Thanks for making out but please don't touch me

The joys of dating are an ever-present reminder that one man's junk is another man's junk in the trunk. I was dating a guy, as I do from time to time. A few months ago, during one of our earlier make-out-where-do-I-put-my-hands sessions he touched my pooch. My lower stomach. The area that no matter how many crunches I do, continues to and will most likely always be there.

From SELF:
Flat Abs Fast! A month's worth of ways to whittle your middle.

I'm coming to terms with my body. I love it. It does wonderful things. I have embraced the curves that as a teenager made me feel awkward. But at this moment, an intimate moment, with someone who hadn't really touched me or seen me not dressed for his viewing pleasure, I bristled. He was touching the one part of my body that I have yet to come to terms with. Then he said those magic words: "This is my favorite part of a woman's body."

Kim is at home at the beach and in her body. Read up on how she learned to stop worrying and love her swimsuit.

Swoon. Right? Yes, if I were Diane Lane and this were a romantic comedy, I would sigh and accept this flawed area because it wasn't flawed in his eyes, and therefore by movie-moral standards, it was beautiful. But yeah, I'm not Diane Lane (although if I were I wouldn't have a pooch to begin with and I would walk around naked and eat taffy all day long) and my real life, real world reaction was to think, ahhhhhh, that's sweet, please move your hand, while proceeding to change makeout positions so that he was no longer in an offensive strike zone. I would have felt way less exposed and vulnerable had he gone straight for my butt or boobs; instead he went right for the area that sent me from hormone driven euphoria to cerebrum-driven damage control.

I tend to actually be less self-conscious when I'm totally naked with someone, than when there's exploratory touching happening with clothes. Don't know why, perhaps I'm just crazy, but there's something whole and complete about my body when it's naked, but when I'm wearing stuff it's like each part of my body is it's own separate island ready for judgment. Obviously, this fine young chap, that I'm no longer seeing, wasn't judging: all the judgment is in my mind.

Elastic Waist wants you to know that no one cares about your back fat or any other perceived flaws but you!

Considering I haven't yet joined that convent (procrastination is a real problem for me), there may be many more instances in my life where someone, a man most likely, will find his way to my lower abdomen and because I doubt I'll ever succumb to the temptation of liposuction, I'm stuck with these insecurities. My goal is to learn to not let them take me out of my happy, tongue-swirling headspace and into crazy OMG, he's touching my fat head space that is a make-out session killer all the world over.

Do you have a do not touch zone? Or is it just me?