Image by the fabulous Stuart F Taylor
Note that this blog contains references to weight and body image including weight loss injections. Last week I wrote about these drugs in a rantier post, but there’s something softer and warmer that didn’t quite fit inside that one, so I also wrote this. The guy who features here has given me consent to write it, and in fact when I asked if I could write about Mounjaro his first question was “I assume the context is: get to see this hot dude pull a range of different shapes and personas?”. He knows me so well.
One of the most incredible things about him, in my opinion, was his hugs. The way he’d wrap his big arms around me and pull me into a deep, long cuddle. Like being enveloped with love.
I loved the weight of him on top of me when we fucked. Loved grabbing the meat of his arse when I walked past him in the kitchen. Wrapping my legs around him on the sofa and feeling him so heart-meltingly, solidly there.
His body is smaller now. Much smaller. Small enough that the numbers on the charts aren’t red and his t-shirts are ‘M’ and importantly, he is delighted. He struts from room to room in his pants, occasionally running his hands down over his stomach and chest, noting with amazement that he can discern individual ribs.
He’s beautiful too, as he was back then. It’s a different kind of beauty. The tactile fluffy stomach is gone – now he’s lost weight the hair grows in a tighter, silkier pattern. I run my fingertips down it, tell him he feels like an otter, and he laughs.
His legs are slimmer, too. Riding his dick takes on a different tone because I’m sitting much lower in the saddle. Not that I get to go on top often, he’s always preferred to take the lead, flipping me onto my back and charging full-depth inside before I even get the chance to work up a sweat.
He sweats less nowadays. I miss that. I used to love licking the droplets from his forehead, post-fuck, when he was lying on top of me with his spent dick gently going flaccid in my cunt.
I miss his soft flesh, too. Pressing my face to his stomach and feeling it smoosh against my cheeks.
I miss the way it would feel to sit between his legs, my back cushioned by his broad stomach and chest and his arms curving solidly around me so he could roll a joint on the squishy shelf of my tits.
I miss feeling small beside him. I’ve been lifting weights and doing squats so as he’s been getting smaller, I’ve grown bigger. He’s at least 3 inches taller than me, but nowadays we tip almost exactly the same weight on the scales. I love how delighted he is to learn this.
I love, too, how proud he is of his new, lighter, easier-to-live-inside body. Because that’s what this is about, right? He wants to live happily inside his body. It doesn’t matter what the exact shape of that body is, it matters how much he smiles, and swaggers, and runs his hands approvingly over his flesh.
I miss the bigger version of him, I loved it very much. But I love this version too: different beauty, still incredibly compelling. Each new detail is a teeny little gift – something shiny to look at and touch and kiss and compliment and enjoy.
He has a small trio of moles on one side of his tummy, I have always loved those. They’re slightly closer together these days than they used to be, but the angles of the triangle they form are exactly the same as they were. They are still fun to trace with a fingertip, or my lips. Or to watch him spray cum on when I’m lucky enough to get to watch him wank.
His hugs are still one of the most incredible things about him, in my opinion. He wraps his lean arms around me and envelops me with love, even though there’s less of him to physically do the enveloping.
He smells exactly as good as he used to, even though he doesn’t sweat much any more. His weight on top of me still feels fucking incredible. His newfound confidence means I get to see more of him, more often. Each tiny change – from the biceps that have surfaced as the fat melts away to the hair growth pattern on his newly discovered rib cage – is just one more excuse to remember what I loved, be grateful I got to experience it, and rejoice that I get to rediscover this facet all over in its current state. Like holding a diamond up to the light: each side casting a brand new rainbow.
Every time I see him, he has changed. And in the new shape of his body I see echoes of the ghosts of bodies he inhabited in the past: squishy, shy, confident, playful, happy, sad, excited, wistful.
All different. All beloved.
He’s happier now – that’s what matters. He’s pleased with his body in a way I only saw fleeting glimpses of before. Those bursts of confidence that had him walking into my office in his pants, grabbing his junk like it was a prize he was about to award me… those happen multiple times a day, nowadays. He takes great delight in wearing new ‘looks’, as well. Experimenting with outfits and accessories in a way he never used to. In reviewing this blog post before publication, he eagerly explains that he’d like me to include this: the joy he now finds in playing dress-up. “There were looks that I couldn’t ‘do’ before, clothes that I couldn’t wear because I felt silly. Now I can try out those looks. Experiment. Get to have a teenage revolution of being my own person and choosing how I want to express myself all over again.”
