My Body at 45

I turn 45 today.  

There's a large, full-length mirror in my bathroom. When I shower, I can see my huge, hairy, hulking body lumbering into view. It's a large mirror but I fill it in all directions. I'm a pasty slab of meat, taking up too much space, always dominating the rooms into which I am trying to shrink.  

When I shower, I always turn away until the steam kindly paints a veil to hide me. I'm 45. No one wants to see this. Least of all me.  

But today I feel a different. As I break the tape of 45 I consider the people who never got here. I'm holding onto a currency they never got to spend. In a world of random catastrophe and bio mechanical failures, my body has delivered me here, to 45, and it has done so largely without my co-operation because all I've done is fill it with pizza and pepsi and whisky and crisps. I don't let it sleep much and I never exercise it the way it needs. It's looked after me even as I've abused it and neglected it, and took it for granted.  

Then I have the arrogance, the cruelty, the fucking temerity to stand in front of a mirror and hate on it? This body. This body that got me to 45.  

No hiding today. I'm going to stand in front of that unforgiving reflection I am going to actually look at myself.  

I step towards the mirror, naked as day one, and square my shoulders.  

Jesus. I must be four or five stone overweight. The kindest way to describe this build would be "rugby player" or perhaps "Dad bod". The more accurate way might be "fat".  

Growing up, this body was mocked for being skinny. It was easily bullied and overpowered by bigger boys - a lanky streak of piss slapped up and down the rugby pitch with only Boyzone blonde curtains to protect him. A hint of a smile crosses my lips when I imagine those men trying it again now. Rematch lads?  

I'm also smiling because it's just now occurring to me that I was cruel to this body when it was young, lithe, bright-eyed and topped with a thick thatch of blonde hair. No fucking pleasing some people.  

I'm very tall now and the height matches my weight. When I take a break from self loathing I can at least remember how comforting and protective my heft can be. I can surround someone in a crowd and protect them from chaos, pushing my way through and pulling someone safely behind me in my wake.  

It can be protective but, for the right people in the right circumstances, it can also be threatening. I can make her feel small, and light. I can throw her against a wall and force her legs apart and let my fingers stretch her cunt as she hangs on to me, a trembling, messy, and humiliated mess.  

When I suspended myself above her as I fucked her, she moaned and begged me to release my weight. I paused, worried I would crush her but even the warning seemed to excite her. 

After more pathetically erotic pleadings, I acquiesced, thrusting my hips and collapsing on top of her, only to be greeted by the most self satisfied moan as she pulled me in with her heels and sunk her teeth into my shoulder. She was crushed and she loved it.  

That's the same body that I am looking at in the mirror. This body did that.  

Let's start at the top.  

There is no blonde now. I started losing my hair at around 17 and the bullies weren't slow to add that to their act. I pretended it bothered me but the truth is the first time I used clippers to go down to a grade 2, I fucking loved it and today, at 45, I absolutely love being bald. Now I wet shave this head every few days and so that my scalp is smooth and fresh. It's a big ol' melon head and the removal of hair has created a strong round silhouette. I angle my head in the bathroom light and admire the healthy shine.  

It's a good head.  

I look down at my fair eyebrows and that one small mole that's hiding in them. I have a few moles but no one ever sees this one until they are close and we are kissing and they are touching my face. Under my eyebrows are my blue/grey eyes - eyes that I have always considered unremarkable and I've even resented their lack of symmetry, but one woman once described them as "piercing" and that compliment hit me hard and it stuck. Now that I use my eyes to look at my eyes, they do seem a little more piercing - a little richer, deceptively dark and bright all at once. Interesting.  

My nose is straight and basic and another discreet mole is on the right nostril. It lacks colour and mass but at certain angles you can see it. I have other moles on my face but I can't see them because they're all under my beard. The rest of my face is is basically ALL beard. As I lost my blonde hair, my whiskers came through a rich orange - a gift from either or both of my Irish and Scottish ancestors, and now people assume I've always been a ginger.  

Today, the orange is cut with white - a shift that occurred in the last few years - and I've grown my beard to be big and meaty, resulting in the illusion of one hell of a jaw line. The blend of oranges and whites combine in a way I find genuinely quite beautiful, reminding me of how the white veins twist and pulse through the orange of a salt lamp.  

I love when women play with it. Gliding their soft fingers through it, pressing their lips into it and inhaling it. I love using it to stroke the insides of their thighs, and I love pushing it into their cunts, getting it soaked as they rock their hips and grind their clits to ride my face abandon and hunger.  

It's a good face.  

My shoulders are broad and honestly the kind of shoulders that teenage-me craved. They look substantial and solid and strong. There's a little hair on them and that used to worry me, because I believed that women hated hair anywhere below the neck, but over time, there has been so much clawing at them and gripping them and biting them and resting a head on them that I've come to really appreciate them. 

They're good shoulders.  

