Content

Holding my bien aimé close, I am steeped in sensation – the feel of his bare skin pressed against mine, the drag of his stubble against my neck, the press of his fingertips on my hips. It is as though I can feel all of his previous touches at once. Everywhere his hands have stroked or his lips have kissed has come alive and tingles, suffused with carnal pleasure. My mind, meanwhile, spins, caught in a turbulent whirlwind of emotion.

Struggling to encompass the gravitas of this situation, I tuck it all away to think about later. Later, when my soul is not near inebriated by the joy of being held close. When I am not feeling so warm and tender, so connected to my bien aimé. Later, when I can examine my motives and my feelings. For now, I revel in his arms.

*****

Fresh from the shower, wrapped in flannel, I reflect. Stripped of all artifice and armor, I now feel vulnerable and exposed, free to be honest with myself. The love I have for, and give to, my bien aimé is not casual, though it has never been formalized by church or state. We have exchanged no vows or promises, yet that doesn’t make what we share any less meaningful or important to me. What he gives to me transcends the physical, the wanton corporeal gratification that I could produce on my own.

What he gives me is acceptance, that whoever and whatever I am or have been is worthy. I read no condemnation from him, or disgust in my actions or person. He gives me his trust, that neither of us will betray the other. We are neither free, but are instead bound to others. He offers me validation, that I am a woman, fair in form, deserving of receiving and giving love. This, right now, given my emotional fragility, may be the most important of all.

Am I using him? Is he using me? Is it even a question of use? All I know for certain is that I am happy to just be with him. To spend time, talking or touching, with my bien aimé, gives me all that I need right now. For the future, who knows? For now, I am content.

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.