I used to be, and still am, known for my bold takes on fashion. The mini shorts, the scarf as a skirt, the bra as a top—classic faves. A swimsuit cover-up? An ideal going-out fit. I was a menace in my early twenties, and that all coincided with my identity, my views on my body, my ever-evolving thoughts on sex, and the innate Scorpio Venezuelan sensuality I thank my mom for passing down to me. Fashion, in its essence, is limitless in creativity and intricacy. It is the seductive medium through which expression thrives, allowing a person to translate entire essays into what they wear.

 

However, this got me in trouble more than I would have liked. Among the endless essays, fashion discussions, and feminist writing, I’ll offer a much-needed refresh to the collective—a reminder that must be reinstated. The clothing I wear (or lack of) is not indicative of my intellect. If anything, I thoroughly enjoy partaking in a nerdy activity. Sorry Chat; I’m aware that’s cringe to write... since it can come across as a pick-me.

 

For example, my latest hyper-fixation in this slightly ADHD mind of mine has been Arcane, the show based on League of Legends video game. It’s led me to immerse myself back into the AO3 fanfic world.

 

But people would never assume that of me. Revelations about myself that don’t align with the notorious (slightly retired) party-girl vibe I bring to the function genuinely shock people. I blame all the early 2000s sitcom writers for this. For all the progress we’ve supposedly made, society still has a weird way of viewing women who are comfortable showcasing their bodies, not associating academic depth with them.

 

I know it’s not a wild take. Yet, I still see how these women are so often reduced to a stereotype, reduced to just being sex. So it’s a truth that is still combative today. Divas like this can be celibate, expressing a hyper-femme lesbian identity, or yeah, truly exploring their bodies with others—and all of it is valid!

 

Which means there’s a constant recalibration I see in people’s eyes as they get to know me, as I disprove their assumptions—if they let me. Because let’s be clear, my open views on sensuality often mean the conversation stays there.

 

On top of that, my Latina identity mixed with this sense of style means I get a lot of fetishization. Labels I would never encourage get stapled onto me before I even get a chance to speak. Throwing around “tóxica” isn’t a compliment. It makes me want to vomit. The people who uphold it are clinging to an Americanized view of Hispanic femininity—but that’s a conversation for another time.

 

After living in Barcelona—the most conservative place I’ve ever lived fashion-wise—I felt this dynamic in extreme ways. Bouncers, mixed with their xenophobia, were aggressive and scary in a way I had never encountered before. The pompous European attitude made me deeply uncomfortable in several situations. While the commentary was more or less the same as in the U.S., the misogyny and male superiority complex were much worse.

 

Then I returned to the U.S. and had to undergo endometriosis surgery. The scars, almost like a lesson, are strategically placed on my abdomen where crop tops don’t cover. Now, anytime I want to show skin, I have to think twice. And after Barcelona? I think about it three more times.

 

However, I’ve always believed in the subtle art of not giving a fuck. So I’ll wear what I goddamn want. It took me years of therapy, radicalization, religious liberation, gender deconstruction, and criticism of patriarchal society to love my body. So yeah, I want to show it off. I did a lot of work.

 

That said, I am more conscious of how I speak and have, unfortunately, had to filter myself at times for my own protection. I consider myself a natural siren, but these days, I lean more on my bubbly nature as a form of self-preservation. Platonic chemistry can be difficult for people to grasp when my outfit, open views, and love for flirty banter feel like a contradiction.

 

This has led to many frustrating rants about struggling to maintain male (and even female) friendships. It’s disheartening to realize that objectification often means a friend was never truly a friend—just a hopeful future conquest.

 

And these are the PG-13 thoughts. You can infer that worse has happened. My sense of style has put me in dangerous situations where more than just my emotions or mind were at risk.

 

My constant dilemma is this: As I grow, my fashion naturally evolves. The fashion world does too, shifting toward cottagecore aesthetics or conservative rebrands (think PLT’s recent shift) in response to rising conservatism in the U.S.

 

How authentic can I be without risking harm? My scars are small—a privilege I recognize—but I refuse to let them dictate my fashion boundaries. Yet why do I feel sad when I see current photos of myself in outfits that show the discoloration on my stomach?

 

And finally—did I retire my party-girl ways because I outgrew them? Or was it because of the endless (metaphorical) beatings I endured for embodying them?