The Anti-Cool Girl (18 page)

So writing a piece about my obesity and the reality of how it had affected my life was a massively revealing moment for me. Having it published on Mamamia sealed the deal. I was fat. And now everybody knew.

I thought I would be mortified. After all, this was the exact humiliating situation I had been trying to avoid. But my world didn't collapse. The majority of people weren't horrible.

Old friends reached out to me and didn't mention my weight at all. (I'm not sure what I was expecting. Probably something like: ‘Dear Rosie, you're massive now. Gross. Regards, your old friend Jimmy.')

Writing that piece and receiving such a positive reaction was like dipping my toe even further into the water of life. Inch by inch, I was stepping more into the game. I admitted I was fat
and my world didn't implode. People still read my writing, still thought I had value and something to offer regardless of my size. That was a big deal for me.

I started to have crazy thoughts, like maybe I deserved to be loved and valued in spite of my weight. I decided to make
loving myself
the goal, rather than weight loss. I began seeing an eating disorder specialist, who focussed on health and not size. And at that point in time, ‘health' was getting me to a place where I felt good about myself, at any size. ‘Health' for me was building my self-esteem, which for years had been nonexistent.

These were difficult concepts to comprehend, since women basically have it drummed into them from birth that their looks are the most important thing about them. But recalibrating what I considered worthy changed my life. I was a survivor, damn it. I had made it through a crazy childhood, worked incredibly hard to fix my mental health, got a degree and was now a popular writer at a major website. I began to write a lot about self-acceptance and self-love, and the importance of teaching girls that they are more than their appearance. I was finally kicking life's arse! Who gave a fuck if I was fat?

I had that attitude, and was proud of myself for getting there, until the day I realised I couldn't wipe my own arse. I had finally come to love myself, but nobody wants to walk around with poo residue between their bum cheeks.

I'd also begun to notice that, working in media particularly, my looks were something that seemed to matter. Despite being surrounded by incredible women at Mamamia who loved me and supported me and gently coaxed me out of a very dark place in my life, despite my rising success, despite having what was probably the healthiest attitude towards my body and food in years, I couldn't control what other people valued in me. And a lot of people only saw fat when they looked at me, which fucking sucked. It seemed so unfair, that after coming so far in my quest for self-acceptance, after jumping so many hurdles in an effort to love and value myself for the right reasons, there was still one hurdle that I would never have any control over: I could never control what other people valued about me.

Also, there was the whole bum-wiping thing.

So, reluctantly, I organised to get weight-loss surgery. I was so ashamed at the time, and so pissed off because I felt like I was doing it more for other people than for me. And even though a bunch of health reasons had contributed to my weight gain and made it difficult for me to lose weight naturally, I still felt like I was betraying people. I had gone through such an attitude transformation, and I had encouraged so many Mamamia readers to do the same. I waxed lyrical about ‘loving yourself no matter what', and now I was sneaking off for five weeks to have eighty percent of my stomach removed. But whenever I felt like I was doing the wrong thing, or that I was betraying the self-love
sisterhood, I reminded myself of one important fact: ‘Rosie. You can't wipe your own goddamn arse.'

When I woke up from the surgery, I kept insisting my name was Oprah and demanding to know if I ‘was skinny yet'. I spent a week in hospital in a lot of pain, followed by three weeks at home (paid, because that's the kind of brilliant boss Mia Freedman is), drinking nothing but clear liquids. It was hell. I cannot describe the torture that is desperately wanting to eat something, but physically not being able to. I mostly just sat in bed, feeling very sorry for myself, watching TV and dreaming about the steak that I would never eat again.

The next year was just as hard. It took months before I could even think about eating solid food, and even then, the tiniest amount would make me vomit. I felt sick all the time. I was scared to eat in restaurants, in case I suddenly needed to spew. There was also a lot of emotional fallout that came with throwing up being such a regular part of my life again, since I had worked so hard to stop doing that voluntarily. But I lost a ridiculous amount of weight, and will probably continue to do so. I don't know exactly how much I've dropped, because I refuse to weigh myself. I don't want that number to mean anything to me ever again.

