’m a fairly normal human being, but my brain often views it as an enormous, unacceptable, and practically evil flaw. This year, thanks to a relatively stable period in my eating disorder, I have lost weight from pretty much every part of my body, except my stomach. And this has triggered my eating disorder again, as I knew it inevitably would, because now, I see my stomach as being abnormal compared to the rest of me; it’s sticking out more because my thighs and hips and waist have shrunk. And abnormality is unacceptable to my body dysmorphia, that’s why I’ve dreamt of cutting it off with a knife all week. 

Sometimes, when I’m in a self-destructive place, I test people with my stomach. Instead of hiding it, I show it off as much as I can physically bear. I go on dates wearing an unflattering outfit. I send thirst traps of my stomach at an unflattering angle. I make people touch it. I’m begging them to find a problem with it, to find me disgusting, to validate me. I want an excuse to push them away and to punish myself. 

So far, it’s been different with PG; I haven’t been goading him or avoiding him. Instead, I’m scared and small. Now everything has been triggered, it’s left me terrified to let him see me naked. See my stomach naked. I’ve sent him nude photos, even nude photos that show a part of my stomach, and he’s responded to them exactly as you’d hope (thankful, turned on, very complimentary). Yes, to some extent that’s been comforting, however there’s a little voice in my head which tells me it’s all bullshit because the only thing that matters is when he sees me for real. I feel that, because he’s so good-looking and perfect and out of my league, my body will disappoint him, disgust him, like it disgusts me. 

And again, this isn’t me. Usually, I am more confident naked. When I’m removing my clothes and I’ve made it to that precipice of nudity, fuck, there’s no stopping me. With 99.9% of people, I don’t care what they think of my naked body at that moment. I’m glorious and sexy and they’ve consented to having sex with me and I’m going to give them the time of their lives. 

But that’s when sex is a one (or maybe two) time thing and I’m not invested in seeing them again afterwards. If they reject me, yes it hurts, but I can move on. With this guy, I don’t want it to be a one-time thing; I want it to be an eighty-one time thing. I like him. I like him, and I feel that he’s too good for me. I am so excited to have sex with him, truly, I want it so badly my cunt clenches whenever I see his name on my WhatsApp notification, but what if, when the moment arrives, I can’t? What if my usual bravado isn’t enough to carry me through the terror? What if, when he touches me, I am paralysed by my anxiety? One half of my brain knows the sex will be amazing, the other can’t bear to think about it; this is what has made me feel sick all week, this state of constant and perplexing worry. It shouldn’t be like this. 

There’s been one, tiny, memory that I’ve been trying to cling to, that all my hopes are clinging to. On our second date, as we were fooling around in the back of my car round the back of the bar we’d been in, he suddenly shifted position from kissing my lips and neck and moved down my body. When his face was level with my stomach, he did something I hadn’t expected, something that would normally make me feel sick, something that would revolt me; he kissed it. He kissed my stomach. Without any prompting. It was only fleeting, before he moved onto my inner thighs, but I swear it happened, I swear I didn’t imagine it. At first, there was shock that it had happened and I hadn’t imagined it. Then, there was the sense that it was a bit weird; why would he do that? Why would he kiss my revolting, fat stomach? What kind of a pervert is this guy? Then, I melted. And it was actually the sweetest thing. 

Because of course, I hadn’t told him about any of it; not about my body dysmorphia, or my eating disorder, or what parts of my body I feel the worst about. He kissed it not knowing what it would mean to me. 

I hadn’t told him because I was trying to front some confidence, some body positivity. And 99.9% of the time, I am confident and I am body positive (to an extent). The majority of my confidence is based on not giving a shit what other people think about me. The problem with PG, however, is that I do care what he thinks about me. Quite a bit. People who are into crap like dating “rules” or how to attract your soul-mate will try to tell you that confidence is the sexiest thing. I’ve had guys say that to me before, that I’m sexy because I’m confident, but I’ve always had the sense it’s a metaphorical pat on the head because I’m fat and “out there”. 

Actually, vulnerability is the sexiest thing. Letting your guard down and people in is the sexiest thing. Confronting your fears and talking about them is the sexiest thing. Allowing someone to know you, all of you, is the sexiest thing. Admitting you need some help, some support, is the sexiest thing, because it shows that you trust that person, and that is the sexiest thing. 

It’s time for me to stop breathing in and get sexy.

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If you’re currently experiencing thoughts involving self-mutilation or self-harm, please reach out to someone and talk. If you’re in the UK, someone like the Samaritans can support you. For support with body dysmorphia, contact the Body Dysmorphic Disorder Foundation.

One thought on “Punching

  1. My eyes teared up a bit when you said his kissed your stomach. Mr F does this to me, I don’t recall him ever doing it when we first met and I was slimmer, so the first time he did it was when I had a bit of jiggle to me and I nearly swatted him on the head and asked WTF he was doing I don’t have body dysmorphia, so I’m not going to pretend it’s at all the same, but I guess I was just ignoring the bit I didn’t like so much about myself and expected him to do the same, but he doesn’t, I’m pretty sure he even looks at it when we fuck and it’s wobbling all around! Seems shocking to me that he wants to see that, but he keeps coming back for more, so no complaints clearly, lol.

    I very much hope that when you do fuck PG it’s utterly mind blowing and turns your body and your brain so mushy that all the negative thoughts are blasted into oblivion

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