Helleanor Rigby writes a blog over at theOMGspot.com. She is incredibly funny and sweary, and she’s here to tell you some intimate truths about her body, and discovering her sexual identity. If you like it, follow her on Twitter, and I know that no vague intro from me is going to do it justice, so here she is…
Now for the empowering part
My naughty narrative begins as many do: I was strapped in a chair, knees bent high and wide, waxed wahoo splayed for all to see. And then my 80-ish-year-old physician rammed a pair of icy forceps up my cooter and murmured, “Well, this doesn’t look good.”
Ok, let me level with you. Some sections of my story aren’t sploosh-worthy. But just because I’m not cock-slapping you with masturbatory material in this initial thrust doesn’t mean you should put away your fondling finger just yet! I have no plans to blueball y’all.
And with that for foreplay, let me tell you the tale of how I transformed from a hottie to a sex-chasing hairy heffalump, in three acts.
That old guy had his tool up my twat about three years ago. My libido had tanked, and I wanted to know why. I figured my man had zoned out after a few years of marriage, but as he desperately wants me to mention now, the problem wasn’t him or his penis. The sticky wickets were a life-threatening thyroid tumor and an affliction known as poly-cystic ovarian syndrome, and the combination of the two conditions meant that I was fucked, and certainly not literally.
I’m sure some doctor could explain better what all these maladies entail, but for time’s sake, let me give you a rundown of the more salient points:
- I grew a beard.
- I lost my head hair.
- I ballooned up like a bloated badger left on the roadway, gaining a grand total of 130 pounds.
- Depression tried to kill me. And because being hospitalized for trying to swallow all my pills wasn’t enough, I also endured balls-to-the-wall anxiety.
- I shat myself. Over and over again. I pooed myself in the market, in the car, at a wedding, while watching TV, and at least twice while having a hump. Yes. I’ve shit myself during sex.
Turned on yet?
Didn’t think so. Moving on.
I now weigh 283 pounds and wear a size 3X. I don’t care how horny Twitter is for the hashtag #effyourbeautystandards. I don’t have a preponderance of people tripping over their tongues to tell me how wet and/or hard I make them.
Instead, strangers moo at me. Acquaintances assume I’m pregnant. I once was forwarded an article about how my beef curtains were “too” beefy, and I had to ask my husband if he thought it looked like I’d been using a sausage gravy douche down there. For the love of liposuction, my own mother called me on my birthday and offered to pay for me to visit the weight loss ranch operated by the reality TV show, “The Biggest Loser.”
But I don’t need society, strangers, or my mother to tell me I’m fat. I own a mirror. And when I look in it, I don’t see cysts or tumors or medical conditions. Instead, I see every single thing that makes me a sexual charity case. I see someone only worthy of the accolade, “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”
If you weren’t limp and/or dusty dry before, then I bet now you’re all like, “Um, Helleanor? I come here to wank off, not wallow in other’s pity. What the fuck does this have to do with fucking? This *is* a sex blog, fyi.”
I know. I’m obese, not dumb. But for some of us, fucking is difficult. When you’re as heavy and as sick as I am, it’s problematic to get the p in the v.
Finding my vagina underneath all those fat flaps is like a scavenger hunt without the fun clues. My arm strength is akin to a chihuahua’s, except that ankle biter can hold itself up for doggie style. And being on top? My clit wishes. I can barely survive fried chicken Friday without losing my breath, so if I want my heart to continue beating, I can’t spare the energy to bounce up and down on my man’s baloney pony.
For years, I’ve been promising that poor guy some anal action. But my medicine makes me shit myself with no warning. So pardon me, sir, if I don’t let you fuck my tookis. I would rather NOT poop on your penis… again.
And there. You’ve survived Part Two. Now for the empowering part.
This is where I (hopefully) combat some doubts, kill a few fears, and maybe point you in the direction of a dirty deed or two. While I don’t expect that every one of you defecate your drawers, I do suspect that some of y’all have encountered a scenario that has left you heavier, hairier, or less happy.
I bet a few of your brains have buzzed with the following thoughts: “I wouldn’t fuck me. Why would anyone else fuck me? I don’t even deserve fucking.”
Let’s address these lies, shall we?
If you own a vibrator or a right hand, you should fuck yourself. End of story.
But maybe you’re a one-armed prude who can’t afford a vibrator. Good news: There are people out there who will fuck you because you are fucking awesome. You’re reading GOTN, so you’re obviously interesting and badass. Someone out there finds you simply orgasmic.
Maybe you have someone(s) but you neglect nookie because you can’t silence the inner critic who hollers, “You can’t let him go muff diving! That bush that you haven’t gotten waxed because you’re too fat for the salon? It might go all Devil’s Snare on the poor bastard, and Hermione won’t be there to cast the right spell! Also, there’s no telling whether today is the day your stomach will rise up and smother that man as he’s kissing your coochie.”
Sweetie, I guarantee that your pubic hair isn’t a black magic plant, and your abdomen isn’t capable of asphyxiating your lover. I know. I did a Google search.
Now that we know cunnilingus doesn’t kill, let’s address the broader point: you deserve sex.
Hitler? Darth Vader? Donald Trump? They all got some. Hell, even Voldemort had that snake. If those douchecanoes were okay enough with themselves to lust and thrust, then you certainly should. You didn’t commit genocide, invent the Dark Side, or give the okay to the world’s worst toupee. You just changed your appearance.
And that’s all you did. My husband is the best thing to happen since banana splits, kittens, and the entire cast of Magic Mike, and after I gained the weight, I was befuddled as to why he still wanted a taste of my love taco. Then he told me: He loves me, I have a working vagina, and I let him jizz in it. In short, your weight/hair growth/ pants-shitting didn’t render your giggleberry unbangable.
Now that we’ve covered that people fuck you for reasons beyond the number on the scale, that fucking doesn’t kill, that even shitty people get fucked, and that your fucking parts still fuck, let’s move on to my final point.
You can fuck like a fucking pro, y’all.
So you can’t contort into every Kama Sutra position. Anybody who boasts such a skill should be forced to prove their claim with Donald Trump as their fuck-buddy. What you CAN do is buy a bondage kit, get a whip, or order up some anal beads. Find a sturdy sex swing. Go get that threesome you’ve wanted. Hell, do that whole spit roasting thing, if that’s your jam.
If that’s too much for you, though, I understand.
After three years of fluctuating self-confidence, I know that discovering your new sexual identity is like sword swallowing: a skill you must master in stages. Before you deep-throat all the big stuff, you have to learn the basics of a sex life, one of which is acknowledging that you deserve one.
And you do.
So, go get it.
And if, like me, you really worry about how to make your spontaneous defecation and obesity sexy, let me leave you with this advice: Some people actually get turned on by adult diapers, and if you run out of lube, butter is an effective and delish substitute.
(NOTE: I wrote from the perspective of a straight, cis-gendered, obese woman. I’m aware that people of all orientations, sexes, sizes, etc. struggle with similar issues. Nothing I wrote was meant to exclude any of y’all. I want every last one of you to get porked good.)