He enjoys his body, plays with new clothes, touches himself with confidence. He looks in the mirror with the face of a man who would shag his own shadow if physics allowed. Then he takes this body he’s so proud of, and uses it to fuck me like he means it.
This isn’t just incredible because I get horny slag benefits, though. It’s incredible because when I tell you ‘he’s happier’, I don’t simply mean that his mood has improved. I mean that just as his body’s changing shape has allowed him to inhabit brand new vessels, so he’s able to inhabit brand new versions of himself too.
We discuss this one night, on his balcony at two in the morning. He tells me he’s always felt like his internal self-image doesn’t match the exterior. He’s spent life feeling small and lithe and nippy, then looking in the mirror with shock when he sees a sexy giant staring back. Nowadays his reflection feels more like himself. The new ways he moves aren’t just down to confidence, they’re more akin to comfort. Matching. Looking the way that he feels brings a physical satisfaction that is little to do with what other people think and everything to do with himself.
“I knew that I was sexy – you loved me and made that very clear. Sexy was never a problem. I was a big, beautiful bear and I felt hot in that state. I embraced it. I could look in the mirror and say ‘oh yeah, that’ll do – I can see why someone finds that attractive’, but it still wasn’t the ‘me’ that I felt inside. I couldn’t make myself shorter, but I could make a change on another axis, and it has shocked me how much impact that change has had. Both ‘me’s are sexy, but the one in the mirror these days is closer to the ‘me’ that I see in my mind.”
I will always love the past copies of this man. I can scroll through my memory and conjure them, each standing behind a different version of me – bending me over and fucking me facing a mirror. I recall so many iterations of the pair of us doing exactly this, watching each other and ourselves as we tense and rail and wobble and shake and make filthy, grinning eye-contact as we enjoy the show. I will love the next version of him for brand new reasons that I itch to explore and discover.
I love turning up to see him once every few weeks and getting to fall in love with him one more time. The same will be true in reverse, if these things change back: the joy of rediscovering a soft tummy or a broader hug, running my fingers down a sweaty back when we’re fucking. Smacking his arse with that satisfying thwack.
This is not about him getting the ‘ideal’ body or a ‘better’ body, he has his own reasons for wanting to change it, and those reasons are none of my business. My business is to support and love him on this journey, as he discovers new ways for his body to be, and I have so much fun doing that – it is the easiest and most joyful thing in the world. I feel privileged to meet all these different versions of him. More models to understand and enjoy. More and more people to love.
As a general rule I try not to comment on other people’s bodies, especially when those comments focus on weight, which is such an emotive issue. I’m making an exception – about a specific person who I know and love deeply, with his express consent and input – only so I can illustrate what I mean when I tell you that I will love his body no matter its shape or size. The notion that there’d be any type of body he’d turn up in that I wouldn’t immediately want to bury my face in is laughable.
It upsets me that people usually say this kind of thing when someone’s gained weight, but rarely the other way round, as if getting bigger is something that demands comforting words and reassurance, where the other does not. As if one thing is good and one bad.
There is no such thing as ‘bad’ when it comes to the body of someone who is truly loved.
I think this kind of statement is often written off as a platitude. Like no one could ever really feel this way, they’d always have a preference for one shape or the other.
But it’s not a platitude – I mean it. With my whole heart. This is what that looks like to me.
My body loves his body. It is not conditional. My body loves his body when either one of those is fat or thin or strong or weak or awake or sleeping. Riddled with flu or gassy or stoned or drunk. I love his body when it’s hard and tense and trembling just before a fuck, as I love it when it’s lying exhausted on the bed once we’re done. I love his body in jeans or thigh highs or a sexy coat or naked. I touch his body and I breathe in the scent of him and I cannot remember a day of my life when this love has not thrummed in the background. Even before I met him, the anticipation of this future love – the body of someone like him, in any form – consumed my every day.
I’m not sad that his body is different, nor am I worried it might one day change back. I thirst for each and every change, no matter which path they take, as I simultaneously revel in the details that stay the same. There’s too much I love about now to consider the future, and too much I’ll love about the future to waste time fighting for the past.
I love his body because of the person inside it, and that love is not measured in units of mass, like butter or moon rocks or the luggage you pay extra for on Ryanair.
The love I have for his body has nothing to do with the number of atoms it’s made from: I will be an addict for this body until the day my own is ready to rot.
Note: you should never feel obliged to change your body, especially not for someone who loves you. You deserve to be loved without caveats or demands that you look a certain way, and that is part of what I’m trying to illustrate here. You do not need to take any drugs, or stop taking any drugs, to please someone who truly loves you for who you are.
