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.