How to Date and Have Sex When You Hate Your Body: a Convo on Confidence & Consent Pt. 1

Content warning: Unhealthy eating habits, self-esteem issues

[When I created this blog, I used pictures of my body, but I cut out my face and any super identifying markings. This was intentional because I didn’t necessarily want this to be about me, I wanted it to be about the disabled body and the sexual experiences around it. I cannot stress the importance of representation. If just one person recognizes themselves in my pictures or my stories, then I have done what I have set out to do.]

TL;DR I hate myself, but my sexual partners would never knew it because I’m cute af (<—faking it but you didn’t know that until I said something).

You know what no one ever talks about? The fact that the concept of consent and disability are intrinsically linked. I plan on talking about consent A LOT and how as a disabled woman I often forget how my consent matters just as much as the next person’s. I have been in some pretty uncomfortable sexual situations because I don’t feel comfortable asserting consent. But I’ll save that for part 2 of this post. This one is about self-esteem.

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I might have all the lingerie in the world and the odds of my pussy being somewhere on the internet are high, very high (I used to need a lot of validation. Don’t judge me). But I still hate my body. Hate isn’t even a strong enough word: I loathe my body. There are four things about my outer appearance that I find exceptional (unironically these happen to be the only parts of myself that my disability hasn’t touched) and those would be my eyes, hair, hands, and pussy. One of those I can’t exactly lead with on a first date.

My generation has made the Kim Kardashian/IG body THE body of the 2010s and beyond. I can’t watch one show without seeing at least one woman that has had breast implants and or face work done. This is disheartening when an “average” looking person is inundated with this sight. It’s enough to want to make you crawl into a hole when you look like me. And I know I’m not a troll. Conversely, I also know I’ll never walk into a room and astound people with my beauty. After all, for the most part my beauty is a slow burn; only those that know me see it.

Despite my remarkably low self, the first thing that my sexual partners always say to me is that they love my confidence. They have no idea that if I’m not leaving the house I tend to avoid looking into the mirror because that way I don’t have to get reminded of how disabled I am. Or that I overeat constantly to the point of feeling sick on the off chance that I can put on a few pounds and not look so skinny. I lead with my personality which is my saving grace. I knew at like eleven years old I was never going to be “pretty” and would have to overcompensate in other areas of my life. Guys I have sex with don’t know that I struggle with being naked in front of them because I meet them at the door in lacy ass lingerie (Savage X Fenty doesn’t have one bralette that doesn’t look great on my itty bitty titties, just sayin’) or nothing at all. I have figured out what clothes look best on my body. I know how to take a sexy photo and who to send it to when I need to be made to feel good about myself.

Like most things in life, confidence is one of those things where you have to FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT. I have had more guys than I have ever imagined wanting me and that sure as hell wouldn’t be the case if they knew how I thought of my body. So, if you want to date and you want to have sex, but you don’t know who would be willing just put yourself on the line like your shit don’t stink and people will flock to you.

I needed to talk about self-esteem today because as I start to go into detailed accounts about the guys, I have been with you’re going to ask yourself why I waste time on such undeserving people. There’s not necessarily a straightforward answer to that. I have a really complex relationship with my body. Aside from doing everything I can to keep this vessel for my soul alive I don’t actually care about my body. It’s a fucking prison. Interestingly enough, I would not be who I am without having a life sentence in this prison.

Anyway, it’s easy to give your body away when you don’t care about it. Which leads me into part 2 of this post: consent. Subscribe to get notified when that post comes out or just check in regularly.

Moral of the story for you: The best thing you can do for yourself is learned to fake your way through life. Maybe don’t fake orgasms. And maybe don’t be as fake as Jay Gatsby. But ALWAYS fake confidence.

Moral of the story for the non-disabled reader: Nothing really. I thought long and hard; this post and the corresponding one are really not for you at all. Sorry not sorry.