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Tag Archives: beauty

There is something that has been wiggling around in the back of my mind for a while now. It’s relevant to the spirit of this blog, if not the usual content, so I’m putting it here. Please indulge me as I wax philosophical.

You may have picked up from reading my work that I am a taaaaad bit narcissistic, but not in the traditional sense. I do not think I am beautiful to behold. Hell, I don’t think I’m even remotely close to attractive. I find myself to be decidedly bland, probably because I likely have a very skewed definition of what it means to be a handsome man. No matter how many people tell me I am handsome or athletic or insert compliment here, all I see are flaws. Ask anyone who’s seen me–I’m nowhere close to what Men’s Health would have you believe a man is supposed to look like, no matter how much I wish I were. Maybe that’s why I sympathize so deeply with the body positivity movement.

But those flaws drive me to constantly strive to better myself. They are the reason I spend hours powerlifting, wailing on the heavy bag, flipping those tires. I am never satisfied, so I work harder. I don’t care what trainers and doctors tell me–I am not where I need to be. There is a handsome man in there somewhere. I just have to chisel away the body fat to find him.

Man. That’s a hard thing to admit.

I describe myself differently here than in my prose, because I acknowledge that my perception is deeply flawed. It’s not a healthy outlook, but there it is. I know I am strong, and fit, and active. But I hold myself to an unrealistic ideal that I don’t hold for any other human being, anywhere in the world. I want more from myself. I want that beach body, damn it.

That said, I really, really hate body shaming.

Look, I know that no normal person is going to say, “Body shaming? Why, that’s just keen!” I would like to believe that the majority of us are going to hear that phrase and respond with appropriate levels of disgust and sympathy. No one should ever be made to feel uncomfortable in their own skin by another person. Ever. That shit isn’t cool. And hopefully, on some level, most of us believe that.

None of the women in my life–that is to say, Tina and Ashley–are slender. But they are *fit*. Tina is a runner and outdoor enthusiast. Ashley is an all-around athlete and yogini. They have curvature, and softness to them, but they are hard where their hobbies require them to be. They do not go out of their way in pursuit of the elusive beach body, but still they are beautiful women. I’m not sure they would be considered “plus-size”, but even if they would, that would not be a bad thing, because they are both fucking *hot*, just in very different ways.

Point is, it doesn’t much matter to me what a person weighs. It shouldn’t really matter to anyone except ourselves. I feel bad for people who see themselves the way I do, because it’s a pretty unhappy way to live sometimes. I wish more people would find comfort in themselves rather than the ridiculous expectations set by Western media and marketing. But at the same time, I suspect that even those who are active in the body positivity movement still have moments of discomfort, when they look in the mirror and think, “If I could just shed another five pounds…” We are driven to outperform other people. It’s what all animals do. We compete, we mate, we produce offspring that will compete with our competitors’ offspring. Civilization may permit us to overcome some of that nature, but I doubt it will ever be fully removed from the human condition.

Hmm. I didn’t so much share my thoughts as I did ejaculate words into a formless puddle on my keyboard. But this was never intended to go anywhere. It’s just something I’ve been chewing on lately. So many women I’ve talked to have told me how unhappy they are with their appearance, how self-conscious they are about their image, when, damn it, there is *no reason* for them to feel that way. Tina and Ashley included. Then they tell me, “I wish I looked like you,” and I am dumbstruck, because I legitimately don’t see it.

Anyhow, enough of this meandering little monologue. To all the ladies and gentlemen that read this blog–you are beautiful/handsome exactly as you are. Should we ever meet in person, I’ll be happy to prove it.

Working on another memory now. It’s one I’ve been holding onto for a while, so I’m not sure if or when I’ll be putting it up. Maybe soon. Until then, friends.


I realized today that I have written fourteen posts in this blog. Some of them have touched on my sexual compulsions, or justification for my behavior. Others have chronicled my sexual exploits. But none of them have really focused on Ashley as more than a mostly asexual being, or my feelings for her. This strikes me as incredibly unfair.

When I first met her, Ashley was sitting at a table in a local bar with a couple of other girls, listening while they chattered away with random passers by. With her toned athletic figure, naturally golden blonde curls, piercing blue eyes, and flawless skin, she could easily have been a model for any skimpy lingerie poster. Or an athletic shoe commercial. Or one of those perfume ads that just show beautiful women sitting in awkward poses. She seemed to steal the light out of the rest of the room, the way she naturally drew the attention of every prowling male and scowling female. She didn’t make any effort to cause this. It was in the way she smiled, honest and vibrant. The way she leaned toward whomever she was talking to, engaging them completely. The way she sincerely thanked the half dozen men who bought her drinks, but just as sincerely apologized to them because she wasn’t “that kind of girl”. She was entirely unaware that she was the center of all activity in that building.

Once we started seeing each other, I discovered that she wasn’t just trying to be polite to the guys in the bar. She was a virgin, and she intended to save herself until she met the man she was going to marry. Not until marriage–that’s a different issue–but until she fell so deeply in love that she could barely breathe. It was a conviction she stuck by despite my best efforts to the contrary. So, being the horrible human being that I am, I made it my goal to make her fall in love with me. I had no interest in her beyond fucking her. I didn’t care about her ideals. I just wanted to be inside her.

Five months later, I succeeded. Ashley gave herself to me in every way possible. I won. But imagine my surprise when I realized that I had somehow fallen just as hard for her. The revelation hit me hard in the middle of the night, when I woke up beside her and saw her sleeping, curled up beside me. In that moment, at four in the morning, I knew that this woman was something more than just a good lay. She had somehow become my reason for… well, everything. Everything I did was for her, not because she asked it of me, but because I had never known anyone like her, someone who gives all of herself to take care of the people in her life, whose mere presence can monopolize the attention of a crowd and make you believe everything is going to be okay. She was pure. And I was deeply, deliriously, in love with her, more intensely than I had ever loved anyone or anything before her. When she woke, she smiled and looked at me through sleepy eyes.

“Ashley, will you marry me?”

“…Of course I will.”

It was like she’d been waiting for me to ask her for years, as though our marriage was an inevitability that I somehow hadn’t yet acknowledged.

This is the way I remember her. The years have gone by, and her appearance has changed in minor ways associated with maturity and professionality. But these images have stayed with me, burned into my memory, as clear now as they were at that moment in time. Ashley is, without a doubt, the single most beautiful person I have ever known, inside and out. I sometimes think her whole purpose in life is to make other people happy, and to make them feel beautiful. It is a purpose to which she is particularly well-suited.