But for my grade-school self, this just inspired feelings of shame and defiance.
I wanted to enjoy my treat in peace for once, rather than be reminded yet again how I already had trouble finding clothes that fit.
When he asked me up to his room, I said no — because we were both drunk — and he agreed this was a good idea.
The next day, however, I was getting enough mixed signals from my own brain to realize something was wrong.
In my memory, the woman’s bottom was so large the stool looked too small for her, and her bright, pink top showed off every roll.
“Be careful,” the family friend said, gesturing toward the woman. The woman, who was already brave enough to wear an eye-catching top, had to have heard our friend implying that her body was disgusting.
Excellent kisses weren’t enough of a reason to go fuck someone, I kept telling myself.
I only started meeting people who I didn’t think were completely annoying after high school, so admittedly I was new to fuzzy feelings.
Until then, I’d had sex simply to prove that I could, and I’d fucked people who had washboard abs or were Anne-Rice-vampire-pretty because I wanted to defy every message I’d gotten that told me like could only fuck like.
But with Devin, I finally started to listen to myself, instead of what was perceived as “ugly” or “pretty.” We didn’t fuck each other out of pity, or because we thought we couldn’t do better.
He was also overweight to the degree where he might have had trouble finding clothes even in the big and tall stores.
Being the smart guy he was, Devin put the pieces together before I did, and made out with me for a good 10 minutes during the drunken aftermath of a college party.