This piece was inspired by a discussion about shame, particularly the shame women often feel about their bodies.

There’s this moment, when he looks at me.  I live for those moments, as rare as they are.  In that kernel of sand in the universe of time, he sees me. Or, doesn’t see me.

When he looks at me, the second before he takes my face in his hands, before our mouths and our lust collide – in that moment, I am free.

I forget to obsess about whether my lipstick has faded. I stop worrying about whether my foundation is still covering my hideous scars.  I forget to fret about my undone nails, the softness of my belly (despite the occasional crunches I do), the extravagance of my thighs.

I don’t remember that I didn’t put on mascara to hide my paltry eyelashes.  I’m no long concerned about the shape of my nose or the blotchiness of my skin.  I’ve forgotten that my ass is unremarkable, that my jawline is weak. I don’t remember to hold my head tilted slightly up to hide the unsubstantiality of my chin.

When he looks at me, he sees me.  Well, not me.  Not the girl who lights up when her favorite band drops a new single, not the girl who has lost an entire day delving into arcane history.  He doesn’t see the girl who just wants to be held, the dreamer of love, the empath.  He doesn’t see the loyal friend.  He certainly doesn’t see the girl who would love every piece of him if he would just open the door the tiniest of cracks.  No, he doesn’t see me.

But, he doesn’t see me.  He doesn’t see scares or makeup or thighs or noses.  He sees passion and lust, nothing more , nothing less.

In that moment when he looks at me, I forget all these things.  I forget everything but the anticipation, his hands on mind, the delicious luxuriousness of what’s to come.

In that moment when he looks at me, I forget to hate myself for not being perfect.