I smoothed down the black silk over my full hips, noting the high slit. Good for movement and enticing without being trashy, I decided. The lace had held up well in storage, those months this slip had spent in a kind of time-out, awaiting a weight loss that would allow it to fit again. I adjusted the straps and made sure my breasts lined up in a logical way with the bust area.
“Not bad,” I said, looking in the mirror. “Sexy, even.”
I smiled and walked into the living room, where my girlfriend was splayed out on the couch.
I posed for her, smiled.
“I wish I had your confidence,” she said.
And like that, my heart was in my throat. I’d been cut down from a place where I felt beautiful, radiant, to one where… I felt bold. But not in a good way. I was doing something reckless. I was parading around in skimpy clothes above a certain BMI.
I was a fool.
I reached for her to drown out the voices of my own insecurity, knowing that pleasuring her would eclipse the self-loathing that was quickly unfolding in my head. I would achieve something selfless, something beautiful.
Later, when she was gasping beside me, and we were both exhausted, I thought to myself, when you wish for my confidence, you wish it away.