I say to myself and anyone else who will hear it, I am fucking gorgeous. I’m the shit. Look at her, and her, and all of them. Yep, I’m flyer than every woman walking this planet because I’m bomb ASF and not one person on this earth can be me like me.
I’ve actually said this to people before.
And guess what?
I don’t believe one single word of it.
I mean I used to.
But now, my insecurities sit on me like the bulging waist line I’m sporting these days. The way I view myself changed so slowly that I didn’t even realize it was happening. One day I was walking my 160 lb body around in my six inch stiletto’s, pretty smooth skin, bright eyes, and youthful glow, killing the game.
Now, I’m playing Russian roulette with the scale every morning and battling a beard I picked up as a lovely welcoming gift from the P.C.O.S I suffer from. Not to mention the result of the neglectful decision to not get me glasses, as the school recommended when I was a child, is now manifesting at a greater frequency by way of my roaming eye.
I feel like an Ogre.
But nobody knows this (they do now) because I am always so outwardly confident. I wear the face that the magazines, the television, social media, my friends and everything in between tells me to wear.
Speak it into existence! They all say and then I look around and realize, they all are the young beautiful ones. They aren’t the ones staring at their new 32 year old complexion in the mirror every morning trying to figure out just where in the hell all these skin issues came from. They aren’t the ones struggling to lose the weight and keep it off because the metabolism game is not a fair one. I don’t see any of them having to remember to never run out of razors to keep their beard in check everyday.
Outside, I keep it together because they tell me to.
But at the end of everyday, I have to take the mask off.
All the problems with my body are right there looking back at me in the mirror. The jacked up skin, the extra body fat, crazy eye, all there on full display. I can’t pretend that I love what I see when my reflection is right there.
It’s usually in this moment when my wife comes in the room to find me naked and starts up with me.
She’s a horny toad!
She is always oogling my naked body, touching , kissing and trying to get me in the mood for sex. Let her tell it, she is ready to mount me every time I look at her. Hell, just 3 short years ago we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other.
While she does her best to try and put me in the mood, I cringe on the inside when I think about having sex. I can’t stop imagining what her view must be from the any position. I get self conscious thinking that surely she’s disgusted by the way I jiggle on top of her, how my breasts droop, my five o’clock shadow, but mostly, I wonder how she can stare me in my face when my eyes are going every which a way.
So what do I do?
I tell her I’m sleepy.
I block her touches, her kisses, her attempts at affection because why should she have to endure looking at this mess of a person that I am any more than she already has to.
The dirty 30’s stole my self esteem, sexuality, and confidence.
I did not see this coming.
I should be swinging from poles and having all kinds of nasty, dirty, freak sex with my wife. Goodness knows all she’s waiting on is the green light to attack. I shouldn’t care so much about the things about myself that I cannot change, but I do.
It’s nerve racking.
Just three years ago I was sexy, confident, wild, passionate, little sex freak lover to my wife and now at 32, I wonder what the hell she is still doing with me.
Can’t she see that I’m past my prime and that my expiration date is quickly approaching?
I look at some women taking this aging thing with grace and lot’s of lube and here I am struggling.
I know this can’t and won’t last always and I look forward to the day when I can throw caution to the wind again and be comfortable with being naked, mentally and physically, with her.
How did turning 30 treat you?
Leave a comment down below.