Among other things I am not an underwear model.
The main reason is that I like chips, recipes that involve lots of sour cream, pasta, pizza and more pasta. All of this is stuff that makes me happy.
Happy and chubby.
At least, it did for a while in my late twenties.
At the time I lived in Suriname, where I enjoyed the perks of being one of the only white Guys in town. Despite a history of slavery and racism generally associated with my pigmentation, people considered my color a delicacy. Enticing a Guy in Suriname was so easy I didn’t pay much attention to my body: In a game of rock, paper, scissors, color trumped shape.
Or so I thought.
Guy #93 could have been an underwear model. He clearly had a lot of gym hours above his belt. He was also clearly disappointed when my clothes came off.
Back when I was still a virgin I felt unattractive and undoable. Most of the 92 Guys I had been with since had elevated my ego to the point I considered myself hot-ish. I knew my abs were subpar, but I also assumed that color trumps abs.
While Guy #93 no doubt appreciated the way my skin lit up the darkness, the skin itself was wobbly, shaky and puffy. I held my breath for good measure, but there’s only so many places fat can go to hide. Besides, I needed that breath as well, for breathing and such.
My date with Guy #93 transpired quickly and without emotion. I could tell I was being pitysexed. Guy #93, beautiful as he was, resented me on some level. And then he started resenting himself.
I’ve had a lot of pity sex in my life. To my knowledge, this was the only time I was the one being pitied.
Although we had some online chats after our date, Guy #93 never showed any interest in meeting up with me again. Occasionally I would see him at our local gay bar, where he would pretend not to know me.
The day after our date I looked at myself in the mirror. I had become a first world problem: It’s impossible to gorge on vanity and chocolate at the same time. Also, doing push-ups sucks the life out of you, especially when you smoke and eat chocolate and like pasta.
For the sake of the story I could say it was in that moment I decided to shape up. In reality, it took me a few months to buy some running shoes, another month or so before I started to run and do some exercise, followed a few weeks later by little changes in my diet.
The reason change came slow was because I still looked pretty lean with my clothes on, chocolate had never tasted better and I guess one could argue my lack of confidence was a factor.
Also, surely I wasn’t the only one who held my breath to look prettier during sex. And push-ups suck the life out of you.
Alright, it was 90% lack of confidence and 10% laziness, which in itself was probably rooted in low self esteem as well. These days people take many pictures of mirrors, but looking into one often proves a bigger challenge.
It has never been my intention to become an underwear model, nor will I ever desire abs as I do food. Guy #93 did inspire me to strike a healthier or at least better looking balance.
These days I actually look kinda hot-ish when I hold my breath.
Relationship summary:
LENGTH: 1 hour
FORMAT: Pity sex
SEX SCORE (0 = German accents <–> 10 = The best sex ever): 6.5
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