Is Science the Reason why Plumpy Chunky Monkeys like Sex? Or are we all mad?
F I R S T P E R S O N
Is Science the Reason why Plumpy Chunky Monkeys like Sex? Or are we all mad?:
āMy orgasm was so good that I forgot I was fat,ā Tiana Chan writes
TIANA CHAN
Iām fat. I donāt remember not being fat and I donāt think Iāll ever not be fat. If youāre sensitive to this F-bomb then Iāll change it up for you: my thighs are thick, my stomach is round, my arms are flabby; Iām a plumpy chunky monkey. Really, Iād just prefer if you said I was āfat,ā otherwise itās just infantilizing, and perhaps it just reinforces fat-phobia.
Iām fat. Fat!
I know what youāre thinking, āevery body and everybody is beautiful! You can make babies and thatās frickenā magical!ā Yes, Iām a certified miracle maker but Iām not considered miraculous.
Iām a failure because Iām fat.
And while art and music has begun to criticize some of these beauty standards, Kendrick Lamarās 2017 song, ā±į³Ü³¾²ś±ō±š,ā for example, is so ā[frickenā] sick and tired of the Photoshop,ā asking women to āshow somethinā natural like ass with some stretchmarks,ā these lyrics can only do so much for culture and change.
So for now, Iām just a plumpy chunky monkey who has ābrought this onto myself.ā
Iāve been conditioned to notice where my muscles end and where my fat begins, where my hips dip, and where my stomach bulges. I can hear my fat when I race up the steps, it claps.
Clap. Clap. Clap. āYouāre so fat.ā
And, Iām sorry if you also recognize yourself in my fatness but Iām not surprised if you do. We are led to believe that our fatness is our fault. Our bodies are objects of ridicule; you are stereotyped and stigmatized. (Please Kendrick, release more humbling music!)
āYou look like a monkey, and you smell like one too,ā Iām told; āan outsider, on the edge of society. Youāre increasing your chances at developing diseases; as a matter of fact, you are a disease.ā
Iām a disease, because Iām fat. Iām contagious.
And worse, it feels like my stretchmarks were blindly drawn onto my body. Fat never considered nor me or my desire to ever want to wear short clothing comfortably and judgement-free. So I cover. I hide my bulging muffin-top with tight jeans, which I immediately dance off right when I get home. (I reapply deodorant after this; itās a massive amount of dancing.) I never wear tank tops without a cover. I havenāt been in a bikini since the third grade.
My fat has history.
I remember this as my last bikini season because, when I returned to school, I was fat shamed for the first time. During naptime, the boy beside me poked my arm and said to his friend: āI just poked Tianaās arm and it jiggled!ā Just like that, I was consciously fat. I turned my head, my body slowly followed, and I closed my eyes.
Fat shamed. Fat and volatile. Jiggly.
Today, I try to cover its presence (temporally and materially.)
Iām not sure why I make such an effort to cover my fat with clothing because it doesnāt really cover; the fat is still there. And, itās the worst when I have sex because itās all out there for the world to see, to poke. I have nowhere to hide, no sweater to hide under, and no Spanks to āenhanceā my shape. The lights are sometimes on, pointing directly at my fat like a neon arrow sign, mocking me: āFat! Fat! Fat!ā
Iām fat and naked. This is a crisis. Iām a crisis. Iām fat.
Strategically, Iād select clothing that would best conceal my fat. I wore dresses so that I could keep covered, and still have sex. If all else failed, I could always depend on sheets; I could always just avoid being on top.
But I love sex, and I continue to have sex. And one day, my orgasm was so good that I forgot that I was fat. When we were done, I sobbed. Well ladies and gentlemen, and for everyone in between, donāt you worry! Science is here to tell you all about your body.
Still euphoric, I Googled my symptoms: ācrying after sex, am I ok?ā And well, as expected, science knew what was happening in my own body better than I did. Siri informed me that the cause of my crying was the effect of love hormones. Sweet, sweet oxytocin and dopamine caused an insurmountable emotional flood to my brain.
āCause and effect,ā said science. Thatās why I forgot that I was fat, because science said soā¦but no. When the science faded, I was still the same ole plumpy chunky monkey. I remembered my volume.
Iām still fat, except this time, I stink of sex.
For years, I continued to assume that thinner people were the only ones having great sex, and that I was only having sexy-science-sex because the people I was having sex with fetishized āplus-sizedā girls. I was only spoiled because these people liked a girl with a little extra meat on her bones. āBoys they like a little more booty to hold at night, Iām all ābout that bass, ābout that bass, no treble,ā I sang.
Over the years, the sex remained mediocre to average, except with this one guy, who became a regular. And, then it was good to amazing. (And as I write this, he asks that I come over tonight, recommending that I write in this, that Iām his submissive.)
Iām a fat sub, and my dominant has shredded 8-pack abs.
I thought everyone romantically tumbled into Charmingās arms, and I thought I was the only fat monkey. I felt as if, I was having sex with my fat and that Mr.abs was the third-member of our orgy. I assumed that thinner people were more worthy of great sex, and that I was just lucky to have met Mr.abs. But this couldnāt be further from the truth.
Somewhere along the years, I remember cuddling Mr.abs, and realizing that when his science was gone, he didnāt ask me to leave. We fell asleep and woke up still cuddling, platonically, until the morning. It wasnāt about my fat. To him, it never seemed to be. He just wanted wild animal, monkey sex.
Turns out, some, if not the majority of us, like being sweaty monkeys. Now that I think of it, I donāt remember any of my past sexual partners ever having complained about my body. Despite the amount of Kendrick that I listened to, I had been criticizing myself. Some outlets were empowering but I only listened to those that shamed me. (If your partner does fat shame you though, find yourself a new monkey!)
Iām a plumpy chunky monkey. No, better yet, Iām fat.
And, while we donāt live in Lewis Carollās Wonderland, I think humanity is nonetheless mad. And fat. And itās crazy to think youāre the only frickenā plumpy chunky monkey. Itās quite the opposite, and thatās quite all right.
āWeāre all mad here. Iām mad. Youāre mad,ā said the Cheshire Cat.
Weāre all fat here. Iām fat. Youāre fat. Weāre all madly frickenā fat. None of us are ānormal.ā And thatās quite all right.
Tiana Chan lives in Vancouver.