Away from “still attractive”

The most common mistake in body diversity in erotic prose is not a lack of intention, but the tone. As soon as the text sounds as if it has to ‘save’ something, the eroticism is lost. “She’s not slim, but…” is not an observation, but a judgment with an attached apology. This is exactly where that “inclusion” sound you want to avoid comes in: the text seems as if it wants to be correct instead of desirable.

Dramaturgy instead of plea: desire as a cause, not as a judgment

Dramaturgically, the problem is simple: a “nevertheless” establishes a norm that the character is fighting against. It turns the scene into a plea. But eroticism doesn’t need defending. It needs an inner logic of closeness: someone sees something, reacts to it, and that reaction changes the body in space. If you want to write about body diversity, write it like reality: as specific bodies, not as deviations. Not “she is desired despite X,” but “X is part of how she is desired.” That’s not a moral statement. That’s directing the gaze.

The sentence test: words that secretly introduce norms

A practical sentence test: cross out every word that sounds like a seal of approval. “Flawless,” “problem area,” “well concealed,” “courageous,” “self-confident” (if it sounds like applause). Replace it with craftsmanship: weight, temperature, pressure, sound, gaze. Then the body is no longer on trial, but in a scene.

Textures: scars, stretch marks, belly folds

Body diversity becomes credible when you describe surfaces rather than “categories.” Textures are narrative information. A scar is not “tragic”; it is a line that refracts light differently. Stretch marks are fine lines that stretch when you move. Belly folds are not a statement, but physics: skin that settles when you sit, lifts when you breathe, smooths when you stretch, and finds its way back again.

Eroticism arises when you treat these textures like silk, denim, or leather: as material that creates contact. A belly is not just a shape, but a place where palms warm up, fingertips linger, breath becomes visible. Cellulite on thighs is not something to be “hidden,” but a relief that works with you when you walk, looks different when you sit than when you stand, briefly gives way when pressed and then springs back.

The important thing here is to describe concretely, but not in a catalog-like manner. Too many details in a row can seem like an inventory list. Better: tie details to the action. A scar appears because a shirt is pulled up. Different breasts become visible because a bra is unfastened and the fabric separates in unexpected ways. Stretch marks appear when light from the mirror falls from the side. This keeps the scene alive, and the body description becomes not a “theme” but a moment.

Directing the gaze: Who sees whom—and how?

Body diversity does not become “good” in the text simply because all gazes are friendly. In real life, they are not. A character may look at herself like a judge. She may mentally devalue, sort, and compare her own body. Readers are familiar with this feeling. The decisive factor is not whether criticism occurs, but whether the text turns it into a scene: How does the gaze affect the body, the breath, the behavior? And what changes when another gaze is added?

The inner judge: The gaze that examines

Sometimes the protagonist is her own casting director. She stands in front of the mirror and doesn’t see skin first, but criteria. Her gaze lingers on details like points of contention: the scar line, the asymmetry of her breasts, the folds of her stomach when she sits, the dimples on her thighs. This gaze is quick, harsh, objective. It generates micro-actions: sucking in her stomach, pushing her shoulders forward, placing her hands in front of her lower abdomen, the impulse to change the lighting or turn away. This is not “wrong.” It is human. And it can be used erotically because it creates tension: the figure wants closeness, but she is still negotiating with herself.

Arrange instead of defeat: the moment she stops fighting

The turning point does not have to be called “self-love.” It can be small and physical. Not: “I think I’m great now.” But rather: “I’m still standing here.” Her breathing becomes deeper. Her hands release the skin they were just trying to smooth out. She doesn’t adjust her pelvis to “correct” it, but to stand stable. She decides not to dim the lights. This arrangement is more credible than any slogan because it does not judge. It accepts the reality of the body in space.

The loving gaze: not blind, but weighted differently

A gaze in love does not see more “objectively.” It sees differently. It does not look for deviations, but for presence. It perceives the scar, but it is not the subject. It registers the belly fold, but it does not tip into judgment. This gaze is often expressed less in words than in tempo and behavior: it does not look frantic, it does not scan, it remains. It does not approach like an examiner, but like someone who sees the body as a person. This creates eroticism: the protagonist feels that she does not need to be optimized in order to be touchable.

