HARDAWAY | trilogy

Chapter Four. .

MARSHAY HAYES

          What exactly is defined as the perfect woman?

You look at all the magazines of the celebrities being the cover of Esquire, GQ, Maxim, Complex making the Sexiest Women Alive category. Most not even being African American women. Those women are air brushed, botox faces, perfect breasts, no stretch marks— the 'perfect' society has pinned in us women of all races of what everyone in the world should look like.

Let's not forgot the video vixens us women in the not-so-famous world have to compete with, too. Men want us to have to big breasts that sits high on our chest, big asses filled with silicone or transfer fat, small waist, perfect face. . all in all, be flawless.

But how is that real? How are those type of girls selected as the quote on quote "Sexiest Woman Alive" when most the ones that are chosen aren't real? Where are the stretch marks? Naturally sagging breast? Thighs with cellulite? Pimples that appear unexpectedly? None of it is real without the real.

I promised myself I wouldn't fall victim of society's so-called perfect. I would love the extra meat on my body and I would be confidently beautiful. Let's not forget real. But if I meant that, why am I currently looking in the full body mirror of myself in nothing but cotton shorts and an open robe; analyzing my whole figure finding every flaw that's not society perfect. A small pimple beside my nose; another I can feel forming on my cheek, my 34C lower sagging breasts, chubby stomach with a piercing in my navel, my ass and thighs that fit each other having cellulite and stretch marks.

Only thing about myself that I don't necessarily hate is my lips that are full and round naturally, my eyes that are greenish with a hint of hazel. Eye gene that was passed down to me from my father's side. His father has them, and his three brothers. It's usually a gene that only ran to the men. Me, being his only child and a girl, I'm guessing is the only reason I have his eyes.

I always question is my eyes the only reason people befriend me anyway since it's the first they notice or compliment, especially since my eyes stand out more with my skin being the color of hazelnut.

Suddenly, my bedroom door was bursted into. I quickly turned around, closing my robe. Could've swore I locked my door. "Can you fucking knock, Israel? Jeez."

Twentyone years old, skin the color of mocha, and athletic built, is my older and only brother. Same mother, different father. I looked at him once my robe was closed. In his hand he held the box of his favorite cereal, Honey Combs.

"Fuck allat," he waved me off, "Yo fat ass touch my fuckin' cereal?"

"Are you serious? Nobody touched your damn cereal. I don't even eat those. Ask yo mother or yo babymama. I never touched them. So, you can exit my room."

"If find out yo big ass ate my shit I'ma punch you in yo face," He threatened; knocking the lotions off my dresser on his way back out the room. He didn't even have the decency to shut it back.