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I’m a Black Woman Stuck in the Wrong Body

I get it Caitlyn Jenner. You spent virtually all your life trapped in a template that didn’t represent your true makeup as a female.

Lucky for you — money does buy happiness.

It can also transform an older distinguished gent into a mature woman who looks like a transplanted Upper East Side matriarch dwelling in the confines of Malibu.

As for me, I am just stuck.

I’m a black woman and with that comes an avalanche of assumptions and issues that quite frankly I won’t tackle because it’s a consistent drip of testimonies that won’t end.

What I am willing to divulge is the constant struggle I’ve had with my body image — when it comes to accepting that it will never represent the generic tendencies of my background.

While working out on the treadmill and sweating away the frustration of possibly spending another summer unemployed and manic — I was approached by a trainer.

I’d seen him before. He like a trainer and I didn’t need the shirt he was wearing to convince me.

He wanted to know why I was so loyal to my hour long struts and I explained that cardio was my thing.

He proceeded to do what he’s paid to do. Trying to convince me that I could be maximizing my assets in more productive ways.

Of course I could be. I’ve been down that road and while it was somewhat fulfilling — I made it clear that burning calories using the machine of my choice was enough to keep me guiltlessly content.

I wasn’t too stern expressing myself — he is a cutie and a potential. Opportunities abound in that area. So yeah, I was playfully assertive.

What happened next hit me like a thunder bolt.

He surveyed my body and reminded me that I was in fact a black woman, which means that it is pertinent to reflect the cultural significance of my heritage.

That includes getting my ass molded and layered while garnering deliciously meatier legs and thighs. The mid-section will have to stay nicely defined with the added bonus of a tucked in waist.

He basically just described all the white women who’ve paid big bucks to look like black women in order to fuck our men and then kill them afterwards.

Just kidding. Not!

But even more relevantly he summoned all the feels from way back when.

A time that smoked my teenage years as I cried to my mom about how miserable I was when it was clear that my mates had surpassed me in development.

I was so looking forward to welcoming a generous helping of bosoms, hips and bosoms.

But, alas, the only thing that changed was my age as the years went by and my body maintained the alignment of a 14-year-old boy.

I did everything to reverse my fortune but to no avail. I raided the pot of fried chicken every Sunday night before dinner — hoping that my head start would make an impact.

I ate ice cream every day and indulged in ridiculous amounts of fried rice — but each term saw me retuning to school in the exact same way I had departed months prior.

College was no better. Coming to America — I realized that my body type was revered at that time. I was tall and thin and everybody thought I was out of my mind for not praising Jehovah for the blessing of being a size zero without even trying.

I didn’t want to be the size of a number that equals nothing. I wanted to be busty and sexy.

I hated not having a rack or backside that guys can hold on to while I do my damn thing!

None of the men in my life ever made me feel inadequate for my obvious glitch but that did nothing to encourage pride in my overall package.

As I’ve gotten older — I’ve noticed my body responding to the processed accumulation. My thighs are beefier and I finally have what you can define as hips. But my boobs won’t change until they are fed and that’s an option I am always contemplating.

Lately, I’ve felt good about the onset of maturity as I undergo the level of sensual endowment that evaded me all these years.

So, when the trainer reduced me to the bitter teenage girl — watching her friends blossom while she stays devastatingly unchanged — it knocked me out and almost angered me.

I hated it when friends and family members would convince me that only white guys would want me. It was annoying because they were right.

White guys like tall and thin. And on top of that — you sound like a white girl. Yep! It’s a wrap. No black guy is going to check you out— you’re not built for that!

Black guys need to fuck! They like to go IN! You can’t handle that shit. You’re too demure and THIN.

Yes. A lot of white men headed my way. Nothing wrong with that. I’m an equal opportunity dater.

I’m also crazy about black guys and I try to be that chick that makes them freak out whenever I produce my version of twerking.

That sounds as blatantly cliche as it should. This is my confessional.

But in order to perform my assigned duties — I believe I need to look like the girl Drake would moan for in his upcoming video.

But my damn body won’t budge. And despite thinking that I was maybe getting it right — the hot trainer swiftly destroyed my halo.

So, I’m stuck.

I have an appointment with the trainer who will show me what he’s got so I can show what I’ve got to my next contender.

I’m a black women stuck in a body I love and if those hips, thighs and ass don’t spread — I’ll just have to take it.

And so will he.

Written by

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say!

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