I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the inherent beauty of women.
Women are different than men. Women are beautiful in a way men can never be beautiful. If I am at an art gallery, I hope to see naked women on canvass, or female forms in polished brass or blown glass. I mostly don’t care much about naked men in a gallery. Men can be powerful or slouchy or strong or sexy. But can they be beautiful? Perhaps. But it just isn’t the same. I think this because I find circles are more beautiful than squares, and women are made up of curved lines and circles. Men are made up of lines and squares. I don’t mean to insinuate that a thin woman with less curves is less beautiful, because I don’t believe this to be the case. You see, the female form is ever so slightly curved all on its own. The hip bones sit in a slightly different place than their male counterparts. Shoulders are less broad. Even the most “boyish” of women is a beautiful, curvy woman. There is no earthly way to undo the blueprint that makes us women. I have noticed that transgendered women carry this subtle grace in their souls so fiercely that they exude the feminine curve, as if their bodies are aching to be nudged in the right direction, into the circle of womanness, where they were meant to be.
Fat women are very beautiful. Women covered in fat. Bulbous, pendulous breasts, folds and curves. The roundest buttocks with the widest hips. Her belly rolling. Mmm. Push your hand into the side of a fat woman and feel bliss. Her ribs are unseen and unfelt, she is made for comfort. She is made to be naked, unconstrained by tight bra straps and girdles. Her parts flop out all over the place, taking up space, because she is important. She forces the men next to her to bring their legs closer together so they can fit in their seats; I like this. Men who sit with legs wide open: we know there is nothing so large between your legs you need to keep your legs that far apart. However, a glorious, fat woman IS that big. She wins. She can sit there with her legs closed and take up a lot of space. I remember as a very young child looking up at my tall, curvacious mother, who was wearing a bathing suit. She had beautiful thighs that jiggled. I could not fathom something more… woman. I wanted to be a woman. I wanted my thighs to jiggle. I told her this and she thought it was bad. It hurt her feelings. We’re all taught that fat is ugly, but we are all wrong. Fat is woman, fat is motherhood, fat is life.
Some women are “proportioned”, and that is beautiful. They are women who thrive in profile. They are women who look like angels when they sleep on their sides, their hips creating the most splendorous curves, shooting down to their bellies, jumping out at their breasts, flopped over onto each other like hands praying. No one can look away from a woman lying on her side. It is quite possibly one of the most beautiful sights to be seen.
Some women are not proportioned, and that is even more beautiful and unusual, circles and ovals seemingly thrown together almost randomly like potatoes in a sack, but they are all soft and morph into one another to create a body. What interesting creatures these women are to touch, for every hug is a new experience. Bits and pieces bulging out where we don’t expect them, surprising us! I used to find myself internally judging these women, finding their differentness uncomfortable. Then, all at once, I realized that such women were entrancing and therefore extremely beautiful and fascinating.
Pregnant women are also very beautiful. They become the most sphere-like they can ever be. Their nipples darken and make their skin appear starkly lighter. Something about those darker nipples seems meaningful and serious. Perhaps even sexual, though they are soon to be a place of innocent nourishment. Nature’s way of painting a target. The breasts swell, the cheeks blush. Ankles begin to become less and less distinguishable from the rest of the lower leg. For some reason people often call this ugly, but how can something seeking to be closer and closer to round be ugly? What else could we hope to touch than something soft and round and warm?
Thin women are beautiful. Breasts hang so remarkably on thin women, since so little fat surrounds them, it all seems so obvious. LOOK. BREASTS. The nipples somehow seem larger than they are since they have less fat surrounding them. Sometimes the breasts defy gravity for a shockingly long time (I wonder if thin women with perky breasts truly appreciate this quality of their smallness; not all of us have breasts that look like tiny halves of the Epcot center). Other times they fall like thin socks and swing easily when the woman doubles over. Her tiny hips are subtle, gentle hills, with her hip bones jutting out playfully. I love the faces of thin women, they give away the little differences in the jawline, in the nose, the brow, that men do not typically share. Ultimately, thin women show us that underneath the fat curves of women are still the round, subtler curves of our skeletal blueprints.
Vaginas are beautiful, too, and mysterious. Folds and crevasses and dimples and colors, hair and warmth and dampness and various liquids and smells. They bend and stretch and accommodate. Marvelous things. Weird things. They are, quite literally, places of life creation and the most fulfilling of pleasures. I am sorry for men who do not know what a female orgasm feels like, or what it feels like to be opened like a special gift or a rare, precious, blossoming gift. Sorry, guys. (shrugs) I’m sure it’s great to have a dick, but a vagina is sweller.
Women are beautiful, they can’t help it. All things in the universe want to be circles. It is the most perfect shape, the most energy efficient. Look at atoms, planets, stars, galaxies. All expanding or contracting to become round or spiraling inward, or maintaining a roundness for as long as possible. The sphere is the shape of life. Perhaps this is why, eventually, I realized I was a bisexual woman. I’ll always want to be fucked by men. And since I started going through puberty, I’ve desired them. But that doesn’t stop me from noticing women in their perfection, and it never will.