Grotesque

As I wipe the fog from the mirror, I am assaulted by the sight of my naked body. Always, I am taken aback by what I have become. I am smaller, yes, but at quite a price.

My eyes wander, taking in my sagging, deflated breasts, the remainder of a once glorious and bountiful bosom. These were breasts that once scoffed at padding. Now they hide behind it, shriveled and wrinkled shadows of their former selves.

Moving down to my pale, doughy abdomen, striped and furrowed by my past life, it resembles a squat white candle that’s melted and dripped in rivulets upon itself. Old, faded scars live there, bearing testimony to my former size. Newer ones, made by a surgeon’s knives, have joined them, bringing me here. Skin that was once firm, round, and packed now puddles around my hips. I can grab rolls of it and hoist it up to my ribs. I am not a pretty sight.

I cringe to think of my bien aimé touching this grotesque body. I am ashamed to have him look upon it, knowing that it is not beautiful, as he deserves. I can’t imagine him taking pleasure in it, or enjoying its dubious charms.

Still, I want the physical. Even while I feel so hideously deformed, I crave his touch, the feel of his palms sliding over my flawed torso and down my melted buttocks. I ache to feel his lips caress my wasted breasts, worship the column of my neck, and meld with my own in kisses that steal my breath. I yearn to feel him so deep, deep, inside of me, where I stand a chance of giving him some of the amazing sensation he bestows upon me. I want so much to give my bien aimé the same rapturous gratification that I receive from him.

Yet, staring at this repellent reflection, I am doubtful that he will ever feel it.