I didn’t ask to know.
About your outline.
About how certain fabrics cling, stretch, or sway with your every step like a metronome of masculinity.
But the internet told me anyway.
Told all of us.
Grey sweatpants, they said.
As if this fabric held sacred knowledge.
As if this—this arbitrary cotton blend—was the blueprint for desire.
Meanwhile, I’m just trying to breathe,
trying to love a man with a quiet mind and strong hands,
trying to figure out why my glutes disappeared the moment I turned 25
but his are out here lifting, curving, living their best sculpted life.
I watch women around the world run from men.
Literally flee.
For safety. For sanity.
For the right to walk home without being narrated.
And yet…
here we are, in a corner of the algorithm,
being told that all we’ve ever wanted
was an uninvited glance
at your God-given geometry
through a pair of joggers.
But when did that become foreplay?
When did suggestion become spectacle,
and when did our curiosity get rewritten as craving?
Because if you ask me—
most of us aren’t looking there.
We’re looking at your calm in a crisis.
Your yes without ego.
Your arms, maybe. Sure.
Your butt—always. Let’s not lie.
But your front?
We assumed you'd take care of that on your own.