We kissed, more and more roughly, until he grabbed ahold of some of my belly fat and pinched it hard. “Oh,” I said, hot and embarrassed. “Sorry.” I was apologizing for the fat. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’re beautiful.” I wasn’t. You couldn’t pinch beautiful, at least not in the waist. But I didn’t care. He was beautiful. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I’ve since learned that—if you’re lucky—you get to go to bed with maybe three or four people in your life who are so big and so brilliant and so perfect they blot out the sun. They become the sun. He was one of them, for me. Even though his bed was narrow and he was inexperienced. Even though he thought I was a chubster. Like he said, it didn’t matter. You don’t get to choose when or by whom you are going to be illuminated and maybe even eclipsed—deliciously, filthily eclipsed. It just happens and who knows why. Who even knows what to do about it, except fuck and fuck until the whole thing blows up.