I stopped apologizing for my scars at around the sixth guy I fucked. It wasn’t a conscious decision; I realized at seven or eight or maybe even nine that I hadn’t thought in a while to explain them by default.
I shrugged in the mirror, studying my body as it moved and reshaped, trying to see my asymmetries as my bed mates saw me. Beautiful, one had said tonight; I had perfect bedroom eyes. Eyes that made him want to make me come over and over and over again. He had, that; three and a half, plus or minus one.
One lid creased weaker than the other. Or was one entire brow lower?
He loved my breasts, he’d said; but in the mirror now they looked a little long. Their mood improved when I stood up straight, which meant a better view of the underside. This scar had formed under one nipple and taken its color as well, stretching like Dali’s clocks—a little melty, not quite right, but not particularly world-shattering. Some women probably had one nipple like this naturally.
Only one guy had mentioned anything of it. Oh, those were scars, right? Thought they might be.
Mostly, nobody seemed to give a fuck.
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