I was 28 years old when I bought my first thong.
Thongs aren’t made for fat girls, said my brain to me, said commercials to my brain, said porn to my ex lovers. Thongs are made to rest between smooth, firm ass cheeks that fit in the palm of a man’s hand. Thongs are not made for this ass, which eclipses light like two moons–like our moon, with all of its craters and dimples and pockmarks.
But I thought to myself, just this once,and I thought to myself, maybe. So I ordered just one thong, size 24, with lemons and watermelons printed on the front and baby blue lace in the back. This is enough lace to cover Julia’s thigh, I thought to myself, but I plucked it carefully from its plastic wrap and slid it gently over my rippling thighs.
And oh, the joy.
How it rested so gingerly on these round pumpkins of ass cheeks, how the fabric followed the curves from hips to rear, how it slid gloriously between the twin moons and rested there, not pulling, not pinching, not painful. How the baby blue lace made the skin look pink and brown and pleasing, with all its dimples and clefts and hollows. How the ass was beautiful not despite itself but because of itself.
I thought for the first time, I own this ass, and it is my own, and the sadder memories started to slip away–the trips to Victoria’s secret, plumbing the XL drawer for the stretchiest pair of panties, so that I didn’t have to wait in line empty-handed while friends bought their bras–the hanky-pankies in the “one-size-fits-alls” that barely covered my forearm. My ass is made for thongs, and this thong is made for my ass, my brain sang out, drowning the sadness in joyful noise.
It took me until 28, going on 29, going on 30, to feel this simple pleasure, when weeks ago, looking at my profile in the mirror, I thought, look how round and perky this ass is. Look at how it rejoices in food and music. Look at how it gleefully bounces when I dance. 28 years and nine months, it took me, to look at this ass and feel the joy rise in me, to feel the smile rise to the lines at the sides of my mouth, the creases at the sides of my eyes. 28 years it took me to see what my husband sees: the glorious globes of my ass, curving and reflecting the light.
My ass is two big, beautiful moons, gently circling the earth to the beat of funk rock; barely encased in leggings and short skirts; barely encased in society’s expectations; breaking the door frames that separate me from you. My ass is a golden goddess holding itself up to the heavens in loving light. My ass is good, and glorious, and framed in the baby blue lace of its very first thong.
And oh, the joy.