I showed Alan the (awesome) Honky-Tonk Badonkadonk video.
"Eugh," he said. "Now I'll have nightmares of skinny white girls shaking their asses in my face all night."
"Most boys wouldn't call that a nightmare," I said.
"No, really," he said. "That's just not my type."
For some reason, that conversation felt enlightening. I'd always thought of my body as kind of a second choice. As though all men really wanted the exact same thin white D-cup bimbo, and all women were trying to approximate that archetype, and my body was just a particularly poor approximation.
The idea that someone could actually like my body, rather than only liking it inasmuch as it sort of resembled an ideal body, was embarassingly revelatory. (Alan's the sort of guy who says what comes to mind, he's not much given to diplomacy, so I don't think it was a "not as pretty as you, honey" sort of thing.)
And the ironic thing is that I don't like the archetypal male body at all. My ideal man isn't an 18-year-old lifeguard, and I actually think overdefined muscles are kind of a turnoff. I go for more wiry strength and worn features. I like a guy who looks a little older than his age, who's got a couple scars, and I'm utterly indifferent to belly size as long as he can keep up with me.
I don't go for perfection, so it's pretty damn sexist of me to think that all men would.