Getting naked with my husband made me cry.

But that regret is minimal compared to the not being naked more one, because now I feel like I am never naked. In the shower, yes, but not anywhere else. I always have something on, some piece that is somehow engineered to hold something up, or squish something down, and it’s like, WHAT DOES MY ACTUAL SKIN EVEN FEEL LIKE ANYMORE, YOU GUYS!?

If I had a baby right now, and they told me to do some sort of skin to skin therapy to get it to eat, that baby would probably starve to death…unless somehow lyrca induces the desire to nurse.

I was in bed with my husband last night, a rarity in a house full of children who always need just one more thing, when I broke down crying.

Which is normal because all the best sexual experiences end in tears, right? No? Just mine?

Here he is, this gorgeous man who genuinely finds me attractive enough to want to ravish me, or in our exhausted state, hit privates against in a rhythm somewhat similar to the Dora the Explorer song, and I’m miserable and sobbing with my tank top still on all, maintain eye contact right now! Because at that point, I felt sexy from like, my chin up. My main chin, not that other one.

I’m sorry, I just can’t do this right now.

We’ve done it while you cried before, remember on the couch after War Horse?

No, it’s not War Horse tears, I’m crying because I feel gross.

I think you look hot.

I don’t, I just feel disgusting right now, like my whole body.

Well, don’t I get a say in this?

Gosh, I don’t know… I guess I had never thought about it. My immediate reaction was no, no you don’t get a say, asshole. I mean, I could suck it up and do it, and he might have a good time, but I’d be checked out, too consumed with worrying about what’s jiggling, slapping or drooping, and that’s not what I want to feel during sex… at least not that kind of slapping.

And I realised this was the last place I felt insecure, and it has nothing to do with what I think Andy is going to see. We’re long past the a baby ripped out of that hole I need a moment phase, and I consider how many pencils I can hold under my boobs without a bra on to be a braggable achievement. He knows I have a tummy flap. He knows my boobs slip into my armpits when I lay down. He knows that my thighs touch together, and that I don’t like him touching my stomach when I’m on my knees, and that sometimes air just gets trapped in there and it’s a normal sound to make.

But him knowing these things isn’t the same as me feeling these things, and it’s super hard to make him understand that. I’ve gained a few kilos, but my clothes still fit and I’ve long since stopped screaming when I catch myself in the mirror getting out of the shower thinking Sam  Kinison was in my bathroom. I feel sexy and curvy as hell in a pair of skinny jeans with platform heels. It is a benchmark that took me forever to reach, and I want to feel that sexiness while having actual sex with another person, because that sounds way more fun than feeling all the shit I currently feel, which is mostly that my lower stomach looks like a vagina, my nipples point south, I’m in desperate need of some ladyscaping, and OMG my lungs physically hurt from being sucked in this Spanx tube. I haven’t  fully exhaled since 9am, I’m probably internally poisoning myself with trapped carbon dioxide.

I talk a mean game, and I’ll fight you to the death over the last unbroken taco shell and what defines beauty in the country, but I’d be lying to your face if I said I didn’t struggle with myself over feeling beautiful in my skin sometimes.

This is one of those times.

(Also, no seriously, post coital noises are normal. Stop making me insecure about it, Google)

Brittany blogs at  Brittany, Herself. You’ll also find her on Twitter here and on Facebook here