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Title: âBetween the Lines of Her Bodyâ
Marisol had never been desired in silence.
She was used to catcalls, to up-and-down glances on the subway, to men who said âmamiâ with a smirk and assumed she was easy just because of the way she looked from behind. From the front, it was different. They didnât linger.
At 5â1 and a half, she was short enough to be ignored in most crowds. Her face, even in good lighting, was hard to photograph. Her skin had a few pitted scars from cystic acne that flared during high school. Her nose was wide, her jaw soft, her eyes tired even when she wasnât. She was 26 but looked older on some days and younger on others. It depended mostly on posture and how tightly her hair was pulled back.
Her body, thoughâher body complicated things. She had 44-inch hips on a small frame, thick thighs, soft arms, and a stomach she hadnât tucked in since 2019. She wore black leggings often. Not because she wanted to show off, but because they were the only things that fit without pinching.
Men didnât flirt with her. They propositioned her.
Sometimes theyâd whisper vulgar things walking by. Sometimes theyâd message her on Instagram after seeing her post a mirror selfieâno face, just a side-angle. âDamn you thick af,â theyâd write. Or âlemme take you out, no cap.â Sheâd reply once or twice. Theyâd ask for more. She rarely gave it.
She lost her virginity at 22 to a guy who ghosted her after three weeks. It was in his car, outside a Wawa. He didnât ask if she was on birth control. He didnât wear a condom. She bled a little and didnât say anything. That night she went home and cried in the shower, not from shame, but because she had hoped it would feel different. Like connection.
By 24, sheâd had sex with five men. Three of them never called back. One kept her around as a late-night option. One, Omar, stuck around for six months, but only saw her on Thursdays after his gym shift. He was built, Dominican, and charming. She once asked him if he thought she was pretty. He hesitated. âYou got a nice ass,â he said.
After that, she stopped asking questions.
Marisol worked as a dental assistant in North Philly. Low pay, long hours, but the other girls were funny and the dentist let them play Bad Bunny when patients werenât around. She lived with her mom, aunt, and little sister. Four women in a two-bedroom apartment. She shared a room with her sister, who was 17 and already prettier than her.
Dating apps werenât much better. She didnât post her face. Just body picsâtight dress, back shots, heavy curves. The likes came in, but they were all the same: trucker hat guys, men with kids, gym bros who said âno fattiesâ in their bios but still swiped on her. A few Black men who fetishized her. A few white men who wanted to experiment.
She never felt seen. Only consumed.
But then came Bianca.
Bianca worked at the dental office too. Taller than her, Puerto Rican, with green eyes and soft features. She was kind, always offered to drive Marisol home when the bus was late. One day, Bianca asked her to come over and help pick an outfit for a party.
It wasnât planned. Not exactly. But they kissed that night. It was slow, soft, unsure. Bianca held her differentlyâlike she wanted to explore her body, not use it. They didnât have sex right away. For weeks they just kissed, touched, shared secrets under blankets. Marisol felt beautiful in those moments. Not just desired, but safe.
Bianca was experimenting. Marisol knew that. She didnât expect it to last.
It didnât.
A month later, Bianca started dating a guy from the gym. They stayed friends, but something broke. Marisol didnât cry. She just went home that night, laid on her stomach, and stared at her reflection in her cracked phone screen. She looked at her thighs, at her wide hips, at the soft stretch marks on her lower belly. She imagined someone kissing each of themânot out of lust, but reverence.
By 26, she had stopped chasing love. But she hadnât stopped craving touch.
Sometimes sheâd meet men off apps. She made rules: no sleepovers, no second chances, always condoms. She gave head more often than she received it. Theyâd leave quickly. Sheâd clean up slowly.
She started seeing a therapist. A queer Latina in West Philly who didnât flinch when Marisol told her everythingâthe body shame, the casual sex, the need to be held like she mattered.
âI donât want to be pretty,â she told her once. âI just want to be worth something.â
âYou already are,â the therapist said.
And so Marisol kept going. She took better care of her skin. Walked more. Cooked once a week. Deleted Instagram for a while. Started writing poetry in a spiral notebook. Sometimes she read it aloud to herself at night, sitting cross-legged on her twin bed, belly out, hair undone.
And sometimes, just sometimes, sheâd feel beautiful. Not because someone else said it.