I'm relieved, though, that I really took the time to learn how to love myself, because my body is definitely . . .
different
now. Losing weight quickly does things to you. Freaky things. I'm
certainly a lot thinner, but everything is squishy and stretched and droopy now. My boobs look like two sandwich bags that have been half-filled with custard. My stomach is covered in stretch marks and hangs down like a sad roly-poly dog. I can take the skin under my arms and stretch it out like play dough. And let's not even get into my droopy FUPA situation.

But I honestly don't care. Coming to work at Mamamia gave me the confidence to learn that my weight and my body aren't the most important things about me. Gaining ninety kilos was the experience that taught me to love myself. To
really
love myself. And that is probably one of the greatest things that's ever happened to me. Would it be nice to look like Gemma Ward? Sure. But I have an incredible brain and the ability to write, and I make people laugh pretty much every day. I wouldn't give that up for anything. Those are the things I've learned to value. Also, I'm going to have the rare privilege of ageing without freaking the fuck out. I've already lived most people's aesthetic worst nightmare – getting old is going to be a walk in the park for me.

And, I really can't stress this one enough: it is such a fucking relief to be able to wipe my own arse.

I once scared a penis back inside itself.

I was trying so freaking hard to impress a guy with my brilliant sexual prowess that it had the opposite effect. One second his peen was there, and as soon as I tried to be sexy, it was gone. Not unlike when a turtle sees a predator and shoves his head inside the shell for safety.

I actually made a dick feel like it needed safety.

I was trying one of those
Cosmo
sex tips, and let me just put this out there right now: those tips
do not fucking work.
But of course, I was young, and because I was getting my sex advice from women's magazines, I was yet to realise that sex had anything to do with my pleasure. For a really long time, as far as I was concerned, if the guy blew his load and made some kind of audible sound that indicated pleasure, then I had done my job
and the sex was over. I could secretly get myself off later in the bathroom – the sex part was all about him.

It was that sad and ridiculous attitude that got me caught up in many unfortunate situations, all while trying desperately to please a man. The first of which was the pretty pink penis bow, which scared the penis back inside itself.

I was young – I think about a year out of high school. I was still with Josh, my lovely first boyfriend, and since we had been each other's first, we'd done the thing all young people do when they realise their private parts connect – we tried to make our private parts connect in all the crazy ways we could think of. But, as is the way with all relationships, the initial passion, which results in you having sex anywhere there happens to be a horizontal surface, eventually wears off. And that's when Josh and I found ourselves in a bit of a boring sexual routine.

So I did what any young, misguided woman was supposed to do when a sex problem was getting her down: I consulted a women's mag. I was immediately informed that I was in what's called a ‘sexual rut'.

I was also told that this was possibly the worst thing that could happen to any young lady who would like to hold on to her man. ‘Shit,' I thought. ‘I'm a young lady and I'd like to hold on to my man.' I actually hadn't realised my man was trying to get away from me until the magazine told me so, but I suddenly became very desperate to make sure I kept him in my clutches.

I should point out here that I know all this is ridiculous. I know this
now
.

But back then, I had no clue what was what. It was my first proper relationship; I had no idea that the initial passion grows into something deeper and blah, blah, love, blah. All I knew was that the sex had gone from fifteen times a week to five and this magazine was telling me that was my fault. But, thank the
Cosmo
heavens, they also had a solution.

I can't remember exactly what the article was called, but I'm sure it included the words ‘hot' and ‘sizzling' and lots of exclamation marks. And probably the word ‘blow' in capital letters.

There was a bunch of very complicated tips I could use to keep my man. I picked the one I thought would be the cheapest (I was a student) and the simplest (I was terrified). Basically, I was instructed to find a bow, like the one you put on top of a gift box. Then, I was meant to tell my man I had a ‘present' for him. My job was to get him excited by sending him texts all day reminding him of the aforementioned present. Then, when he was sufficiently excited, I had to tell him that it was time for his present, but first he had to lay down on the bed and close his eyes . . .

Then I was supposed to give him an erection (no explanation provided – just get him there). Once he was sufficiently aroused, I was to take the bow and put it on his penis. At that moment, he
was finally allowed to open his eyes, and he would immediately look down to see his penis gussied up like a present.

That was when I was supposed to say something along the lines of ‘Surprise! Your present is a
sizzling hot
head job that will
blow
your mind!' I can't quite believe the level of naïveté that convinced me this would be sexy, but I went for it.

