Unearthed

I was just going through some old writings. Seeing if anything aligned enough with my current pursuits to include in a portfolio. Nothing did. Though I found some interesting stories I had almost forgotten about. This one is from way back, probably about three or four years ago. But I’ve written about bodies here before, and I must have been in some kind of good mood when I wrote this. So here’s a little flashback for your amusement (or disgust):

I suppose everyone finds at least one thing about their own bodies that disgusts them. Or something about someone else’s body. But there is one perfect person in the world. The person is your lover, and the imperfections are what makes your lover perfect. This is how it should be. How it’s always been for me.

When I fall in love, all the imperfections add up to beauty. A flat ass. Body hair. Stretchmarks. Birthmarks. The honking sound a nose makes at least once an hour during allergy season. These are things that might repulse me coming from anyone else. But when I’m in love, they endear me. Things like the mixture of deodorant and perspiration wafting from an underarm drive me crazy.

I’m in love, and I feel like I’ve found religion. I’m not an idolater because the very bodies I worship have come to me directly from the hands of God. I love my own body, I love my lover’s body, and when we meet, we meet in celebration and praise of our own imperfections. I take my lover in my arms intending to make every pore feel beautiful.

I never mind a human smell if it comes from myself or from my lover. I love my natural sweats, my deodorant sweats, the musky scent of my nether-fluids and my foot stink. I find comfort in the sweaty underwear smell that we wash our faces in. I love the dragon-breath in the morning, and I can’t say I don’t giggle when I hear that air escape, preceding an “excuse me.” We are animals, after all.

I pass strangers on the street whose bodies disgust me. Tits too big, too small. Oily skin, saggy buns. Potbellies, lovehandles, hair where it shouldn’t be. Man-breasts, double chins, baldness. I pass these strangers and their disgusting parts, and I look at myself in the dark glass of some window. I’m not any different or any less disgusting but for one thing. I celebrate the beauty of some imperfection rather than dismiss it on the basis of its lack of society’s subjective allure. Beauty is not only skin deep, but it is partially, and falling in love helps me find beauty in more unlikely places.

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