Alice Williams Facebook ad: “He Made Me Keep My Shirt On During Sex”

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At 62, I took a man back to my hotel room in Cabo, turned every light on, pulled my own top off and climbed on top of him. For three years, my husband made me wear an oversized T-shirt during sex because my stomach was "distracting." Then he left me for his Pilates instructor. Last month, at 62, I ran into both of them at a resort pool in Cabo. I was the one in a two-piece. She was the one pulling a sarong over her lap. She's 37. I was on a lounger with my eyes closed when they walked up with their towels. The first two-piece I'd worn in twelve years. They took the loungers right next to mine. My sister was in the pool. I had nowhere to go. The last time I'd seen David was three years ago, the day he signed the papers at my lawyer's office. Twenty-six years of marriage. He didn't look up once. Now he was standing six feet away, rubbing sunscreen into her back. And God help me, she's beautiful. Long dark hair down to her waist, string bikini the size of a napkin, body like she teaches Pilates for a living. Flat stomach with a little diamond piercing that caught the sun every time she moved. David's 64, with grey chest hair and a gut hanging over his swim trunks. In 26 years, he never once made a joke about his. She stretched out on her stomach, and he kept rubbing oil into her shoulders, her lower back, the backs of her thighs. I looked down at my own stomach. Flat. Actually flat. For the first time since my 40s, I wasn't holding anything in. I wasn't adjusting my swimsuit bottom. I wasn't pulling a sarong over my lap. I was just lying there. And then David turned his head and saw me. His face went white. His eyes dropped straight to my stomach, the way they always did. For the last eight years we were married, that's the first place he looked. Every single time. At our friends' pool parties, he used to call it my "party pouch" in front of everyone. He'd pat it with both hands like it was a pet. "Karen's bringing the pouch," he'd say, and everyone would laugh, and I'd laugh too because what else was I supposed to do. Then I'd swim in a T-shirt and board shorts for the rest of the afternoon. Even in the hot tub. In bed, he made me keep a shirt on. Not asked. Made. "It's distracting," he said once, after I tried to take it off. So I left it on. Lights off. Shirt on. He'd finish, roll over and start snoring. And I'd lie there in the dark, wide awake at 3am, with my heart pounding like I'd done something wrong. I stopped looking in mirrors. I stopped going to the gym because nothing I did touched it. Skinny arms. Skinny legs. And a hard, round stomach that looked like I was six months pregnant, sitting on top of every waistband I owned. I tried everything. Belly-blaster pills from Instagram. Cortisol drops that cost me $92. A big bottle of magnesium from Walgreens because a woman at church told me magnesium helps with stress. Nothing moved. The day David moved out, I sat on the bathroom floor and cried so hard I threw up. Then I lined up every supplement I'd wasted money on and just stared at them. I kept the magnesium. Everybody says magnesium is good for you. Four months ago, my daughter got engaged. Her fiancé's mother is Dutch. She flew in from Amsterdam for the engagement party at my house, and I spent three days cooking. Her name is Anneliese. She's 61, a retired nurse, thirty years of night shifts. Solid build, ate two plates of my lasagna, drank three glasses of wine, and wore a fitted dress with a belt. A belt. I was in Spanx under a loose tunic, sweating through every layer. The next morning, she found me in the kitchen at 6am, wide awake after another 3am wake-up, staring at my coffee. "You didn't sleep," she said. It wasn't a question. "I never sleep," I said. She sat down across from me and asked me something nobody in America had ever asked. "Do you wake at 3 in the morning? Every night?" I almost started crying again. She nodded like she'd heard this a hundred times. Then she told me something that changed everything. Every time you're stressed, your body spends magnesium to calm you back down. A fight. A bill. A divorce. Every one of them costs you. When you run low, the calming never finishes. Your stress hormone stays switched on, all day and all night. And when your body thinks it's living in an emergency, it holds onto fat in the one place it can protect your organs the fastest. Deep in your stomach, packed around everything vital. "That's why it's only there," she said. "And that's why you're awake at 3." "But I take magnesium," I said. "What kind?" I had no idea. I pulled the bottle out of the cabinet. She turned it over, read the label, and shook her head. "Oxide. The cheap one. Your body keeps maybe 4% of that. The rest you flush down the toilet. That's why it sends you running to the bathroom." She opened her purse and pulled out a light blue bag. "This is bisglycinate. It's magnesium bonded to glycine. Your body absorbs up to 90% of it. Twenty-two times more than what you've been taking." She tapped the back of the bag. "The mineral comes from the Netherlands. Made here in the States. 