Similarly, my chest is wide and covered in hair. I lean forward and is that..? Yes. There are more than a few grey hairs in the centre. I noticed one there about a year ago but there's a thicket of them now. I absently touch them, combing them with my finger tips. I think of the number of times her fingers have dug themselves into my chest for leverage, throwing her hair back and bouncing on me and letting out the cutest little growls as she finds the angle she needs. I think of how, when we're sat on the sofa together, she'll suddenly push her face into my chest and breathe me in a giggle. She makes me feel like a drug.  

It's a good chest.  

I glance at my belly. The part I detest the most. The part that represents all my greed and ill-discipline. The part that's the hardest to love. Hair swamps around the belly button and trails down to my pubic hair. It's actually not ugly, now that I'm really looking. If I'm going to appreciate my heft and my strength now would be a good time to admit that much of that power comes from here, the lower part of my torso. The part that gets so affectionately rubbed and kissed.  

Ok, it's a good belly.  

My thighs hold all this up. They're surprisingly well defined of a man my size. In contrast to other parts, they are not especially hairy but they are just as pale. After my thumb and my shoulder, they are probably the most bitten part of me. I know if I wear black briefs and send her a selfie, it's going to get her attention.  

They're good thighs.  

My cock is starting to respond to these absent thoughts. The memory of how this body, THIS body, has been climbed, celebrated, worshipped even. How effectively it can perform, the mess and chaos and need it has created. How safe it can make people feel.  

It's not hard yet, but it's stirring. As it grows, I can see the beat of my heart in rhythmic twitches.  

I move my hand onto it.  

My hands are big and my fingers are long. Like my thighs, they are not hairy as you might expect. I have a couple of scars on the knuckle of one hand from one of the only fights I have ever had, but they're mostly faded now.  

I like using my cock of course but there is no end of destruction I can wreak with my hands. My hands are ballistic and powerful, they can stretch and they can strike. They are fast, applying precise and sudden slaps across the face, and deep purple bruises on the ass. They can snap her head back by her hair, and move her into the best fuck toy position by her hips, and in the blink of an eye they can grip her throat and vanish the rest of her world, submerging her delicious brain into peace and service.  

But they're also delicate and graceful, they can play the most subtle notes in teasing bars all over her body. They can cup her face and knead her scalp and tickle her back and rub her feet. They are her sex toys, her comfort blanket, and the tools of my dominance.  

They're good hands.  

And now one of them wraps its fingers around my the shaft of my now-hard cock. I look at myself in the mirror again. It no longer takes effort. I'm not embarrassed. I look at the giant man in front of me with her eyes. He's a mountain. A predator. A teddy bear. A Dom. His pupils are dilated and his neck is flushed and his hand gently moves back and fourth on his hard cock.  

I think about the women. All the women I've known, all better than me and sexier than me and all wanting me.  

Me. And the man opposite me. They wanted this body.  

I think about the first time I made her crawl across the floor and rest her head on my thigh while I stroked her hair. I think about the time I fucked her in the back of her car. The think about the first time she looked up at me and took my balls in her mouth. I think about the way she humped my leg and how wet she made my knee with her submission. How she sucked my cock in the corner of a club. That was me. This body. 

I think of the time two women climbed onto the bed with me and openly discussed the things they wanted to do to me. Two of them. For me. This body.  

My cock tingles and I grip it harder. I don't know when the speed increased but I am pulling it firmly now. I look at the man opposite me and he has a dark look in his eye and I can hear him growling. I imagine being the object of that aggression and desire, as she always is, and it's momentarily thrilling. He looks so athletic somehow. I don't know how anyone could escape him and if he caught them he would devour them whole.  

This is what she sees, this is me.  

My cock throbs in one hand and I brace myself against the sink with the other. She should be here. Soon I will have a gift for her and she should be on her knees with her hands tied behind her back with her tongue reaching out ready to capture it. Or she should be leaning against the sink herself, pushing her ass out and waiting to see which of her needy holes I will fuck and fill.  

She should have cum glistening on her face, or her thighs or leaking out of her cunt. She should be wrapping her hands around this cock, her feet around this cock, her mouth around this cock.  

My hand moves at a blur now hard and fast and inelegant - all friction. The orgasm builds like chorus. During this climb, my heart races and my breath is shallow and there is an urgent, almost anxious need to satisfy myself. As good as a building orgasm feels, it's like a question and if it's not answered I will go truly mad. When I'm fucking someone or performing for someone I play in this zone, delaying it, timing it for her pleasure and experience. I look at the man opposite me and he grits his teeth and his face reddens and we don't have to be considerate or attractive or careful, and together we growl and and grunt and pant.  

I explode, shooting an initial burst of cum onto the sink and against the mirror, and pumping the rest over my knuckles and fingers. I swear to myself as more drizzles all over the hand and drips like hot lava onto the floor.  

I hunch forward, letting the sink take all my weight and I let out a final gasp.  

I look up at the man opposite. His eyes are glassy and maybe a little tearful. He smiles at me and says "fuck".  

I like him.  

I like his body.  

He's a good man.