I like when my ass hangs out of my shorts | Rose Marie Torres
I’ve been approached by three different men at the library in the last month.
The first time, I was trying to find a free table near an outlet. He followed close behind me for a while, swerving in and around too many bookshelves for it to be a coincidence. He tired—after I’d circled the building multiple times and climbed two separate flights of stairs—and let me be.
The second time was after I found said table. I’d put my headphones on to watch a documentary on how the brain shapes our reality and we shouldn’t trust what we see. The man tapped my shoulder, and I reactively pointed at my earbuds, signaling I was busy. He bumbled his way through some line before realizing I wasn’t into it. He muttered some obscenity and walked away.
The third time I was reading Salman Rushie’s latest novel, Victory City. I had just reached the part where Pampa Kampana is forcefully blinded by a hot iron rod after being sexually assaulted when I saw him walking my way. I thought he was approaching because he could see there were tears in my eyes. Maybe to offer a tissue.
You shouldn’t sit like that, he said.
I’m sorry? I replied.
You. Shouldn’t sit. Like that, pointing underneath my legs that were perched atop another chair.
(For context, I was wearing a dress. I don’t think you need context.)
If you want to sit like that, you should really cover yourself.
Then he turned and walked behind the front desk, going into a room just out of view. He worked there, I realized.
Thanks, I mumbled, because what else was I supposed to say?
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It’s not even a big one—my ass. I’ve always thought it more like two squishy plums than a single ripe peach. Sure, my hips make up for that, wide like my mother’s and her mother’s and our Mexican mothers.
But it’s not a dump truck if you get the picture. Maybe an SUV with a solid amount of trunk space.
My thighs, I will admit, are larger than most. They dimple when I sit on the floor and create holes in my jeans from where they rub.
I can’t imagine wanting to hide them.
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When my brother and I go home, it’s an unspoken tradition that we visit our local Taqueria for dinner on Friday night with our parents. We drink margaritas, make rancheros, and take multiple rounds of shots. Except for my mom. We’ve decided that Betty shouldn’t do shots. She gets loud, and then my stepdad Hector has to take her to bed.
Hector doesn’t like when I wear short shorts. I think he thinks he’s being protective.
My brother wears short shorts too, white ones that are tight around his thighs and make his dick bulge, but only I am told something.
Hey! Where’s the other half of those shorts, missy?
Up this fat ass, I say, biting into my beef fajita taco.
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My best friend, Mirely, and I aren’t into the same kinds of clothes. We’ll shop together and watch the other one try on outfits, but we never share clothes. She’s much smaller anyway, so I don’t think anything of hers would fit me comfortably.
I visited her a couple weeks ago, and when she opened the door, we were wearing the same black athletic shorts from Target.
She laughed.
Don’t you just love them? I want every color. I just hate that I have to keep pulling them down all day. My ass hangs out so bad.
I say, And?
Listen as Rose Marie Torres reads her essay…
about the author:
When I hear “the good life,” I think about a world where people have the ability to be and express themselves. I imagine a society that provides basic rights and basic human needs. I see a time where people are not persecuted for traversing land their ancestors sowed. And I hold hope.
A native of South Texas, Rose Marie Torres is an MFA candidate at LSU with a focus on screenwriting and creative nonfiction. Since 2023, Rose has been the Creative Writing Program Assistant for the LSU English Department. She has been supported by the 2025 Tin House Winter Workshop and can be found in Latinitas Magazine, Hothouse, and more.