Plusboy Stories is new open space in an effort for queer black men to express their perspectives via essay, narrative or opinion. If you’re interested in submitting your piece to the blog email us at: plusboymag@gmail.com.
The Ones We Almost Loved
Written by Jarvis Blake
I’ve always believed people fall in love three times in their life: Once with an illusion, Once with the idea of potential, And once, for real. This isn’t about the last one.
This is about the ones who almost made it. The ones I could’ve loved but didn’t. The ones I was this close to choosing, but didn’t, and for good reason. Not out of fear, not out of sabotage, but because sometimes “almost” is the full story. So, here’s a little collection plate of closure. No poetry. Just memory, clarity, and a little bit of comedy for the people I damn near loved.
To the one who thought the bare minimum was gold-plated effort, You were charming, like a rental car with tinted windows and a half tank of gas. You looked the part, said the right things, smelled like a future I could trick myself into trusting. But under the hood? Baby, it was all hot air and unserviced trauma.
You told me I was “different,” but treated me like an intermission, something nice to pass time before the next act. I kept waiting for you to show up emotionally, but you stayed parked at neutral. I needed depth; you gave me depth quotes. We almost made it if I’d been okay shrinking to fit your comfort zone. If i could describe it in a song, you were Ciara’s Prayer, if the prayer was about Future.
To the one who loved me but not out loud, You moved like a rumor. Behind closed doors, we were something electric. But in the daylight? I was your “friend,” your “homie,” your “this ain’t that.” You didn’t want a relationship; you wanted the benefits of love without the liability of choosing me publicly. And for a minute, I convinced myself that quiet love was still real love. I played the background like I was scoring a silent film, but I got tired of whispering my worth. You weren’t closeted. You were cowardly. We almost had it if I was okay being your secret. News flash, I’m not.
To the one who made me laugh like hell but never healed, You were brilliant, broken, magnetic, and emotionally unavailable in the most well-dressed way. Being with you felt like a party where the music was great but none of the exits were marked. We laughed until we forgot the world, then cried when it came back into focus. Your pain was loud, and I loved you enough to try and quiet it, but I realized I was becoming the soundtrack to your survival, not a partner. You didn’t need a boyfriend. You needed a therapist. And I almost stayed, if I believed love alone could fix somebody. It can’t.
To the one who checked every box but had no pen of their own, On paper, you were perfect: stable, attractive, intentional. You were my LinkedIn crush. My brunch-with-parents safe bet. But chemistry? Imagine trying to light a scented candle in a wind tunnel. I kept thinking it would ignite eventually, that safety would turn to spark—but every kiss felt like filing taxes with someone attractive. You wanted a love story, but it felt like I was auditioning to be cast in a life you already storyboarded. You weren’t actually bad. You were just… not mine. We would have almost worked if I mistook comfort for connection. But I want a love that shakes me a little. Not one that just tucks me in, or whatever Olivia Pope said.
To the one who had everything except timing, You were the right person, wrong decade. You showed up in my life like a rerun of a show I once loved but couldn’t rewatch. Is it safe to call you ‘moesha’?. We had moments that felt cinematic, like we were made of movie scenes and long stares but real life doesn’t pay for dream sequences. We were out of sync. I was healing, you were distracted. I wanted substance, you wanted a soft place to land. We had the ingredients but no recipe, and I got tired of trying to build something beautiful off vibes and apologies.
Now here’s what I’ve learned so far, almost-loves are still teachers. The teachers that pass you but give you shit along the way. “Babe, you’re not helping.” They show you what you need, what you’re no longer willing to negotiate, and most importantly—what you absolutely deserve.
I don’t hate y’all. Hell, some of you I still care for. But caring doesn’t mean circling back. Growth doesn’t always require a reunion. So, to the almosts: thank you for the laughs, the nights, the playlists, the lessons. But if I ever see you again, let’s just nod. No long convos. No drinks. No “what if.”
We weren’t “it”. And that’s okay.
The Rise of the Pretty Boys & Playbois: Why Femininity Is the New Power
Written by Jarvis Blake
Allow me to paint the picture.
