For the first time in years
Photo by: WAYHOME studio / Shutterstock
I came to a weird realization a couple of weeks ago. Even though I slept or fooled around with quite a few guys when I was a teenager, I never once took my shirt off with them.
In fact, until I met the guy I?d settle down with permanently, no one saw my tits.
Which is kind of a shame, because they looked pretty good back then.
Part of the reason is most of the sex I had as a horny teenager was the sloppy, quick, drunken kind.
I had a lot of party hookups and quick fuck sessions with guys I was dating. Not exactly scenarios filled with sensuality and seduction.
Fucking at parties usually meant keeping as much clothes on as possible. Stumbling into some unoccupied room where the door doesn?t lock means just taking your pants and underwear off but keeping them in reach. You never know when you?ll need to make yourself decent in a rush or make a quick getaway.
I was 16 and 17, mostly fucking boys around that age or just a bit older. Foreplay was something I knew mostly in theory. Either they didn?t really know much about working their way up to sex or they just weren?t interested. We usually moved from kissing to dry humping to fucking ? my nipples were besides the point.
It?s kind of odd looking back on it now, but none of the guys I hooked up with or dated expressed any interest in seeing me naked. No one ever tried to take my shirt off, so I kept it on. I was self-conscious about my body, so I certainly wasn?t going to offer to expose myself.
I fucked with half my clothes on until I met my husband. Then, I bared myself completely.
But then I reverted to my old ways. For years, I hadn?t fucked my husband without a shirt on.
Sex in My Socks
Having sex with Mr. Austin was a game changer in so many ways.
He made me feel respected. He cared about my pleasure and didn?t treat foreplay like a chore.
He didn?t just want to fuck me. He wanted to touch me, look at me, get to know my body.
That meant taking my clothes off.
The first time we had sex, he slowly removed my clothes while we made out.
I felt incredibly self-conscious about exposing my body that way. But I felt even more self-conscious about not taking my clothes off. I didn?t want him to think I was some kind of prude or that I wasn?t a fun fuck.
I went with it and tried to act cool. I think I succeeded, but I was decidedly not cool on the inside.
I was kind of freaking the fuck out.
Thoughts were bouncing around in my brain.
Oh my God, he?s taking my shirt off!
I?m going to completely naked ? with the lights on!
He?s going to see everything! No one?s ever seen everything!
At least he?s leaving my socks on. That?s something, right?!
But he had a way of putting me at ease. I felt nervous and uncomfortable, but I also felt desired ? and that feeling was so intense it could almost override the others.
I felt way too exposed when he was looking at my body. But when he told me I was sexy I just about melted.
The whole thing felt strange. Even with all the sexual experience I had under my belt, I wasn?t prepared for this. That?s because all my sexual experience was, well, under my belt. (Fine, sometimes it was in my mouth, but you get what I mean.)
I was way out of my comfort zone, but I was also excited as hell. So I lay there, tits out and thrilled as he kissed my body.
But eventually, that thrill faded.
Over the years, I got more and more comfortable with my husband. That should have translated into me being naked more often, but it had the opposite effect.
No matter how often I stripped my clothes off, I never got completely comfortable exposing myself to him. The shame I felt about my body was too deeply ingrained.
What I did get comfortable with was just doing what I wanted to in the bedroom. Instead of trying to make myself seem fun or super sexy, I just tried to have a good time.
And for me, a good time means keeping my shirt on.
Instead of stripping bare, I started leaving my tank top on. I?d pop my tits out the top so Mr. Austin could still have his way with them (nipple play ftw!) but I kept my stomach hidden.
Mr. Austin didn?t seem to mind. He probably could tell I felt self-conscious, so he stopped trying to strip me and just let me Winnie the Pooh my way through sex.
I kept my shirt on more and more. Then, I gained weight due to some hormonal issues and the shirts stayed on permanently. After stepping out of my comfort zone, I was right back to never having sex with my stomach bare.
Hating Yourself Gets Old After a While
Keeping my body hidden away felt like the easy solution for a long time.
But years of it just made me feel worse about myself.
I hated being naked. But I also hated being so ashamed of my body.
There was no winning.
The whole thing got really exhausting. Hating myself was keeping me from getting more enjoyment out of life. It kept me from ever feeling fully comfortable. It kept me from even believing my husband?s compliments about my body.
I hated hating myself, but it?s all I knew.
I hit my low point when I couldn?t even stand to be alone by myself. I couldn?t get dressed or take a shower without feeling completely put off by my body. Any time I caught a glimpse of my own nudity in the mirror, I would automatically berate myself.
Being really self-conscious around people felt normal. Being self-conscious around my husband was something I had just sort of accepted. But when I started being self-conscious around my own damn self, I knew I had to do something to put an end to my endless cycle of self-hatred.
I was also filled with regret. I spent my teenage years worried about a plump frame that, looking back now, I know looked pretty damn good.
Then I spent my twenties too disgusted with myself to actually enjoy having the body of a twenty-something year old.
I felt like I missed out on years of being confident, of enjoying myself, and of just being free in my own skin.
Now, I worried I was heading for just more of the same. Was I going to look back on my thirties the same way, like I had wasted a whole decade of my life pouting at the mirror?
