An Ode to the Rub

| September 19, 2017 | 0 Comments

My thighs are big.

My thighs are thick. Are “grab two handfuls and there’s still more left to grab” chunky. Are packed with fat. Are patchwork quilts of cellulite.

My thighs rub together. They get sweaty and sticky and red. Let my legs rome free of pant prisons and you can be sure my thighs are up and against one another, rubbing a painful rash between my legs.

My thighs don’t give a shit how I feel about that. They also don’t give a shit how anyone else feels about them.

My thighs are built for jiggling. For moving and shaking. They dance any chance they get, up and down, left and right, wiggling, bouncing, shimmying to their own music. They wonder how all the other thighs can stand to be so still.

My thighs don’t know how to be still.

My thighs tremble like every step I take is its own personal earthquake. Like I’m a fault line. A force of nature.

My thighs are tree trunks stripped bare by lightning. Stretch marks crawl up and down theirs sides, marks from where my skin couldn’t keep up with all of the electricity in my body.

My thighs like the way they look in their stripes.

photo credit: Oneras sexy legs via photopin (license)

photo credit: Oneras sexy legs via photopin (license)

My thighs like the way they look.

My thighs like each other.

In fact, my thighs are in love. They can’t stand to be apart for a second. When I’m walking up Comm Ave, you can be damn sure they’re right there with me, glued tightly together and making out without giving a shit about who sees. I used to be embarrassed by their PDA, by the way they always seem to cling to each other. Nowadays I’m just happy for them.

My thighs don’t know who this “Gap” is but they don’t seem like the type of person they want to hang out with.

My thighs have a list of people they won’t hang out with and it starts and ends with people who have said the words “you should tone those legs” in their presence.

Exercise? My thighs do not care for that shit at all.

My thighs are soft. Warm. Sleepy. They like long walks on the beach but they like laying out on a towel more. They like the sun. The wind through their hair.

My thighs send off the ebbing summer heat with bright red shorts, clinging to every crease as if they don’t want to let go. They’re already aching for that freedom again.

featured photo credit: Oneras definition of thigh via photopin (license)

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Category: featured, The (Sex)es

Isabella Amorim

About the Author ()

Isabella "Izzy" Amorim's hobbies include writing for Culture Shock, spending inordinate amounts of time in BU dining halls, and purchasing children's tickets at movie theaters with her baby face. Play the system, kids.

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