I am the owner of what one might politely refer to as a "large posterior" or, if you’re less polite, a "massive arse." Growing up friends with a group of girls who all could easily slip into a UK 6 pair of snakeskin trousers while I was pushing an 18 was not GREAT, but it didn’t seem that bad. I liked who I was. I was happy.
Until I was about 15, drinking White Lightening (really cheap, massive bottles of strong cider. Gets you completely cunted.) in a car park in the summer holidays with my friend Amy.
We’d probably been out for a couple of hours, and were on our way to the next "venue" -- another park somewhere until the police inevitably moved us all on. I was drunk, as usual, unsteady on my feet with my vest top rising up above my white, wobbly tummy. It was dark, and the lights of the stationary cars -- the drivers smoking weed and listening to drum and bass -- beamed into the centre of the car park.
I stumbled and fell flat on my face onto the concrete. Fail! Guys in cars were older, and cool, and needed to be impressed! My bag vomited its contents and I scrambled about trying to hide my tampons and mend my Bourjois eye shadow quartet which had smashed into smithereens.
As I leaned to throw my belongings back into my bag, I bent over, arse-first directly into the spotlight of one car’s headlights. BEEP BEEP. Shouting.
What are they saying? I’m drunker than I thought, I feel like I’m underwater. I looked at Amy, who looked at the floor. I heard laughter.
“Hey fatty boom boom! Hey fatty boom boom!”
Fuckers. I feel the pricking of tears and a wave of nausea as I remember that I’m not thin and pretty. The booze fog lifts. I’m suddenly sober, and I hate myself.
That moment, something changed. I wasn’t just a bit bigger than my friends -- I was someone that people laughed at, and shouted at, called fat in the street. My arse had let me down. I spent all night in Amy's bedroom crying my mascara all over my blotchy red face. My relationship with my booty had been damaged.
Over the next few years, my weight yo-yoed dramatically after a chronic illness. Even when I lost 4 stones in weight and actually ended up borderline THIN, I still saw myself as that girl who stacked it in the car park.
And I never lost my number one enemy, my big old bum. It just WOULD NOT GO, even as my tits did a disappearing act. (Why does that always happen? I wanted to keep them!)
My wide load was here to stay, no matter how thin I got. I needed to ACCEPT my arse. I needed to spend quality time with it, learn to love it, forget that it had let me down so badly all those years before. I needed arse therapy.
My therapy arrived when I was 21. I was bigger again, predictably, and hadn’t worn trousers for three years. If you really hate your bum, you’ll understand -- nothing invokes fear as much as shopping for jeans. Not when you can wear dresses which gently skim your behind, not exposing quite how big it actually is! It’s all smoke and mirrors, babe.
I’d gatecrashed a party, downed pints of wine with the hostess and met Chris. We started going out a while after. I say this, but really, he and my arse started going out. I’ve never known obsession like it. It was strange, I didn’t understand at all -- WHY would he like it? It’s MASSIVE! It doesn’t fit in jeans! But he bloody loved it.
And so I learned, a tiny bit at a time, to grow to accept it. Undoing years of insecurities wasn’t easy, but it happened. He actually likes it so much that for his birthday last year, he asked for his present to be me, in the shower, pouring milk over my naked arse whilst booty popping. TMI doesn’t exist in my vocab, sorry!
Four years on -- there’s no stopping me getting it out. I’m basically a nudist. I love nothing more than prancing about in our house, kecks off, in all my wobbly glory, treating the neighbours to a full moon.Running along the beach at midnight on holiday, completely starkers and laughing uncontrollably was heaven.
NAKED IS GOOD! NAKED IS FUN! Let’s ALL get our big, fat arses out and shake them together! Surely there is no better feeling than not wearing clothes?
Have you managed to overcome hating a certain body part? How? Should I put some clothes on? Please don’t make me.
Natalie is naked tweeting over at @Natalie_KateM, and probably posting pics!