I got myself dressed for the day and looked in the mirror before heading out. My shirt hit at a ‘flattering’ place — there was a ‘just right’ amount of skin exposed between the waist of my jeans and hem of my tank top. I tried to pinpoint the appeal of this composition. Just enough skin to invite first appreciation and then intrigue; passerbys could assume continuity of the smooth olive tone, but what really existed behind the cloth remained still a mystery. The thought disturbed me. Humans have an innate desire to uncover the unknown. I looked again at my reflection. Maybe it was just that my jeans looked nice or that my shoes were cute or that the neckline of the top complimented my collarbones. As I continued my tedious assessment, I began to worry about the appearance of my nipples. In the comfortable temperature of my bedroom, their form remained a well-kept secret of my bralette. But what if the coffee shop is cold? I felt at their private position for a moment, turned to look around my room for a thicker, more guarding undergarment, and ultimately deemed the idea of changing performative and unnecessary. This is just my flesh, and I will not cater to those who think it is anything provocative or unappealing. This is just my flesh and nothing more.