I texted Josh all morning about the ‘amazing' present I had for him. But by the afternoon, I had lost interest in the game, so the texts trailed off and I forgot about the whole thing. So when he got to my house and demanded his amazing gift, I was a little thrown. ‘Oh . . . yeah,' I thought. ‘That thing I was going to do . . .' I told him to close his eyes.

‘Oh!' he said, clearly excited now. ‘Is this a sexy present?'

‘Yep,' I said, rummaging through my craft box, looking for a bow. I hadn't planned this very well. Not only did I not have a bow handy, I was also wearing flannelette pyjamas. And I was tired and in no mood for giving a head job.

Actually, I was never in the mood to give a head job, really. Still not. Can we all just take a moment to acknowledge that giving head is the fucking worst? (It's okay – you're reading this in your mind right now so nobody has to know that you agree.)

I understand, as unjust as it is, that most ladies (and I suspect a lot of guys) feel like they can't admit to having unpleasant feelings about sausage-shaped chunks of rigid flesh being shoved repeatedly into their mouths.

There seems to be a general feeling that one must pretend to enjoy performing oral sex or risk a life of loneliness, listening to Taylor Swift while getting into Twitter fights with people about Jennifer Aniston's romantic future.

I get it. There's pressure to conform. But this is a safe place, and I think we all just need to admit that eating penis isn't enjoyable.

Don't get me wrong – I totally accept that giving lady-head would be just as unpleasant an experience. I can't imagine that having to swim through my pube garden would be easy by any means. But it's all about doing something nice for someone else and taking one for the team. So while I understand that enjoyment can come from doing something that your partner enjoys, that doesn't mean
you
have to actually enjoy the sweaty-balled, sperm-inducing act itself.

Let's break it down, shall we?

It usually begins with a make-out session that is rudely interrupted by the not-so-subtle pushing down of the head. That is the penis owner's code for: ‘I would like an orgasm that requires no physical exertion on my part. Thanks in advance.'

If you accept your fate and agree to be a selfless blow-job hero, you then have to pull off the dude's undies and untangle his sweaty bulge from his hairy balls (one of which always needs to be peeled off the inside of his leg) and unfurl them like one of those wrinkly puppies stretching out in the sun.

All the sweat that has been collecting in between his pubes from hours locked inside his penis-oven now glistens on your hands, which you try to politely wipe on the bed/carpet/your own pants without him seeing. Because romance/magic/don't ever dare ruin the moment etc.

After some obligatory kissing of the general area, you eventually realise that you've put off the inevitable long enough – you must take the actual penis into your mouth. You can only cup sweaty balls and kiss the safe zone between the belly button and the pubes for so long. You must get down to business.

(Also, let's take a brief moment here to acknowledge that even the concept of putting something in your mouth that was probably shooting out urine just minutes ago is straight-up gross.)

It's important you try to get comfortable now, as there will be some sustained physical effort on your part. The key word being ‘try', as comfort for a person giving a head job is generally regarded as an urban myth. You'll either get a dead leg from being on your knees, or an aching arm from lying on your side and trying to hold up the top half of your body with one elbow.

Highest possible comfort level (that is, not very) attained, you must then ‘ease' into proceedings, as just shoving the whole thing into your mouth and letting it sit there like a docked boat until it explodes is, unfortunately, considered poor form.

You must try to coat the whole shaft in your (sexy, make sure it's sexy) saliva to ensure adequate lubrication for your
hands (usually still covered in glistening ball sweat), which will shoulder some of the workload while you avoid the inevitable for as long as possible: the attempted deep-throat.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a penis must be in want of an individual to deep-throat it. And no matter how many times he has tried and failed, he will grab the back of your head mid-blow-job and try to push it as far forward as he can.

Men tend to forget the concept of head ownership during sexy-times; they assume that if their penis is currently attached to someone's head, it indicates ownership of that head.
It does not indicate ownership of that head.
The person who owns the head knows how far it can go in, okay?

It's at this point that you are usually expected to begin ‘sexy moaning'. This involves ignoring the fact you currently have a penis trying to poke the top of your left lung, so that you may concentrate on making the relevant human sounds that indicate sexual pleasure.

It is also, though not always, expected that you make sexy eye contact with very sexual eyes. It should also be noted here that looking sexy with your gaping mouth stretched around a penis is impossible – no amount of sexy eyes is going to fix that.

