The Plus-Size Influencer

The notification sound was getting annoying.

Another hundred followers. Another thousand likes. Another brand deal offer sitting in my inbox, waiting for a response I wasn't sure I wanted to give.

I'm Whitney Lane, and somehow, accidentally, I'd become one of the most recognizable plus-size influencers on the internet. Two million followers who watched me try on clothes, talk about body positivity, and pretend that none of the hate comments bothered me.

They did. Of course they did. But that wasn't the brand.

The brand was confidence. Self-love. Curves are beautiful and fuck anyone who says otherwise. I believed it—mostly—but some days the gap between what I preached and what I felt was a canyon I couldn't quite cross.

Today was one of those days.

The photoshoot was for a new swimwear line that actually made sizes above 16. Revolutionary, apparently. They'd flown me to Miami, put me up in a beachfront hotel, and scheduled a full day of content creation with their team.

Professional lighting. Professional photographers. Professional everything except me, standing in a swimsuit, trying to remember how to look confident instead of just posing it.

"Can we take five?"

I asked, already heading for the craft table before anyone could answer.

That's where I met him.

Cameron Hayes was the videographer—the guy responsible for behind-the-scenes content and the brand documentary they were putting together. Tall, broad-shouldered, with warm brown skin and the kind of smile that made you forget what you were worried about.

"Rough morning?"

he asked, pouring me a water before I could reach for it myself.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been watching you through a lens for the last three hours."

He handed me the water.

"You're different in person than your posts."

"Different how?"

"Quieter. More... thoughtful. Online Whitney seems like she has it all figured out. Real Whitney looks like she's solving differential equations in her head while smiling for the camera."

I laughed despite myself. "That's weirdly accurate."

"I'm observant. Occupational hazard."

He leaned against the table, not crowding me but not leaving either.

"Want to know what else I've observed?"

"I'm terrified to find out."

"You're beautiful. Like, actually beautiful, not just 'you'd be pretty if you lost weight' beautiful. And you have no idea."

I didn't know what to say to that. Most people who complimented me were either followers looking for engagement or brands looking for partnerships. Nobody just... said things like that. Not without wanting something.

"What do you want?"

I asked, because I'd learned the hard way to ask.

His smile shifted. Something warmer. "Honestly? To take you to dinner tonight. Off the clock. No cameras, no content, just two people getting to know each other."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know you apologize when you don't need to. I know you make sure everyone on set has water before you take any. I know you spent twenty minutes this morning making the intern feel less nervous."

He shrugged.

"I know enough to want to know more."

The makeup artist was calling me back. I had a decision to make.

"Dinner. Seven o'clock. But I pick the restaurant."

His grin was worth the risk.

I picked a Cuban place in Little Havana—somewhere no one would recognize me, somewhere I could eat real food instead of picking at a salad while someone filmed it. Cameron didn't blink at my choice. Didn't suggest something lighter, something more photogenic. Just ordered the same thing I did and actually ate it.

We talked for hours. About his work (he'd been a documentary filmmaker before the brand work), my life before influencing (marketing degree, cubicle job, a breakup that pushed me to start posting), what we actually wanted versus what we said we wanted.

"The thing about pointing a camera at people,"

he said over flan,

"is you learn to see the difference between performance and truth. Most influencers, they're performing the whole time. You're different."

"I perform."

"Sure. But there's something real underneath. That's what people respond to. The vulnerability you're trying to hide."

"I'm not trying to hide anything."

"Then why did you change your pose seven times during the swimsuit shots? Not because they asked you to—because you were checking the monitor and trying to find the angle that made you look thinnest."

I didn't have an answer for that. He'd seen what I didn't want anyone to see.

"It's hard,"

I admitted finally.

"Telling everyone else to love their bodies when some days I can barely look at my own."

"I know."

"You don't. You're..."

I gestured at him, all lean muscle and easy confidence.

"Black? Tall? Built like this?"

He laughed softly.

"Whitney, everyone has something. For me it was growing up poor in a rich school district, being the scholarship kid who never quite fit. Feeling like I had to prove I belonged every single day."

"That's not the same as—"

"It's not the same. But it's the same feeling. Never being quite enough. Always performing. Always waiting for someone to see through you."

He reached across the table and took my hand. His palm was warm and rough.

"Here's what I see, Whitney. I see a woman who built an empire by being herself. I see someone brave enough to stand in front of cameras in a swimsuit when the whole world tells her she shouldn't. I see curves I've been thinking about touching since this morning."

My breath caught. "Cameron..."

"I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. I'm trying to tell you what I see. And what I see is beautiful. Every inch of it."

The walk back to the hotel was charged with something electric. We didn't touch, but we walked close enough that I could feel the heat of him. By the time we reached my room, I knew what I wanted. For once, I didn't talk myself out of it.

"Do you want to come in?"

"Only if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Inside the room, all the confidence I'd built up started to waver. The lights were bright—hotel lights always were—and I could see every dimple, every roll, every thing I'd spent years learning to hide.

Cameron seemed to read my mind. He crossed to the lamp and switched it off, leaving only the moonlight streaming through the window and the city lights glittering below.