Nails shining and reflecting light with a shiny layer of polish, drawing one’s attention in an eye-catching manner, and the pants are made of luxurious, flowing silk that folds itself gracefully around his legs. Around the neck of a young boy, whose shoulders possess the strength necessary to support the cumbersome weight of all the society stereotypes and expectations that make up what it is to be considered a “real man,” is a pearl choker which wraps around his neck delicately yet firmly in a lovely way.
But now, he wishes to lay aside that heaviness. He wants to look good, to feel alive, to flirt, and to twirl. And the surprise discovery is this: he is a plus-sized guy.
By the way, this isn’t inclusion for the sake of a DEI checklist. This is fashion, desire, expression, and power—real, emanating, soft-edged power! Because now, softness is not a weakness. It’s the new masculine. And for big boys especially, this shift may just be freedom.
A Brief Journey Down Memory Lane: Beckham to Bunny
Let’s rewind to the early 2000s, the term “metrosexual” entered the cultural bloodstream like a fashionable virus. Men moisturized. Wore pink. Got haircuts with names. David Beckham was the poster child for that era. He was literally a glossy, preened, and polished. But he was still firmly, safely, masculinity-approved.
Flash forward two decades, and things have shifted. We’re talking skirts, lace tops, thigh-high boots, and acrylics—and we’re not talking about doing it on the down-low. We’re parading. Loudly. Bravely. And often shirtless.
Artists such as Bad Bunny have totally transformed the conversation in the music scene. His energetic performance of “Yo Perreo Sola,” done entirely in drag, was not just a moment in history, it was, in fact, a manifesto. By singing it in this fashion, he countered and defied the ingrained machismo that so readily seeps into the reggaeton genre, and by doing so in such boldness, he was able to successfully make femininity not only cool but also brightly expressive and irrefutably radical once more.
He has articulated this thought so well in many interviews, and it’s so simple to understand: “Everybody should be comfortable with who they are, how they feel.” Sometimes this notion can be expressed in a mini skirt and hot pink nails, individuality and self-expression.
Instagram Made Me Do It
While the celebs kicked down the doors, Instagram blew the roof off.
If you search for the hashtags #prettyboy, #softboy, #fem, or #fruityboy, you’ll see an overwhelming number of videos—millions and millions, with dozens of men in gorgeous chiffon attire, hip crop tops, bold eyeliner, dazzling glitter, and dramatic lashes. This amazing quantity of content has plenty of choices for the audience to select from. It tells its messages in subtlety and nuance. It forcefully conveys the intriguing message, “Yes, I’ll cry, but I can still demonstrate incredible strength and break your f****** back tonight.”
In stark contrast to the previously airbrushed and supposedly faultless perfection that characterized Instagram. Instagram has openly rejoiced in and wholeheartedly endorsed body diversity in a much more inclusive way. This shift has allowed plus-sized boys to rise up proudly and flaunt their personal style, now sporting corsets with confidence, lovingly crafted not to cut off their circulation. They are adeptly layering pastel knits over their broad shoulders, creating visually striking ensembles, and easing into stilettos with ease and fluidity that suggests they may well have been born to wear such dashing shoes.
Soft Power for Large Bodies
This is where the relevance of the moment truly enters in: for plus-size boys, this trend is not just about entertainment or frivolous fun. It has a political undertone.
We’ve been told forever that our bodies are too much. That we should cut back, tone it down, turn down the color palette, avoid anything “feminine” because it “draws attention” to size. But what if we want attention? What if we want to be appreciated, not apologized for? The emergence of pretty boy culture declares: Occupy space—flamboyantly and boldly.
Adorn yourself with the soft gentleness of lace. Tease with the elegance of pearls. A cardigan that is cropped, maybe? If so, by all means go and acquire it, wear it without fear, and challenge the world to avert its gaze from you. When the ground upon which you stand in your own sense of self is one of softness, and your size is an expression of your true self, you are a walking testament to the paradoxes of everything that patriarchal society has ever tried to tell us about how men should behave and appear. And that contradiction? It’s beautiful.
The Nuance, The Critics, and the Next Step
Naturally, no trend is without its criticism. Others argue that it has been commodified, stripped of its more profound meaning and intention, merely cultivated for its beauty and the gaze, without doing the difficult and required work of achieving genuine gender liberation. And then there are others who point out that the way the term “fem” is used often has a way of placing a lot of focus on white, cis, and or thin men who choose to wear skirts, therefore unknowingly barring plus-sized people along with Black and brown bodies from this essential conversation.