400 milligrams. Two gummies before bed. Gentle on your stomach." I looked at her like she was handing me a lottery ticket. "Tonight," she said. That night, I slept until my alarm. No 3am. The first time in seven years. I ordered three bags the next day. By the end of week one, I wasn't waking up anymore. By week three, I could button my jeans standing up. By week six, my sister grabbed my waist in the grocery store parking lot and said, "What the hell are you on?" At week eight, I tried on a two-piece in the dressing room at Target and cried. Not sad crying. The other kind. Two weeks later, my sister booked Cabo. So. Back to Cabo. David's still staring at me. Then she sits up. Adjusts her bikini top. Looks at David. Looks at me. Looks back at David. "Is that Karen?" Her voice was higher than I expected. "Yeah," David said. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. She tilted her head, and I watched her do the math. She knew exactly who I was. I'm sure David told her everything. Then she said it. "Oh my God. You're the one who wouldn't take her shirt off in the hot tub." My stomach dropped. David told her that. He told her about the shirt. She kept looking at me. Then down at my stomach. Then down at her own. And she pulled the edge of her sarong over her lap. I knew that move. I did that move for eight years. "Can I ask you something?" she said. Her voice was quieter now. "What do you take? For your stomach?" I smiled at her. I meant it. "Magnesium. The right kind." "Skip the oxide they sell at the pharmacy. Your body keeps almost none of that." "Mine's in a light blue bag from a company called SPNutrition. You won't find it in a store." "And I'll be honest with you. They look like candy. Raspberry gummies. Some women sleep better the first night. Some need a week or two. And your stomach won't move for a few weeks, so you'll stand in the mirror and think I'm full of sh*t." "But my daughter's future mother-in-law did thirty years of night shifts as a nurse in Amsterdam. She won't touch an American supplement. Except this one." She pulled out her phone. "Can you spell it?" I did. She typed it in with both thumbs, fast, like she didn't want to forget. David was staring at the swim-up bar. As I stood up to leave, I heard her say it. Not loud. But not quiet enough. "You said she never took her shirt off." I didn't turn around. I didn't need to. My sister and I ordered margaritas at the bar, and I told her everything. She grabbed my hand across the table. "You're a f*cking legend," she said. That night, I didn't go back to the room with my sister. I went back with Mike. A 58-year-old widower from Austin who'd been sending margaritas to my lounger since lunch. He reached for the lamp. "Leave it on," I said. Then I pulled my top off myself, in the light, and climbed on top of him. He didn't say distracting. He kissed his way down my stomach like it was the best part of me. Three years in a T-shirt in the dark. I kept the lights on until 2am, and at 3am I was sound asleep. If you're reading this with a towel over your stomach right now, here's what I'd tell you over one of those margaritas. Over 120,000 women take this now. They sold out 12 times last year, with a 4 to 6 week wait, so don't wait until you need it for a vacation. Your first order of the three-bag bundle is up to 35% off. And you get up to 90 days to try it and ask for your money back if your stomach doesn't move. I spent $92 on drops that did nothing. Tonight, go flip over whatever magnesium you have in your cabinet. If it says oxide, now you know. Then go buy a two-piece. And leave the lights on. https://spnutrition-us.com/pages/magnesium-deficiency P.S. David texted me the next morning. "You look amazing. Can we talk?" I didn't answer. Mike was still asleep in my bed.

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He Made Me Keep My Shirt On During Sex

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