Note: This is a re-post of something I wrote on Tumblr last summer. I share it here because some of you did not get to see it, and to test some new stuff I tried to add to my WordPress. I hope you enjoy it.
I often worry about what’s ahead of me, but the last few days I’ve found myself worrying about what’s not in front of me. To be more accurate I worry about what’s not in front of me between my waist and my chin: breasts.
Or whatever the hell you want to call them: boobs, ta-tas, tits, chi-chis, melons… whatever juvenile euphemism you care to use they’ve been on my mind. I know finally having the real deal (and not the sad foam-rubber substitutes I currently must be satisfied with) will not make me a “real” woman. At least, I know this in my head. My heart, however is convinced I cannot feel womanly without them. I’m to the point where, consequences be damned, I’m ready to order estrogen and testosterone-blockers on-line and self administer.
I’m not alone either, and I don’t just mean amongst the trans woman community. A dear friend of mine, this strong, intelligent, liberated cis woman confided that before she had children she had not been terribly well endowed. Pregnancy changed all that and she told me that afterwards she felt more feminine.
As a solid three on the Kinsey Scale I can admit to finding breasts pleasing, both aesthetically and (if memory serves) sexually. What I can’t understand is the absolute power they have over us, all of us. I’ve known gay men, men who found the mention of the word vagina abhorrent, that were fascinated by a woman’s ample chest.
I understand that we are bombarded by the disgusting degree to which woman are objectified in our culture. I know that this is at least partly to blame. We get saturated with other ideas as well however. None of these other ideas seem to take hold as universally. Maybe there is something primal about us that beckons to us from the time when a nice set meant life or death for your offspring. I just don’t know.
I… we… probably never will know. We’ll feel inadequate, aroused, ashamed and amused without ever really understanding why. All I know is I want mine. Failing that I wouldn’t mind those of another.