"Better?"

"You don't have to—"

"I want you to be comfortable. That matters more than seeing every detail."

He came closer, stopping just in front of me.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

The first kiss was gentle. Testing. His lips were soft, his hands cupping my face like I was something precious. When I leaned into him, he deepened it, his tongue sliding against mine as his hands moved to my waist.

He pulled me against him, and I could feel how much he wanted me. No hesitation. No disappointment hidden behind polite words. Just raw, physical evidence that he meant every word he'd said.

"You're sure you want—"

"Whitney."

He pulled back to look at me, his eyes dark with desire.

"I've been thinking about this since you walked onto set this morning. I'm sure. The question is, are you?"

I answered by pulling my dress over my head.

The moonlight was kind, but not kind enough to hide everything. I stood there in my underwear—nice underwear, at least, I'd planned for the possibility—and watched him take me in.

He didn't look away. Didn't flinch. If anything, his breath quickened.

"God, you're gorgeous."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

He closed the distance between us and kissed me again, harder this time, his hands exploring my curves with unmistakable hunger.

"Let me show you."

He guided me to the bed like I was something precious. Kissed me deep and slow while his hands unhooked my bra, slid down my underwear. Then he just looked at me.

I wanted to cover myself. Old habits. But the way he was looking at me—like I was art, like I was a feast—kept my hands at my sides.

"You have no idea what you do to me,"

he said, stripping off his own shirt.

His body was everything I'd imagined. Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that spoke to discipline without being intimidating. He looked like a man, not a mannequin. Real and warm and focused entirely on me.

He knelt between my thighs and kissed my belly. My stretch marks. The soft roll I always tried to hide. He kissed each imperfection like a blessing while I fought the urge to push him away.

"I want to taste you,"

he murmured against my hip.

"Will you let me?"

"Yes."

His mouth found my center, and I stopped thinking. About followers, about likes, about angles and lighting and every insecurity I'd ever had. There was just his tongue, his hands, his obvious enjoyment of what he was doing to me.

He took his time. Learned my responses. Built me up slowly, then backed off, then built me up again until I was gripping the sheets and begging.

"Please—Cameron—I need—"

"Tell me what you need."

"You. Inside me. Please."

He kissed his way back up my body, pausing at my breasts to give them attention that made me gasp. Then he was reaching for his pants, retrieving a condom, rolling it on while I watched with hungry eyes.

He positioned himself between my thighs, the head of him pressing against me.

"Look at me, Whitney."

I did. His eyes were dark with want, but there was something else there too. Something that looked almost like reverence.

"You're beautiful,"

he said, and pushed inside me.

The stretch was perfect. Full in a way I'd almost forgotten I could feel. He gave me a moment to adjust, then started to move—deep, slow strokes that made me feel every inch of him.

"Oh god..."

"Good?"

"So good. Don't stop."

He didn't stop. He found a rhythm that pushed me higher with every thrust, his body covering mine, his mouth on my neck, my breasts, my lips. He touched me like he couldn't get enough. Like my softness was a feature, not a flaw.

When he shifted my legs higher, changing the angle, I cried out. He'd found that spot, and he stayed there, hitting it with every stroke until I was shaking.

"You feel incredible,"

he groaned.

"So tight. So wet. I could stay inside you forever."

The words pushed me closer to the edge. He felt it—felt me tightening around him—and reached between us to circle my clit with his thumb.

"I'm gonna—"

"Yes. Come for me, beautiful. Let me feel you."

I shattered. The orgasm crashed through me in waves, and he worked me through every one, never stopping, never faltering. When I could see again, he was watching me with something like wonder on his face.

"Your turn."

I pushed him onto his back and climbed on top. Watched his eyes widen as he took in the view—my curves above him, my breasts swaying as I started to ride him.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I—ah—can't stop thinking it."

I rode him with everything I had. For once, I wasn't thinking about how my body looked in motion. I was too lost in the pleasure, in the way his hands gripped my hips, in the sounds he made as I took him deeper.

When he came, it was with my name on his lips and his eyes locked on mine. I collapsed onto his chest, both of us breathing hard, tangled together in the moonlit room.

⏳ Six months later

The behind-the-scenes documentary dropped last week. Cameron edited it himself, and I cried the first time I watched it.

Not because it was good—though it was. Because for the first time, I saw myself the way he did. The way the camera saw me when I wasn't trying to control every angle. Beautiful not despite my body, but because of it. Because of how I moved in it, lived in it, loved in it.

We moved in together last month. His equipment takes up half the apartment, and my ring light lives in the living room, and sometimes we argue about whose turn it is to edit first.

But every morning, he looks at me like I'm the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. And every night, he proves it with his hands and his mouth and every part of him.

I still have days when the comments get to me. When I look in the mirror and see only flaws. But now I have someone who sees what I can't. Who loves every curve, every dimple, every inch of the body I'm finally learning to love myself.

Two million followers now. And the only opinion that matters is the one sleeping next to me.

That's the real body positivity nobody talks about. Not just accepting yourself—but letting someone else see you. Really see you. And discovering that what they see is enough.

More than enough.