29 August 2013

Things in My Life a Breast Reduction Would Change/Improve

  • Bra shopping/wearing
  • Back pain
  • Heat rash underneath them
  • Appearance - no more boob-sized nipples, no more head-sized boobs
  • The ability to find/wear a swimsuit again
  • Running without holding my chest
  • Wearing appropriately-sized shirts instead of oversized ones
  • Wearing low-cut tops without looking easy
  • No more deep-cutting lines on my shoulders and rib cage
  • Posture
  • The ability to wear corsets again, pretty much at all, but especially without looking obscene
  • No more fucking anime or Dairy Queen jokes
  • No more pain while driving
  • No giant uniboob from limited bra options
  • Proportion - turns out, huge boobs make you look fat, thanks to pulling clothing out around your middle
  • Stretch marks, more and more stretch marks
  • The pain of accidentally and suddenly dropping a boob (in shower, putting on bra, etc.)
  • The look of horror on a person's face when they see my boobs sans-shirt

I wish I was exaggerating the last one.

My mom.  The doctor.  The chick at the fitting rooms.  The woman who helped size me.  The other woman who couldn't size me.

I'm a freak show.

I want it to stop.

21 August 2013

Too Often.

He asks me if I want sex like he asks me if I want a pizza. If I say yes, I will have to immediately spread my legs and be hurt again. Maybe I would get myself off in the end, maybe I wouldn’t. Wouldn’t matter.
I am not ready. So I don’t say anything. I change the subject. Truth is, I feel flabby, melted, rotted.  I don’t feel ready to be exposed and used.
He gives me a halfhearted massage full of gropes and uncomfortable pinches and grabs.  My back aches.  I feel more tired than I began.  He asks again, “sex?”  I wonder if we should sync our schedules.
I change the subject again.
He asks me to move over so he can masturbate.  I ask, “really?”  He inquires if I am upset about moving over or that as a human being he needs to jerk off now and then.
I am hurt.  The timer ran out.  I burned my own chances for intimacy, if that was what it was.  It won’t be happening today.  Was that what I wanted?
I slide over, silent, while the bed trembles.  I am staring at the blanket.
I am a useless cunt.
A broken lay.
A waste of energy.

07 August 2013

Bad Wife

It's no secret that I'm bad at sex.  Anyone who has screwed me can tell you that.  My head isn't in the game.

I'm great at giving it, usually, but don't ask me to get off.  Don't ask me to take it.

And never, ever, ever think that I owe it to you.

Even if you're married to me.

But I guess that's a fair expectation.

The baby's out, I've lost a little of the weight, the doc cleared me as healthy enough for sexual activity, and I'm on birth control pills again.  So what's the problem, right?

Everything works down there, so I must just be waiting for you to say go?

I'm not.

I don't want to have sex.

I am not chomping at the bit.

I don't want to do it.

This is how I see myself right now:
  • Chunky.  I can't even fit into size 10s.  I can't even squeeze comfortably into my MATERNITY pants.  My tits don't fit in any damn bra, the band doesn't reach around my fatass rib cage, my shirts all look absolutely obscene, and my feet constantly hurt from the weight they carry around.
  • Smelly.  You try finding time to shower.  Oh wait, you shower regularly.  Because I'm taking care of the baby.
  • Hairy.  I may not be the biggest fan of shaving my legs but I do try to shave my girlbits regularly.  Except that's tough to do when you can't find the time for a shower.
  • Torn up.  Except for a cell phone photo, I haven't seen my down theres since a few months into the pregnancy.  I don't remember what it looks like.  I don't know what it looks like now.  I don't know where the stitches were or how badly I tore or how damaged the tissue is or even where.  I'm terrified of it.  I am legitimately scared of my vagina.  BUT YOU WANT ME TO BE UP FOR SEX.
The more anxious you get to screw me, the more aggressive you become about it.  The faster you go.  The less you care about how I feel.  I already hate foreplay, I already hate the idea that I should be expected to enjoy it, to be present, to experience it.  I already feel so very strongly that sex with you should only EVER be for YOU.  But you want to shove fingers in there.  You want to go fast.  You want to stick your head up in my smelly, hairy, unshowered snatch and you don't want me to be self conscious at all.  You want me to pretend it's for me, and not for you.

And then you want to take off your pants, roll me over, and stick it in me.

You expect that.

That is my job, after all.

You simultaneously want me to enjoy it all while reminding me that this is all about you, me pleasing you, me behaving like a normal wife would.

Well I'm not normal.

So get bent.