It starts the way you imagine or hope it will: a few curious kisses at first, a questioning caress and a look that speaks loudly in the still, summer night. I am abandoning the way I would be and melting into him instead; liquid limbs and giddiness. My heart accelerates and the anxiety begins to envelop me. Where does it end and he begin? I am suffocating as he wraps his arms around me. I am drowning in the darkness he does not know is there.
His hands roam and I shudder not in the sensual way he imagines. He will soon find the me I despise; a body too big trying to hide itself in plain sight. He pulls at my clothing which is reluctant to leave me exposed. I squirm as the truth of me is laid ugly and bare. His fingers find the curves of my ever widening hips and I will them not to reach to my gargantuan thighs. He sighs and looks into my eyes. I am looking back but I see heaviness not heaven. He says I feel amazing and, and, and…The description, adjectives so wrong, run on and on. A contrary list rebuffs him in my mind. I cannot voice what he will not acknowledge. I envision my fat flesh which is not amazing. Not tonight. Not at all.
I am surrendering to a moment that will always be marred by this nagging thought: how long? How long until he sees me for what I am and despises me? How long before he questions everything I believe to be normal in my disordered life? When will he notice the skipped meals, the purged dinners, the ribs that are desperately trying to peek through my layers of lard? When will he rail against the demons that hold me captive? When will he understand he cannot save me from myself or them or slow starvation? And when he does discover the disappearing me, how long will I have left to retreat from him so that he cannot reach me?
It all ends the same way eventually: alone. It is meant to be.