There’s a picture of my boyfriend and I, on his desk at work, from the first time we ever met. In the photo, I am sitting on his lap, grinning like a loon at the camera, because I am sitting on his lap. And he is looking up at me with this look on his face, this perfectly ravenous, smitten look that I still remember, that makes my belly still jump a little bit when I think about it. I remember how incredibly sexy it made me feel, how hot and desirable and unconquerable–though I did want to be conquered, but good.
I love that picture. The thing that gets me about that picture, now, is the fact that I’m a good 65 pounds heavier, there. I was about 200 pounds, when I met my boyfriend for the first time. At 200 pounds, you’re not supposed to feel like a sex goddess. You’re supposed to be ashamed of your weight and afraid of your body and convinced that no one will ever love you or worship your soft and beautiful naked flesh. I only remember flirting with him, unabashedly, unashamedly, and reveling in his interest. I knew he wanted me, and I wasn’t afraid to show him how much I wanted him. He told me I was gorgeous. But you know, I felt gorgeous before he ever said a word to me. I walked into that room feeling beautiful.
I wish I knew where it came from.
He’s told me that the sexiest thing about me that night wasn’t my
excellent dress, or my fabulous tits or the way I moved or smiled or
laughed or teased him–it was my confidence. Which I guess is a
combination of all those things, isn’t it. He said to me, you were
I was fully and completely who I was, and how I was,
and it was wonderful. That kind of confidence is magnetic and it is
magnetizing, and makes people wonder if they want you or want to be
you, or both. You can do anything, or anyone, because you light up a
room and light everyone’s loins on fire and that is such a powerful
feeling. It is pyromania. It is magical. I want it back. I wish I knew
where it went.