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As a teenager, I was convinced I was choosing to be fat because I was too weak, too undisciplined to be thin.

As a teenager, I was convinced I was choosing to be fat because I was too weak, too undisciplined to be thin.

The first time we had sex it was sweaty, and sensual, and hot. But we weren’t alone. Despite all my one-woman pride parade confidence, the male gaze had slipped back into the bedroom, as if for a horrible threesome I’d never asked for.

The way another woman’s body mirrored my own had brought me a sense of comfort before, but here I was with a woman more conventionally attractive than me. By which, of course, I mean she was much thinner. I remember her on top of me. My thumbs ran along her hip bones, whereas mine were buried under flesh and fat. Her breasts were round and pert, but mine were unruly, drooping with weight. Her smooth, flat stomach slid on top of my rolls.