The barista boy squeezes my stomach during sex, and it makes me fall in love with him. Though I’m in love, I’m also devastated—having my imperfect body worshipped forces me to confront that this isn’t how it’s always been. When the boy’s name disappears from my recent texts, I vow to beg all future lovers to knead my belly like dough, but I never do—I am too self-conscious, both about liking it and about having fat to grab. If anything, I swing back toward the opposite: If hands even come close to my stomach, I immediately shove them away.