But because she wrote it into existence.
Marisol had never been desired in silence.
She was used to catcalls, to up-and-down glances on the subway, to men who said âmamiâ with a smirk and assumed she was easy just because of the way she looked from behind. From the front, it was different. They didnât linger.
At 5â1 and a half, she was short enough to be ignored in most crowds. Her face, even in good lighting, was hard to photograph. Her skin had a few pitted scars from cystic acne that flared during high school. Her nose was wide, her jaw soft, her eyes tired even when she wasnât. She was 26 but looked older on some days and younger on others. It depended mostly on posture and how tightly her hair was pulled back.
Her body, thoughâher body complicated things. She had 44-inch hips on a small frame, thick thighs, soft arms, and a stomach she hadnât tucked in since 2019. She wore black leggings often. Not because she wanted to show off, but because they were the only things that fit without pinching.
Men didnât flirt with her. They propositioned her.
Sometimes theyâd whisper vulgar things walking by. Sometimes theyâd message her on Instagram after seeing her post a mirror selfieâno face, just a side-angle. âDamn you thick af,â theyâd write. Or âlemme take you out, no cap.â Sheâd reply once or twice. Theyâd ask for more. She rarely gave it.
She lost her virginity at 22 to a guy who ghosted her after three weeks. It was in his car, outside a Wawa. He didnât ask if she was on birth control. He didnât wear a condom. She bled a little and didnât say anything. That night she went home and cried in the shower, not from shame, but because she had hoped it would feel different. Like connection.
By 24, sheâd had sex with five men. Three of them never called back. One kept her around as a late-night option. One, Omar, stuck around for six months, but only saw her on Thursdays after his gym shift. He was built, Dominican, and charming. She once asked him if he thought she was pretty. He hesitated. âYou got a nice ass,â he said.
After that, she stopped asking questions.
Marisol worked as a dental assistant in North Philly. Low pay, long hours, but the other girls were funny and the dentist let them play Bad Bunny when patients werenât around. She lived with her mom, aunt, and little sister. Four women in a two-bedroom apartment. She shared a room with her sister, who was 17 and already prettier than her.
Dating apps werenât much better. She didnât post her face. Just body picsâtight dress, back shots, heavy curves. The likes came in, but they were all the same: trucker hat guys, men with kids, gym bros who said âno fattiesâ in their bios but still swiped on her. A few Black men who fetishized her. A few white men who wanted to experiment.
She never felt seen. Only consumed.
But then came Bianca.
Bianca worked at the dental office too. Taller than her, Puerto Rican, with green eyes and soft features. She was kind, always offered to drive Marisol home when the bus was late. One day, Bianca asked her to come over and help pick an outfit for a party.
It wasnât planned. Not exactly. But they kissed that night. It was slow, soft, unsure. Bianca held her differentlyâlike she wanted to explore her body, not use it. They didnât have sex right away. For weeks they just kissed, touched, shared secrets under blankets. Marisol felt beautiful in those moments. Not just desired, but safe.
Bianca was experimenting. Marisol knew that. She didnât expect it to last.
It didnât.
A month later, Bianca started dating a guy from the gym. They stayed friends, but something broke. Marisol didnât cry. She just went home that night, laid on her stomach, and stared at her reflection in her cracked phone screen. She looked at her thighs, at her wide hips, at the soft stretch marks on her lower belly. She imagined someone kissing each of themânot out of lust, but reverence.
By 26, she had stopped chasing love. But she hadnât stopped craving touch.
Sometimes sheâd meet men off apps. She made rules: no sleepovers, no second chances, always condoms. She gave head more often than she received it. Theyâd leave quickly. Sheâd clean up slowly.
She started seeing a therapist. A queer Latina in West Philly who didnât flinch when Marisol told her everythingâthe body shame, the casual sex, the need to be held like she mattered.
âI donât want to be pretty,â she told her once. âI just want to be worth something.â
âYou already are,â the therapist said.
And so Marisol kept going. She took better care of her skin. Walked more. Cooked once a week. Deleted Instagram for a while. Started writing poetry in a spiral notebook. Sometimes she read it aloud to herself at night, sitting cross-legged on her twin bed, belly out, hair undone.
And sometimes, just sometimes, sheâd feel beautiful. Not because someone else said it.
But because she wrote it into existence.
