body

He touches my body and he tells me that it is perfect. He touches a soft belly, thighs that are strong and large and round as a woman drawn by Robert Crumb. Breasts too, that are frightening in their Germanic abruptness, dimplings and stretchings and stray hairs.

"Real" he tells me, as he touches the curve of my back "and I love how you move, how your body is greedy for me. I love watching you orgasm, feeling it. Your whole body changes. I can see it happening in your skin."

I have not looked at my body for so long. I have been trying to ignore the obvious, that my friends are much younger and more beautiful than I could ever be. I desire them. I look at each one, and despite their own failings I find myself attracted to them. The one with the beautiful eyes, the one with the gentle hands, the one with the sharp intelligence, the erratic flame who will never burn out. In different circumstances I could find myself in bed with any one of them and would not be disappointed. They are beautiful, each in their own, perfect way.

He sits back on his heels and tells me that he loves watching my body when I abandon it to pleasure. He says that it is exciting for him, makes him want to start over, even sweating and exhausted as he is.

I must want myself. Who will ever want me if I do not want myself.

Today is the beginning of a new thing. I will face the mirror fearlessly. I will move myself out of harms way. I will see myself through his eyes and I will enjoy it all without finding fault with it.