Love Like This: Being Fat, Queer, and Left Behind Nearly Broke Me
What a Clorox toilet wand, a broken marriage, and three very different men taught me about being enough.
Author’s note: This story is part of an ongoing collection of reflections on polyamory — what led me to it, what it’s taught me, and where I’m still growing. I’m not an expert. I’m just someone who got gutted, kept the receipts, and lived to love again. You can find the first part here. If you’ve ever questioned your worth, begged the mirror to lie, or tried to shrink yourself to be lovable… I hope this hits somewhere soft. Or somewhere real.
The only thing still warm in our house was the dryer.
My husband, Julian, was gone.
This was our home. Now I’m in it alone.
The dryer buzzed — thank God. ANYTHING to keep my hands busy right now.
Julian had been gone for 3 days. Or was it 4? The bed was far too big… I slept on the couch. The cats are confused as fuck. Sterling missed “Mommy” for sure. You could see him looking for Julian.
I knew this was coming. I’d been feeling Julian slip away for months. I knew that things were over between us. I mean Hell… he wouldn’t even let me kiss him anymore. This was no more a marriage then I was a banana cream pie. …cream pie… why does breaking up make a guy want to get fucked?
The only possible thing worse than knowing that Julian didn’t love me enough was realizing how long I’d “known” on some level that this was the case.
I kept making my hands busy. There’s a bottle of granite countertop polish around here somewhere… at least I can polish some rock hard… wow… now’s not the time, jackass.
My internal monologue has always been very cruel to me. My whole life.
Sometimes it’s the voice of my first boss ever who’d yelled at 13 year old me, “Stop making MORE work, Andy…”
Sometimes it was the voice of that one supervisor who laughed at me when I asked her how to score “5 out of 5” on my review. Sometimes it’s the voice of my father.
It was always cruel.
The Pine-Sol soaked rag in my hand was caked in crud. My knees ached. At some point I found myself cleaning what had been Julian’s bathroom. I looked into the mirror accidentally. I usually avoided mirrors. God you are SO fucking disgusting… no wonder he left. This made no sense, of course… Julian was a “chubby chaser.” He specifically lusted after big guys. Illogical or not, the voice continued to remind me that I was too fat. Too big.
And at the same time I wasn’t enough. Your husband, who said til death do us part, just chose someone else. Actively. Great job, Andy. You fucked this up too.
Maybe if I’d been quieter?
Maybe if I’d bottomed more he wouldn’t have strayed?
Maybe if I’d just been more thankful to have a man at all, he’d have loved me?
Love is only earned if you’re easy to love, fatso.
I NEVER should have agreed to this fucking open-marriage bullshit. What a joke!! It’s not fair, man. I did EVERYTHING right. I openly communicated… I never said “no” to any of Julian’s needs… I never prevented him from exploring something he wanted.
And as I sat there scrubbing the toilet in his bathroom I realized that it wasn’t really that he was with other people. That part wasn’t a big deal. We’d both played with other people. The real problem was that while I was being open, Julian was being evasive.
He followed his cock.
I followed the rules.
And somehow I’m the one kneeling on the floor, crying, with a Clorox toilet wand in my hand. I wanted to scream. Or better yet — shove this toilet wand where no wand should ever go. But orange isn’t my color… and with my luck, the bastard would probably enjoy it.
I found myself caught in this spiral. I didn’t want to be alone… but I “knew” I was disgusting and that I didn’t deserve the affection I wanted. I wanted to get out and be with people, but I didn’t know how to do that without crying or screaming. Frankly, I wanted to get railed… but I couldn’t even look at myself in the Goddamned mirror, let alone work up the courage and gumption to boot up Grindr or hit the bathhouse.
Days turned into weeks. The silence got heavier. The loneliness? Almost physical. It was going to kill me — I could feel that. I knew it like that hunter from Jurassic Park knew it just before that raptor got him.
In the last stages our marriage, before the final straw, Julian had been trying to convince me to go out and get another boyfriend. Like there was some kind of Polycule-Mart where I could just go pick up another hot nerd with a sense of humor and daddy-issues that matched mine. During that time, I had met a young man whose company I’d enjoyed.
Sam.
Maybe I’ll hit him up…
Between Julian and my own issues with my father, I’d been taught pretty thoroughly that love is a precious resource. It had to be earned and then given out sparingly. And when it was given, you rejoiced and basked in its rare glow.
Julian rarely showed love. And it never struck me as strange — because my father was even worse (you can read that story here).
And today, I cannot express to you what an utter load of complete and total horse shit that is.
Polyamory marched in to my life and taught me that there is PLENTY of love to go around. If you’re not getting it then it’s *NOT* a reflection on you.
I am NOT too big…
…too much…
…too loud…
…too emotional…
I’d spent SO much time being terrified that I was too fat, too loud, too opinionated, that I communicated too much, too openly. And because of those things, I wouldn’t earn those little crumbs of love. But love, as it turns out, doesn’t come with a ration limit. It’s not a pie that needs to be cut into small pieces to dish out. You make MORE fucking pie.
Love doesn’t flinch when you take up space.
Love doesn’t wince when you’re loud.
Love doesn’t wipe off its cheek after you’ve kissed it.
And yeah… maybe I still catch myself waiting for the mirror to lie to me.
Maybe I still flinch when someone calls me beautiful.
But I’ve stopped waiting to earn love.
Because it’s already here — stretching across the arms of three men who see me, hear me, choose me.
Not in spite of who I am.
But because of it.
I am me — all of me. And you know what?
Graham falls asleep on my chest, smiling.
River nibbles my neck like the forest creature they are.
And Sam? Sam mirrors my chaos like he was built for it.
I’m not rationing myself anymore.
There’s more pie.
There’s always more pie.
…and if you’re lucky?
There’s whipped cream too.
