‘This guy wants me,’ I remember thinking.
Here I am, in the full light of day with smudged make-up and bed head (which only looks sexy on supermodels and actresses), too hungover to suck my stomach in and, this guy STILL wants to have sex with me. Clearly.
It was a revelation.
Even when I was thin, my belly had a pooch. And my skin without make-up? Pore city. Let’s not even talk about how I felt about my inner thighs. I was so self-conscious that the only way I could have an orgasm was alone. Under the covers. With the lights off.
This guy was probably not the first guy to see my flaws and want to have sex with me anyway. But it was the first time I’d noticed. And that opened up a whole new world to me. Suddenly, instead of holding my stomach in and wondering how I could make turning the lights off seem sexy instead of prudish, I was just enjoying things.
Man, was I enjoying things.
Years later, having wine with a bunch of other moms, I had the urge to send Mike (that was not his name, but “this guy” sounds lame in this sentence) a fruit basket. What I heard from them depressed me. Gorgeous women whose bodies were better than mine 20 years ago, let alone now, were insisting on having sex with the lights off. Under the covers. And from their general lack of enthusiasm, probably not having orgasms either.
Obviously they all needed to have sex with Mike.
Or, you know, at least stop being so self-conscious about their perceived flaws. I mean, these days, there is no “sucking in” of my stomach. And no angle that hides my thighs. I won’t even begin to list all the terrible things that have happened to my skin. But I still have sex with the lights on. Over the covers. With orgasms.
Sure, part of that is because I married a man who is way, way, better than Mike. But the other part of it is that I know that I don’t have to look like a porn star to feel like a porn star.
But yeah, Mike? Everyone needs a Mike in their lives.