The juror’s gaze from the outside: when the body is made into an “object”

And yes: there is also the gaze that degrades without being crude. A gaze that selects, compares, ranks. You can write it without dramatizing it: as brief fixations, as a gaze that lingers too long on a detail and then cuts away, as a facial expression that does not resonate. The difference between this and the loving gaze is not morality, but function: the juror’s gaze turns the body into an object of examination. The loving gaze turns the body into a place of relationship.

If you clearly separate these three types of gaze, a realistic tension arises: the protagonist knows the critic within herself—and at the same time experiences that desire does not function according to a standard table. Not because no one judges, but because she learns which gaze she allows to come close.

Example scene

The bathroom is small but bright. The mirror hangs above the sink, the tiles are cool under her feet. She stands so that the ceiling light falls directly on her face. Not a flattering angle. Just as if she were about to be judged. As if the mirror were not glass, but a form: fields in which one enters yes or no.

She grabs the hem of her T-shirt and pulls it over her head. The fabric gets caught briefly on her shoulders, then slips up. In the mirror, she sees the narrow scar line below her collarbone, lighter than the surrounding skin, slightly shiny. Her eyes linger on it, too long, as if marking a mistake. Her lips press together. Her gaze wanders without her wanting it to: bra straps, pressure marks, the slight redness at the edge.

Someone is leaning against the door behind her. Silent. Not as an audience, more as a presence that changes the room. She feels the gaze, but she can’t read it in the mirror. That unsettles her more than if it were clear.

She unhooks her bra. The fabric gives way, and her breasts don’t come free at the same time. One sinks faster, the other follows with a slight delay. The difference is visible, objective, in the light. She observes it as if she were responsible for it. The nipples point downward, the skin under the breasts forms fine folds. She raises her arms slightly, as if to test whether something can be “corrected.” Then she lowers them again, as if she had caught herself in a lie.

Her gaze wanders to her stomach. It rises when she inhales and softens when she exhales. Stretch marks run across her hips like pale lines that catch the light differently from the side. She places her hand on her lower abdomen and unconsciously smoothes the skin, as if she were ironing a crease out of a dress.

For a moment, she sees only criteria: “too much,” “too restless,” “too visible.” It’s the same look she knows from changing rooms, from mirrors in harsh light, from imagining a jury dissecting a body into individual parts. This look pretends to be neutral—but it’s just well-trained.

Then nothing big happens. No sentence. No insight. Just an exhalation.

She takes her hand away. Lets the skin spring back as it wills. Her shoulders sink a few millimeters. She doesn’t change her stance to appear smaller, but to stand securely: feet firmer on the tiles, pelvis neutral, chest not pulled up, but open enough to breathe freely. She decides not to change the light.

She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slowly pulls them over her hips. The fabric brushes against her lower abdomen, slides over her pubic area. Pubic hair becomes visible, dark, dense enough to clearly mark the transition. She pulls the panties over her thighs, and the cellulite shows up in the mirror light as dimples that shift when she moves, but don’t “disappear.” She holds the fabric briefly at knee level, as if she suddenly feels the need to hurry. Then she slows herself down. Not defiantly. More consciously.

She stands there naked. At first, her arms hang a little stiffly. Her hands want to move forward, to cover her lower abdomen and pubic area. She leaves them in the air—and then lets them sink. Not as a gesture for someone else. As a decision against the reflex.

In the mirror, she meets the gaze of the person at the door. And now she notices the difference: this is not a gaze that sorts. Not a scan. It does not linger on a “weak spot” and move on. It is slow. It takes in the belly, the scar, the asymmetry of the breasts, the thighs – but it does not make a diagnosis. It does not see less. It weighs things differently.

The person takes a step forward, so calmly that she does not recoil. A hand rises, remains in the air, as a question: May I? She nods almost imperceptibly.

The hand does not land where one has learned to touch “erotically.” It lies flat on her stomach. Warm, with the full weight of the palm. The stomach yields minimally. The fingers spread and hold, rather than examine. She feels the breath under her hand. Feels how the inner judge in her briefly searches for words—and finds nothing that can compete with this touch.

She lifts her chin a little. Not as a pose. More because she is making space within herself.

And that is exactly where the eroticism begins: not because her body is suddenly different, but because she no longer treats it as an object to be examined – and because the other person’s gaze sees her as a person, not as a table.