I am not beautiful in any conventional sense. You will never see me grace the cover of a magazine or a movie screen. I will never be one of those air-brushed D/s goddesses on Tumblr.
My teeth aren’t perfect. My skin isn’t flawless. My body is neither high nor tight. I could stand to lose a few pounds.
But I know that someone in this world, maybe several someones, believes I am a beautiful woman. Sometimes I even see it for myself.
I am decidedly awkward. I stumble over nothing but the air closest to my feet. I bite my lip when I’m nervous. I talk with my hands. I roll my eyes heavenward for no apparent reason. I talk loud and fast. I mumble when I’m nervous.
My clothes are too baggy and rarely “fashionable.” I’m more likely to wear part of my breakfast on my shirt than jewelry.
I snort when I laugh. Sometimes I make no sound at all until I remember to breathe. I laugh too loud. I throw my head back, my mouth open, and laugh with my whole body. My mouth is wide and full, generous some might say.
I make sarcastic comments, crack inappropriate jokes, and curse like a sailor. I stumble over my words, a keyboard more comfortable than conversation. I think long, hard, and loudly. I talk to myself. I hide in silence rather than risk confrontation. I interrupt. I finish sentences.
My eyes are neither sky blue nor emerald green. More like dark chocolate just like my hair. My hair never cooperates, even when I attempt to tame it. I can’t seem to hide the gray forcing its way to the surface. I do not have dewy skin or rosy cheeks, except during the summer when I look perpetually sun-kissed and bronze, blessed with a Native American heritage.
I am all rounded edges and soft. Full breasts, fuller hips, round ass, muscled legs – gloriously Rubenesque.
When I am aroused, my eyes become deep, dark pools. My nostrils flare. My scent fills the room. My skin becomes flushed. My lips impossibly fuller. My hips sway effortlessly. My long fingers caress smooth skin, all blemishes and flaws forgotten. I forget to breathe and then I breathe harder, gasping and panting.
This is my beauty. It may not meet your definition of beautiful, but someone, somewhere out there sees it. And sometimes, the someone is me.