Your Fat Body Deserves Fat Pleasure

"...in fat studies, there is respect for the political project of reclaiming the word fat, both as the preferred neutral adjective (ie., short/tall, young/old, fat/thin) and also as a preferred term of political identity. There is nothing negative or rude in the word fat unless someone makes the effort to put it here; using the word fat as a descriptor (not a discriminator) can help dispel prejudice. Seemingly well-meaning euphemisms like "heavy," "plump," "husky," and so forth put a falsely positive spin on a negative view of fatness" (Wann xii). Fat Studies Reader  I have always been fat. Sometimes 20 kilos less, sometimes 20 kilos more. Through sickness, education, and therapy; my deviant body has made me feel confused, angry, bitter, strong, empowered, radical, and sexy. Yes, I have always been fat. When you live in an oppressed body the work is never done. Sure, you think it is; but then teenagers “moo” at you on the metro and you’re crying into the pommes you bought to “treat yourself” (whatever the fuck that means). So you know what I do? I write, fuck, cry, dance, scream, laugh- I cope. I find my authenticity. My poetry is jumbled, a mix of prose and free form/stream of consciousness, it’s never been hard for me to choose what genre to write in, it’s not like I can control what boxes people put me in anyway. To express myself in sensical fragmented form is how I find harmony. It is both buoyant and stark, hopeful and distraught, sexy and shameful. The contrasts of what I feel for my body, my work. It’s not like anyone could separate us anyway. 

J by studio mimik

Pleasure As Soft As Belly Waves 

Junior Sinclair

The first time a man grabbed my belly during sex I felt myself suck in. 

As if I could     mask the pillow-soft jiggle of my body,

as if I could         paint over the cellulite dimples adorning my temple,

as if I should want to.

Colliding and retracting in pleasant discomfort; 

cascading into the others’ oblivion,             we melt. 

...

Now, I play with myself with the lights on. Use a labia spreader to expose the bits my body spills over, less hands make for more moan. 

How beautiful it is to adjust into pleasure: 

more skin,     more friction,       more lube.         More, me. l

More... more....me.

I position my fat with intention and desire, patiently finding the spots that 

buzz and electrify my body. Light bulb set to magenta; thighs shaking like gum-ball dispenser,

I take in the moment that decorates my body with waves and ripples; 

worshipping finds harmony in every crevice.

... 

I cannot be upset that you don’t know how I work. That you fumble and blush when you touch fat seemingly for the first time. And I know, I know, it is a fault of the cobwebbed standard of beauty that I can’t distinguish between admiration and disgust when you look at my body. Are you pleasantly surprised or utterly bewildered at the fat infatuation you feel for fat me? Maybe if you asked how to touch me. I move your hands and tell you what feels good. I lift my belly and mons for more access and you smile, this was the secret - this anatomical difference. Bodies fold like crooked origami, we rearrange- it works, it fits.

I can’t help but think of myself as a vacation, as collected shells broken in the back pockets of lovers I’ve watched walk away. I forget the trial and error I am, as they go back to their regular, their comfort. I would be lying if I said it never made me sad. But the truth is I’ve learned who I am through these wayward travellers. 

I have learned that desire is within me, that giving in to my lust is a radical act of self-care, of love, 

of passion.

I have learned that my pleasure is expansive 

my fat belly my fat pussy 

my fat 

me. 

...  

J by studio mimik

You know that I call myself fat and smile every time. You never question the labels I put on myself; we know how malleable, yet vital they are. Softness feels like home, like pebble smooth fingertips and moans of consent. You trace the tattoo I have on my back- a stick and poke heart with “mE” in the centre. You ask me and I tell you it’s the only colour tattoo I’ll ever have. Why? I stammer, hesitate, and trace the spit left lying around your lips. I get distracted by the way you pet my double chin; contemplative and joyful like when a child discovers their reflection in a puddle. Because it is the only me there will ever be.

You dance your fingers down my buoyant body, hold my belly with one hand, and tease me with the other. The carnal euphoria I feel when you grab me, lift me, and place a pillow beneath my hips. You ask every time if this is good for me and the only noise I can ever muster is an expulsion of yes and fuck.

When we touch, we erupt like lapping waters on a pebbled shore. Eroding each other into skipping stones, we sink into the abyss and meet at the bottom. How I love to be suffocated by you, your smell and your touch and your spit and your cock and you and you, you. 

... ... 

And I know my work is not done,  that I will have to dig and bury and resurrect parts of myself, again and again. But damn, do I love to be covered in dirt, just to wash it away and know that I will do it all over, tomorrow.