And then my forties? My fifties?
How many decades was I going to spend hating my body instead of just enjoying it? Was my mid-twenties really the last time I was going to fuck naked?
That?s not how I wanted to live the rest of my life.
Learning to See Myself Differently
If I was going to like my body, or even tolerate it, I would need to make some conscious choices. I would learn to see myself differently.
Like a lot of my personal journeys, this one involves porn. I always like watching cute women doing naughty stuff. But I committed to specifically looking at cute chubby women doing naughty stuff for a while.
Here?s the thing about hating my body. It really is hating my body. When I see other women with a body like mine, I don?t get put off by it. When I see them flaunt it, it?s empowering, engrossing, arousing ? or some combination of the three.
But I just can?t look at myself the same way.
So, instead, I?m looking at women like me in the hopes that by admiring their features I can learn to appreciate mine.
The rest of it is just confronting my body head on.
I?m trying to spend more time looking in the mirror. I try not to default to covering up before I look at my reflection.
When I do look at my body, I try to see it objectively. I try to look for something ? anything ? I can like about it and focus on that.
Getting into that mindset wasn?t easy. But one day, I felt something click into place.
I just got a cute pair of underwear and I tried them on and looked at myself in the mirror.
I know how that scenario goes. I look at myself and I can?t see past my self-loathing. I immediately think ?God, you look so gross? and want to look away.
But as I stood in front of the mirror this time, a different thought crossed my mind: ?I really wish I could just love my body like this.?
And the second thought surprised me even more: ?Well, why can?t you??
That shifted my mindset. Instead of defaulting to hating my body, I was asking myself for a reason I should.
I tried to think of one, and I came up empty.
I have plenty of reasons to be frustrated with my body. I?m chronically ill. I have hormonal imbalances. It doesn?t make my body a fun one to live in.
But I have a husband who adores the fuck out of my body and never misses an opportunity to remind me (whether he uses his words, his hands, or his lips to show me).
It also brought four children into this world. Sure, it almost killed me, but I still managed to pull through. So, I had every reason to be impressed with what this body of mine could do.
There was a lot to be thankful for. I just had to learn to look at it with more confidence.
I stood naked in front of my mirror and tried to look at my body objectively. I tried to find things I liked about it.
What parts of me would I admire if I saw it on one of those cute chubby women I drool over?
What parts of me would I fall in love with if I saw them the way my husband does?
Asking those questions mostly quiets the negative self-talk. It?s still there, but by dialing it down to a whisper, I can hear positive affirmations instead.
I can hear myself saying that I love my blue eyes. I love my pale skin and how soft it is. I love the constellation of freckles scattered all over my hands, my arms, and my shoulders. I love how pronounced they get after I?ve exposed them to a bit of sun.
I like that my waist has a defined hourglass curve. I like that I have childbearing hips (and the children to prove it!)
I love that I have powerful thighs. They?re big and strong enough to do one hundred consecutive squats.
Slowly, I?m adding more to the list of things I like. I still haven?t fallen in love with my stomach, my cheeks, or my nose, even though they?re all features Mr. Austin raves about. But I?m not letting that get me down, either.
I had gotten this far and I still had to go further. If I was really going to feel confident, I would have to step away from the mirror and get undressed for my husband.
Stripping for the First Time Again
Fifteen years have passed since the first time I got naked for my husband.
That was my first time being fully nude in front of anyone. Our relationship was still in its early stages and we didn?t have years of sex and intimacy under our belts.
Despite that, I felt more nervous this time around. My nerves were a mess just thinking about exposing myself to him again.
But I felt fed up. I couldn?t let one more day go by feeling like I wasn?t even good enough to strip for my husband. So, I decided to rip off the (figurative) band-aid and rip off my (literal) clothes.
Mr. Austin offered to give me a massage and I told him I?d meet him in the bedroom.
What I didn?t say is that I?d meet him wearing nothing but a colorful pair of panties.
I lay flat on my stomach while he rubbed massage oil into my skin and I tried to get comfortable with how much of that skin was showing.
Then I did a couple of bold moves (bold for me, anyway).
I asked if he could give my lower back a rub, and I pulled my underwear halfway down to show him what I meant by ?lower back? (it was upper ass, really). He obliged eagerly.
Having his slippery hands firmly massaging my ass aroused me enough to help me with my boldest move of all (again, for me): rolling onto my back.
And there I was, exposed from head to toe ? well, head to ankle because I still rock my socks no matter how much skin I show.
Tits, stomach, and thighs on full display for the first time in years.
I thought I?d be blushing with embarrassment. I imagined I?d be compelled to use my arms and hands to cover myself strategically. But none of that happened. I just felt liberated.
I know my husband desires me, but that?s not the same as feeling desirable. Stripping all my clothes off for him brought me closer to feeling that way.
I still have a long way to go in my journey to self-love and self-acceptance. I don?t feel fully comfortable being naked with Mr. Austin yet, but I?m really proud of pushing myself that far.
It?s a slow process, but I?ll keep inching out of my comfort zone. Taking all my clothes off helped me see how good it feels to love myself a little bit more than I did before, and it?s giving me the motivation to keep moving forward.
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