My Wife's Body By An Anonymous Husband

My wife, like millions of women in this world, has a poor body self-image. She hates her body, in fact, and never stops beating herself up over her extra pounds, or her veins, or her wrinkles, or countless other aspects of her form.

It has always been thus. A few years back, I found a photo of her that I’d taken a decade ago, when we were first dating. She looked at it sadly, and said, “I’d give anything to be that thin again.”  Stunned, I gave her a wide-eyed stare and replied, “All you did back then was complain about how much you hated how you looked. Just like you do now.” She admitted this was true, and shrugged, knowing that things will probably never change.

I wish, for both our sakes, that things would change. I’ve tried on numerous occasions to get her to see something different when she looks in the mirror, something more in tune with the reality of her body. I’ve begged her to try to see herself through my eyes, or at least to take my word for it when I tell her that she’s gorgeous.

Because she is. My wife is drop-dead, eye-popping, tougue-lolling-out, double-finger-whistling, instant tent-in-the-pants gorgeous. The first time we kissed , I actually got light-headed. When she crawls into bed, naked, I am overwhelmed. Every day, when she gets dressed and undressed, I can’t help but stare, like a schoolboy catching sight of the girl next door through a bedroom window. Sometimes I can’t believe my luck, and wonder how it is that I somehow conned this beautiful, sexy woman into being my wife.

I tell her all this, but my opinion on the matter seems to have little value. Still, it’s the truth: I love my wife’s body. Every fucking square centimeter of it. Even if she never can, I do. And I always will.

So, Wifey, if you are reading this, let me say:

I love your smile, because it is rare, and because it is dazzling. I love the mineral-brown of your eyes, and how they go so perfectly with the deep olive of your mostly-Jewish skin and the sweeping dark of your hair. I love your nose, wry, sarcastic, smart-assed. I love your chin, the ideal size and shape for my cupped hand.

I love your lips, a washed-out watercolor red, stretching so carelessly around some shocking swear word or bit of catty gossip.  I love your neck, muscled, serious.

I love your breasts, and how they hang down, heavy and full, when you are on top of me in bed. I love to let them rest
weightily on my flattened palms, to press them upwards against your chest as you lower yourself towards mine. I love to grip them around the sides like they are dangling fruit, and stroke them up and down, as if warming them up for play.

I love your pale, round, fleshy ass, and how it looks peeking out from beneath your nightgown. I love the contrast between the white skin and black lace on the few occasions you’ve worn those hot panties I bought you. I love the very topmost end of your ass crack, where the thin line fans out like the delta of a north-flowing river to water the smooth, flat plain of your lower back, which I also love.

I love the perfect slope of the little hill between your legs, and the puffy bush of your pubic hair, where I delight in resting my hand, or my head. I love every fold and crease and line of your cunt, the pinks and peaches and browns and reds, the slick of sweat and moisture, the springy curls of almost-black that tangle and pull and stretch.

I love the wide curve of your belly, especially when I have to look up to see it. I love that smile where the cheek or your ass meets the back of your thigh, and constantly want to tuck my hand in there. I love your legs, not fragile girly stems, but the legs of a real woman who has crouched down behind home plate in a little-league game, hiked the Kalalau Trail in Kauai, and yes, kicked a hole in the bedroom drywall when you were particularly angry with me.

I love the top of your head, which I can so easily kiss, because I’m taller than you. I love your feet, even though you almost never wear the cool shoes and boots I buy you. I love how your soles feel to my tongue, and how you pull away when I do that.

But back to your ass. I love, love, love that ass. It really is amazing.

Your body, wife, is magnificent. I must look at it, and hold it, and touch it, and taste it. I want and need it, because it is beautiful. 

And I want you to accept that it is beautiful too.

12 comments:

Anonymous said...

wow... will you marry me? Not really, but really. I'm not that kind of a woman, but you are the best kind of husband. If your beautiful wife can't come to love her own body, at least I pray she appreciates your loving soul. Keep loving her the way you do.

Anonymous said...

What a wonderful, beautifully written tribute to the woman you so obviously love. What a guy! :)

Anonymous said...

Thank you for writing this, for posting it, for sincerely meaning every word. On some level your wife really must know she has an open invitation to accept herself... I second Anon as previously stated, "What a guy!"

Betty Fokker said...

This is ... beautiful.

toni in florida said...

What Betty said. Beautiful.

CkretsGalore said...

Well written and lovely!

Makes me feel guilty because I'm just as bad. Right now I absolutely loathe looking at myself in the Mirror but my fiancee loves to look at me. I say that because he always opens his eyes to take a peep at me in the wee hours while I'm getting dressed.

Vox Senex said...

I have this theory... It is sort of silly to write down, but I swear my wife transforms when we start being sexual. Her very average kinda heavy body changes into this sex goddess, and all the things this guy writes begin to happen.

Vox Senex said...

I have this theory... It is sort of silly to write down, but I swear my wife transforms when we start being sexual. Her very average kinda heavy body changes into this sex goddess, and all the things this guy writes begin to happen.

in bed with married women said...

Vox, your theory may well be true! I was watching a show last night on the science of sexual attraction and they said that women give off a scent in their vaginal lubricant that makes men unable to judge which women are attractive or not. When under the spell of it, they think everyone looks good.

BigLittleWolf said...

What a gorgeous testament to loving the "whole package" - and a reminder that we must do whatever we can to change the way we see ourselves.

Anonymous said...

"a scent in their vaginal lubricant that makes men unable to judge which women are attractive or not."

From the average horny male perspective, this sentence is very nearly self-cancelling.

Also from a logical one. Attraction is an entirely subjective thing. If I am attracted to you, you are by definition attractive. If it's that pheromone at work, so what? You are no less attractive for all that. Better that than a shocking red shade of lipstick and a padded bra, both of which disappear in the heat of the moment, while the pheromone, by contrast, pretty much can only get more intense along with the situation, and is thus self-reinforcing. Win/win.

Back to Anonymous Husband: Well done. A modern Song of Solomon, that. Cheers, mate.

Anonymous said...

That was simply wow! Makes me kiinda understand what my hubby always say. God bless you and I pray your wife sees just how beautiful she really is. Not beauty defined by the World of fashion but how God wanted btw man and wife

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