It's been said that a very rare and select group of women look attractive while crying – I suspect those are the only women who look attractive with a dick in their mouths.

Here's where things start to speed up. At this point you are basically like one of those perpetual-motion chicken toys that drinks the coloured water, except on steroids. All pretence of hand involvement is forgotten. This part is all about you trying not to gag as your head moves back and forth at an exponential rate. You must resist the urge to switch whatever leg/elbow/hand/toe you are leaning on, or the rhythm will be interrupted and you may end up having to go even longer.

The lips you have wrapped around your teeth to protect his precious manhood are starting to feel the pressure. All you can think about is how much easier this would be if you were fitter. You desperately need a glass of water.

Then . . .

He finishes. Which is just a nice way of saying that he explodes one billion little wriggly sperm into your mouth, which immediately begin gasping for air, racing towards an egg they'll never find.

Grouped together, sperm have the consistency of warm snot and the taste of broken dreams. And it doesn't matter whether you spit or swallow; some of them will definitely end up wedged in sad little sperm graveyards between your teeth.

So, that's it. Not unbearable, but certainly not pleasant. I'm not saying that I never do it. I'm just saying that I hate it. And I know, I
know,
I'm not the only one.

Because giving head is the worst. (Now please excuse me while I go and watch any chance I had to find a man slowly fade away.)

Um, where were we? Ah yes, finding a bow to put on my boyfriend's dick so
Cosmo
wouldn't consider me a failure.

Despite my reservations about blow jobs, by this point I had teased him enough that he was sufficiently into the whole thing, and expectations were high. Not to mention,
Cosmo
was telling me that if I didn't do something drastic in the bedroom, our relationship would be over and I would (gasp!) not be married by the time I was thirty. So I decided to improvise.

I found a pastel-pink piece of ribbon in my craft box. It seemed long enough that I would be able to do something sexy-ish with it.

‘Okaaaaay,' I said, trying out the sexiest voice I could muster (I just assumed elongating words made them sexy). ‘It's time for your preseeeent!' The poor guy was lying there with his eyes closed and his pants down, clearly expecting the most amazing sexual experience of his life.

I approached his penis with the ribbon. The most logical way to do it seemed to be to tie the ribbon around the shaft like a shoelace. I tried that, but it just looked a bit . . . shit. And the pastel-pink colour wasn't helping.

I spent the next couple of minutes trying to tie it a bunch of different ways, but no matter what I did, the ribbon just looked
like it belonged around the neck of an itty-bitty puppy, tied in a dainty bow.

‘What's going on?' my boyfriend asked, clearly confused.

‘Shut up,' I said in my sexiest voice. ‘I'm being seeeexy.'

Eventually, the ribbon was as good as it was going to get.

‘Okay,' I said. ‘Open your eyes!'

He looked down at his penis.

‘What the fuck is that?' he asked.

‘What?' I said. ‘It's sexy. I'm giving you a sexy blow-job present.'

‘But why is my penis covered in a pretty hair ribbon?' He was perplexed.

‘Um . . . because . . . I wrapped it like a present? Because sexy?'

We both looked down at his penis again. I appeared to have shocked it back into itself. So now the pastel-pink ribbon was tied in a pretty bow around a soft-looking pile of skin. I felt like I should name it Petunia and take it to high tea.

We did not have sex that night.

And if the pretty pink penis bow was the beginning of my quest to impress men sexually, the Tinder date was the end. This was the night I realised it was time for a sexual revolution. I was twenty-eight, it had been ten years since the failed
Cosmo
sex tip, and it was finally time for me to stop letting sex be all about the guy.

The Tinder date was . . . actually, I'm not entirely sure what it was. Let's just say I ended the night slightly confused, but with all my suspicions about this ‘exciting' Tinder thing confirmed. Like a kid who sees Santa without his beard on leaving a shopping centre in his Toyota Corolla.

To be totally upfront, this (one and only) Tinder date was actually also the first date I'd ever been on. Yeah, I was twenty-eight, and it wasn't my first romantic entanglement by any means. I'd been in two long-term relationships and had a steady stream of hook-ups and messy one-nighters outside of those. But I'd never actually done the part that comes
between
those two extremes.