Dear lover,

I can’t remember the exact question you asked or how we got to talking about this, but in that moment it became so clear.

You were lying there with your head in my lap, the darkness of the night opening our hearts. My red wine glass was resting forgotten on the table, because my right hand was in yours while my left played with your hair.

And I didn’t lie to you when I told you my answer: my last relationship didn’t end sexless. It wasn’t something we stopped doing – it was something I did for him.

But the truth is – and it hit me in my heart – is that I gave my body away.

I did it out of love; easily and without thinking a second thought about myself.

I did it for love; the love I was starving for but you could feed me every minute of every day and I’d never feel full.

Because I never thought I was worthy of love.

After all the world taught me about the perfection that’s expected of women, my imperfect body meant nothing to me. You might think I had gone numb, but it was more than that. I disconnected, voted her off the island, and never even heard her cries or wisdom or care anymore.

And I would feel so confused when I tried to figure out if it was because of the struggles my body went through or because we weren’t the right fit. Either way I didn’t think I was worthy of saying no. Afraid of what might happen, wanting so badly to be loved, I let my body go and spread my legs to be taken.

Now, I don’t fault him in the least. He took it hungrily, but with all the love in his heart, the perfect combination of lust and love, hoping it would fill that emptiness within himself. And it made me happy to give it to him.

But when I said it to you, dear new lover, after the way you’ve treated me and my body, the impact of what I had given away hit me.

Realizing, reeling, from what I had done, the tears slowly rolled down my face.

My body. MY body. My body.

As if it didn’t matter. As if it didn’t desire. As if it didn’t feel. As if it didn’t know what was going on. As if it wasn’t trying to tell me all along. As if it wasn’t of value.

All those times he had sex with me I was losing myself. Slowly. Splintering myself into pieces and giving sacred parts of myself away with every penetration. Ignoring the voice in me that tried to say I mattered more. Denying myself the worth to say no, or yes to what I really wanted.

Because I LOVED him. Deeply and truly. That I could, and will, never deny.

Yes was the only answer.

So I remember moments. I remember him feeling me. The desire, the want, the hunger. And I felt… nothing. Empty. My body was not mine in those moments.

But I thought that care, that love, that hunger, that aliveness, that desire, that feeling could rub off with every push he made inside of me.

I would always lie there afterwards, wondering if I’d ever feel full.

“I shouldn’t feel this way.”
“I LOVE him. As much as I have ever loved another human, and then some.”
“It was really really good once, it can come back.”

But the more I tried to feel, the deeper he thrust, the tighter I felt, and the more I let myself, my self, go.

I was too afraid of him leaving me to say no. Afraid of what saying no really meant. Not knowing how to say yes to myself. So I didn’t say anything at all.

And I don’t regret it. I gladly gave myself to him and was happy to let him love me.

It wasn’t even that I let him – it was more than that. I wanted him to take me.

Please, use my body.
Here, enjoy my body.
I dare you, love my body.

Because God knows I don’t.

I wanted to be loved.
I wanted to be wanted.
I wanted to not be left.

More than I wanted my own body.
More than I honoured my own desires.
More than I listened to my own soul.

My heart aches for the weight this puts on the world.

So I didn’t really cry for just me, dear lover, but I felt the sorrow of my sisters. The countless women around the world, whose bodies haven’t been wrongly taken from them, but that are given away. Because these women don’t necessarily hate their body, it’s much worse. They’re indifferent. Apathetic. Not believing in their worth or their wanting. The empty, lifeless bodies before their heart stopped beating.

Now that I hear my body, she wept at the knowing that she couldn’t be the only one.

So I stripped down because I wanted your bare chest against my back. I wanted the burning between us. I wanted to be held. With your heart and with your hands. I wanted the fierce tenderness you’ve always shown me.

You, my dearest lover, made me realize all this. You’ve shown me a new way of being. One I crave.

Real and raw and naked. Pure feeling. The simple, unspoken understanding of mutual adoration.

But I’m healing. Still learning that the brokenness I’ve given a home in my body since I was a little girl was a lie.

I’m slowly nurturing my own needs, listening to my longings, letting my body want and do the talking, and as she opens herself up to be taken care of and satisfied with thrusts… instead of given away.

There are old habits and I feel like an old dog sometimes.

Like always putting your pleasure above my own.
Like wanting to make sure you’re always satisfied for fear of you leaving me.
Like believing sex doesn’t have to be a give and take reciprocal engagement.

So when I ask you to go slow it’s because there have been hundreds of hits and I’m learning to let go of the tightness I’m holding onto there. Before I would’ve easily disconnected, floated above my body, and let him dig deeper into where it hurt me as I stifled myself.

But with you, I want to feel it all, breathing into my being. And I thank you for both teaching me and letting me lead.

You’ve let me relax into you. And in your presence I’ve become radiant – oozing, juicy, and full. Body and beyond.

Here you are, coveting her, listening and letting me express my messiest self, just holding me as I cry. It means more than any orgasm you’ve given me.

Dear lover, my body is mine. But I want to share her with you.

Nakedly yours,
The girl in your arms