That is the reason that this article is being written.
To put it briefly: There is space for all. Also, your body—plump, round, soft to the touch, but indisputably strong—can carry off any style that this current trend has to offer. The pretty boy revolution does not demand one’s face or one’s waistline; rather, it celebrates variety in faces and bodies. It requires audacity.
What This Means to Plusboy Readers
You’ve always been lovely. Now, however, there’s a visual lexicon to express it. The guidelines are being rewritten in rose-gold script. You no longer need to decide whether to be strong and sensual, romantic and raucous. You can be all of them. And you ought to. Do take the selfie photos in the mirror. Paint your nails a color. Try on the mesh. Put on the pearls. Because in all the soft things we ever learned to stay away from there is hidden strength. And sometimes the bravest thing a man can do is wear pink and for the world to be serious about him.
Final Word: The pretty boy ain’t coming—he’s already here. And he’s big, he’s bold, and he’s beautiful. Then, the next time you get a chance to go out there and take on the world, stop long enough to ask yourself a reflective question: Would I truly wish to be the embodiment of masculinity today? Or do I yearn to be a legend in my own time? If the answer to this reflective question is both of these, then clearly you already possess the wisdom needed to work out the path for you to take.
I Can’t Be Your Man & Your Therapist
Written by Jarvis Blake
Let me be clear.
I’m not your life coach. I’m not your mother. I’m not your mindfulness app. I’m not some burnt-out emotional support boyfriend clocking in for another unpaid stupid ass shift on the trauma hotline.
N****, I don’t care.
You tell me you’re “not sure how to love”, but somehow I’m the one losing sleep over your daddy issues, your dead dreams, and your situationship with accountability and trust. It’s always “I’ve just been going through so much lately,” and somehow I end up planning your healing while you’re out here raw-dogging your hoes and misquoting astrology.
N****, I don’t care.
Let’s talk about how we got here. How being “emotionally available” became code for “please fix me while I bleed all over you.” Because somewhere between the guided meditations and the text that said “I just don’t want to hurt you,” I became your safe space, your sounding board, your silent prayer. And for what? An inconsistent good morning text and sex that ends with me tucking you in like I’m your stepdad?
Let me go ahead and drop the checklist for my people in the back:
RED FLAGS FROM MEN WHO NEED THERAPY:
- Says “I’ve never had anyone be this patient with me.”
- Trauma dumps unprovoked, then disappears for three days.
- Doesn’t believe in therapy but smokes weed like it’s a sacrament.
- Guys who say “Sup” and send “that picture”, you know the one.
- Calls you “home” but never pays rent there.
- Keeps “You’re Different” with the heart eyes in saved replies.
- Refers to his ex as “crazy,” his mom as “complicated,” and his emotions as “deep.”
- Wears hoodies in July because he’s hiding a full emotional forecast.
- Sends voice notes longer than your last relationship but still says, “I don’t really talk”
- Says he’s “not toxic,” but his ex has an entire group chat named after him.
- Still grieving a high school situationship like it was a marriage.
- Calls himself a sapiosexual or intellect but can’t spell it.
- Tells you he’s “emotionally mature” right after he blocks you over a post on your story.
N****, I don’t care. *claps in unison*
This isn’t a clapback. This is a confession. Because I’ve been there—folded up like a lawn chair in someone’s emotional storm, trying to be calm. Giving grown men pep talks, aftercare, and playlists to heal wounds I didn’t cause. Letting “I love you” be enough even when I was the only one saying it out loud.
And still—STILL—I’d get hit with the “You deserve better” speech from a man who wouldn’t stop calling.
I’ve watched fully grown men become emotionally allergic to effort. Men who will rearrange your guts but can’t rearrange their schedules for therapy. N**** I am not about to keep doing free labor while you audition for peace you haven’t earned. That’s not healing—that’s hostage-taking with pretty eyes and a victim complex.
So if you’re not ready to show up as a partner, with presence, with accountability, with grown communication—don’t come knocking. I’m not the one. I’m not your mirror. I’m not your rehab. I’m not your emotional fluffer while you practice being decent for the next one.
Because truly, respectfully, and with all the softness I’ve got left: N****, I do not care.
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