Heavy with desire

Fringe ArtsPoemSafa Hachi — Published October 21, 2025 3 minutes

The weight of expectations

From the start, women in bigger bodies are told to shrink—cross your legs, pull at your shirt, sit a certain way, pose just right for photos. Every roll, curve, and stretch mark becomes public property, open to commentary, critique, or worse, complete erasure. We are either too visible or not seen at all. Fat bodies are contradictions: be confident, but not proud. Be outspoken, but not loud. Take up space, but not like that.

This pressure to make ourselves small doesn’t stop at how we move through the world, it follows us into our most intimate moments.

But behind closed doors, that weight should disappear. When I am naked, I am not thinking about the politics of my body. I am not afraid of being too much. I am simply here.

The myth that pleasure must be earned

There’s a cruel lie that fat people are taught to believe: the more flesh you have, the less pleasure you deserve. Desire is presented as something conditional; something we must earn by shrinking, by making ourselves easier to want.

I was lucky to grow up with a mother who told me that my weight should never stand between me and the things I want, including pleasure. Wanting and being wanted are not privileges, they’re part of being human.

Many of us are taught to think pleasure is a reward for self-improvement, as if thinness or confidence must come first. But pleasure isn’t something to earn, it’s something you’re already allowed to have. You owe no apology for finding joy in your own skin.

I refuse to carry shame that was never mine. I will let myself be wanted. I will give myself permission to want. Because this body was built for more than hiding. It was built for feeling deeply; for giving and receiving love.

Reclaiming a history of desire

In ancient civilizations, full figures were symbols of power and abundance. Soft flesh wasn’t hidden, but desired, fought over, and immortalized; frozen behind glass in museums, admired as art, but disconnected from their original context: bodies that were once touched, wanted, and revered.

So why not now? Why should I deny myself that same reverence? Why should I deny others the pleasure of desiring me?

Every person I’ve shared myself with has met me with curiosity and care. No one has hesitated to explore the dips and curves I was taught to hide. If sculptors once carved bodies like mine into stone, I will let hands now trace me with that same devotion.

Owning pleasure without apology

Out in the world, my body is often reduced to a topic for debate—a problem to be discussed and dissected. But in bed, under soft lighting, with someone’s hands on me, none of that matters.

That confidence shouldn’t exist only behind closed doors. Knowing you deserve pleasure isn’t about seeking validation—it’s about reclaiming what shame took. You don’t have to fix yourself to feel good. You don’t have to earn softness, or love, or touch.

This body was built for more than shame.
It was built for pleasure.
It was built for love.
I refuse to let anyone, or anything, take that from me.

This article originally appeared in Volume 46, Issue 4, published October 21, 2025.