Exercise is all about sex. Well, not entirely. There is a not inconsiderable part of me that wants to get in shape to fit into clothing better — clothing is not made for chubby people — and to defend myself against the violent blunderings of Ford Nation. But there’s another, probably stronger, part that just wants better sex. Just to be clear, I call that part my penis.
After six weeks, I’m already seeing improvements in my sex life. I’ve lost about 14 pounds so far, which is enough for my boyfriend to notice, and he frequently grabs my butt possessively while making satisfied animal noises. These compliments cause my confidence to rocket. Which causes my rocket to rocket, too. To be clear, my rocket is my penis.
Obviously, he was also attracted to me when I was chubbier, but he supports my efforts to get into better shape — in a very “this is something important to you, so I support you” sort of way, rather than a “you need to lose weight, you bulging dirigible” way — and my changing body is an exciting new experience for him.
My increasing physical strength also helps with sexy times. My boyfriend is quite slim, and when we’re rolling around in bed, it’s nice to be able to reach down with one arm, lift him and just move him to where I need him to be, rather than awkwardly muttering, “Can you scooch over? Just scooch? Yes, just over there! Fine, good enough.”
We’re also making plans for when I’m a bit stronger. One involves bench-pressing him; I’m not sure how that constitutes sex, but I’m sure we’ll figure something out. The other is lifting him into my arms while standing and just sliding into him. Clearly, the slide-y part is my penis.
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