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Is Science the Reason why Plumpy Chunky Monkeys like Sex? Or are we all mad?: “My orgasm was so good that I forgot I was fat”

First person piece by undergraduate student Tiana Chan

June 05, 2018

I’m fat. I don’t remember not being fat and I don’t think I’ll ever not be fat. If you’re sensitive to this F-bomb then I’ll change it up for you: my thighs are thick, my stomach is round, my arms are flabby; I’m a plumpy chunky monkey. Really, I’d just prefer if you said I was ‘fat,’ otherwise it’s just infantilizing, and perhaps it just reinforces fat-phobia.

I’m fat. Fat!

I know what you’re thinking, ‘every body and everybody is beautiful! You can make babies and that’s fricken’ magical!’ Yes, I’m a certified miracle maker but I’m not considered miraculous.

I’m a failure because I’m fat.

And while art and music has begun to criticize some of these beauty standards, Kendrick Lamar’s 2017 song, ‘Humble,’ for example, is so “[fricken’] sick and tired of the Photoshop,” asking women to “show somethin’ natural like ass with some stretchmarks,” these lyrics can only do so much for culture and change.

So for now, I’m just a plumpy chunky monkey who has ‘brought this onto myself.’

I’ve been conditioned to notice where my muscles end and where my fat begins, where my hips dip, and where my stomach bulges. I can hear my fat when I race up the steps, it claps.

Clap. Clap. Clap. ‘You’re so fat.’

And, I’m sorry if you also recognize yourself in my fatness but I’m not surprised if you do. We are led to believe that our fatness is our fault. Our bodies are objects of ridicule; you are stereotyped and stigmatized. (Please Kendrick, release more humbling music!)

‘You look like a monkey, and you smell like one too,’ I’m told; ‘an outsider, on the edge of society. You’re increasing your chances at developing diseases; as a matter of fact, you are a disease.’

I’m a disease, because I’m fat. I’m contagious.

And worse, it feels like my stretchmarks were blindly drawn onto my body. Fat never considered nor me or my desire to ever want to wear short clothing comfortably and judgement-free. So I cover. I hide my bulging muffin-top with tight jeans, which I immediately dance off right when I get home. (I reapply deodorant after this; it’s a massive amount of dancing.) I never wear tank tops without a cover. I haven’t been in a bikini since the third grade.

My fat has history.

I remember this as my last bikini season because, when I returned to school, I was fat shamed for the first time. During naptime, the boy beside me poked my arm and said to his friend: “I just poked Tiana’s arm and it jiggled!” Just like that, I was consciously fat. I turned my head, my body slowly followed, and I closed my eyes.

Fat shamed. Fat and volatile. Jiggly.

Today, I try to cover its presence (temporally and materially.)

I’m not sure why I make such an effort to cover my fat with clothing because it doesn’t really cover; the fat is still there. And, it’s the worst when I have sex because it’s all out there for the world to see, to poke. I have nowhere to hide, no sweater to hide under, and no Spanks to ‘enhance’ my shape. The lights are sometimes on, pointing directly at my fat like a neon arrow sign, mocking me: “Fat! Fat! Fat!”

I’m fat and naked. This is a crisis. I’m a crisis. I’m fat.

Strategically, I’d select clothing that would best conceal my fat. I wore dresses so that I could keep covered, and still have sex. If all else failed, I could always depend on sheets; I could always just avoid being on top.

But I love sex, and I continue to have sex. And one day, my orgasm was so good that I forgot that I was fat. When we were done, I sobbed. Well ladies and gentlemen, and for everyone in between, don’t you worry! Science is here to tell you all about your body.

Still euphoric, I Googled my symptoms: ‘crying after sex, am I ok?’ And well, as expected, science knew what was happening in my own body better than I did. Siri informed me that the cause of my crying was the effect of love hormones. Sweet, sweet oxytocin and dopamine caused an insurmountable emotional flood to my brain.

‘Cause and effect,’ said science. That’s why I forgot that I was fat, because science said so…but no. When the science faded, I was still the same ole plumpy chunky monkey. I remembered my volume.

I’m still fat, except this time, I stink of sex.

For years, I continued to assume that thinner people were the only ones having great sex, and that I was only having sexy-science-sex because the people I was having sex with fetishized ‘plus-sized’ girls. I was only spoiled because these people liked a girl with a little extra meat on her bones. “Boys they like a little more booty to hold at night, I’m all ‘bout that bass, ‘bout that bass, no treble,” I sang.

Over the years, the sex remained mediocre to average, except with this one guy, who became a regular. And, then it was good to amazing. (And as I write this, he asks that I come over tonight, recommending that I write in this, that I’m his submissive.)

I’m a fat sub, and my dominant has shredded 8-pack abs.

I thought everyone romantically tumbled into Charming’s arms, and I thought I was the only fat monkey. I felt as if, I was having sex with my fat and that Mr.abs was the third-member of our orgy. I assumed that thinner people were more worthy of great sex, and that I was just lucky to have met Mr.abs. But this couldn’t be further from the truth.

Somewhere along the years, I remember cuddling Mr.abs, and realizing that when his science was gone, he didn’t ask me to leave. We fell asleep and woke up still cuddling, platonically, until the morning. It wasn’t about my fat. To him, it never seemed to be. He just wanted wild animal, monkey sex.

Turns out, some, if not the majority of us, like being sweaty monkeys. Now that I think of it, I don’t remember any of my past sexual partners ever having complained about my body. Despite the amount of Kendrick that I listened to, I had been criticizing myself. Some outlets were empowering but I only listened to those that shamed me. (If your partner does fat shame you though, find yourself a new monkey!)

I’m a plumpy chunky monkey. No, better yet, I’m fat.

And, while we don’t live in Lewis Caroll’s Wonderland, I think humanity is nonetheless mad. And fat. And it’s crazy to think you’re the only fricken’ plumpy chunky monkey. It’s quite the opposite, and that’s quite all right.

“We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad,” said the Cheshire Cat.

We’re all fat here. I’m fat. You’re fat. We’re all madly fricken’ fat. None of us are ‘normal.’ And that’s quite all right.