For the past few months, everytime I am on top of my partner, I find myself staring down and appreciating the way my ass, hips and thighs look as I grind and sway. Even yanking off a dress or lingerie I’d put on to feel sexy, because it gets in the way of my view. This is a new development. I’m not a “cover up my belly when I’m on top” girl, but I certainly never felt so sexy that I couldn’t help but check myself out, and sure wasn’t going out of my way to remove my clothes to do so.
I’m trying like hell to embrace that. To grab ahold of those mostly fleeting self-love thoughts and feels and cherish the fuck out of them every single time they arise. That’s how I’m slowly retraining my brain and building my self worth. Moments like these are ones where I can measure growth. When my mental meter concerning my body crawls out of grotesque and reaches delicately up into soft, sexy and touchable.
It’s usually just during sexual activities that I end up distracted by my curves and thigh tattoo. Yesterday morning, however, I had a bit of a self-love breakthrough, if you will. I’d gotten up early, as I try to do to steal some me-time before anyone else wakes up demanding my attention. It was around six-thirty in the morning, I’d just taken a delightfully steamy shower and was sitting on the floor indulging in a bit of morning cannabis.
I was feeling relaxed and I dare say a little hopeful about the day. The sun was shining in, warming my skin and life felt okay for a moment. I’d just shaved and that always makes me feel a bit sexier and confident, everything combined into this delicious Friday morning cocktail.
Grabbing my tablet from the charger I propped it up against the wall and starting snapping pictures. I took my time, looking at the rolls in my tummy in a completely different light. It’s gotten bigger since we’ve moved here, I drink too much booze and eat too much amazing food. But my legs are thinner, shapelier, and so is my ass from all of the walking I do. I was able to just accept the parts I wasn’t in love with, and move on to the stuff I did like. Although a bit saggier, my stomach is soft, and feels nice when I run my fingers over it, and I actually didn’t mind the way it bulged as I sat because for the first time I didn’t compare it to another standard. It was just my belly, not my belly versus someone else’s.
The roll on my back that I take great pains to hide didn’t revolt me, instead it just became part of the entire picture. A soft, curvy, real, touchable human being. The scars on my skin just a story, my story, not something to cover and hide away.
For a few minutes I was at peace with myself and the way that my body looked. I savored and meditated in that positivity, that vital moment. One that I will in the future have to strain to remember. That feeling was confidence. I felt confident and sexy. I felt like I had worth, like I deserved to take up space in the universe.
I attribute a great deal of that to my self-portrait project, forcing myself to take a picture that makes me feel sexy, every single day, is creating new, exciting pathways in my brain that lead to uncharted territory — places like self-love and acceptance.
It isn’t a straight or simple path, and I expect to stumble. Probably a lot, because, well, I’ve met me. But seeing measurable growth that I know I fought hard for? That’s pretty fucking rad.