I will not accept that my worth on this earth is based on whether or not you think my fat body is fuckable.
I agree with the sentiment. One of the things I’ve appreciated, as I’ve gotten middle-aged, is that random men seem to feel less of a need to tell me whether or not they find me sexually attractive. It’s a bit more, “Oh, you’re an adult.” (Of course, I’ve been spending a lot of time in nursing homes and hospitals as my father’s next-of-kin, where “middle-aged” really is the defining factor.)
I’d like to think my looks don’t matter. But if I really believed that, would I smile when I approach a barista or bank teller or coworker? I smile as a form of communication. I smile to look more appealing, to ingratiate myself. I’m white, I’m tall, I’m fat, I’m busty. Some of that improves how people view me, some of it doesn’t, but it’s all part of the package. My looks matter a great deal at times.
Since I started this blog I have had a few trolls take the time to tell me I’m not worth fucking. I don’t care. I don’t know them. Why should I care?
At the same time, I usually dress in ways that I find attractive. I flirt. I am pleased down to my toes to have the man of the house whisper that he loves me and lusts me. Being appreciated is nice … but it is not all that I am, and it is not my measure of worth.