I never thought I’d say this, but I just had a remarkable evening of mind-blowing sex with my husband and I’m not happy about it.
He’s been all over me lately, groping me in the hallway, rubbing suggestively against my backside in the early morning hours. Tonight he grabbed my wrist as I walked past our bedroom, pulled me inside and then shoved me up against the wall. Caught off-guard, I didn’t have a chance against his skillful fingers as they tugged my panties down to my ankles.
When it was all said and done, our sweat-covered bodies lying tangled across the bed, we giggled over the range of grunts and squeals our lovemaking had produced. The he nuzzled my ear and said, “Sorry baby, I don’t know what came over me. I’ve just been crazy for you lately. I must have spring fever.”
And just like that, my good mood plummeted down to rest beside his flaccid penis.
I know why he’s crazy for me right now. It isn’t spring fever. It’s the 8 inches I’ve lost from my hips and waist over the last few weeks, carved out during my new daily exercise routine and a rather dictatorial weight watchers points system.
Despite ten years together, two children, and multiple moves, despite an endless array of events that have broken down our barriers and brought us closer together as a couple, despite all of that, my physical appearance still has the ability to make or break our sex life.
Now we’re having the best sex of our lives and I’m not happy about it. I honestly don’t know whether his affection is rooted in my shrinking waist size and healthier appearance, or in my own newfound confidence and willingness to show myself naked.
I don’t know if I should blame him for being superficial. His mouth says he loves me no matter what I look like, but his erection says otherwise. A few less pounds here, some extra ab definition there and suddenly our condom drawer is running on empty.
Maybe the problem is me. I’m all, “Rah rah, love yourself, body acceptance, blah blah,” in public, but put me behind a set of closed doors and I’m undressing my perceived fat self in the dark depths of my closet. If I don’t love me, how could anyone else?
I have changed shapes through my babies, through weight gain and loss but he hasn’t. He is the always the same, and can’t even begin to grasp what I’m going through. Maybe he is just enjoying getting a new me with each iteration of my dress size.
Now skinnier me is knocking boots near daily, experiencing multiple orgasms and a giant side order of guilt and worry. Either I’m an asshole, or he’s an asshole, and every moan of pleasure is a stark reminder.