I laid my head back against the car seat peering at the scenery passing by me. The sky was bright blue with just a few wispy clouds and the sun shone intensely. I shook my head unable to fathom God's irony. The day should have been cold -- and miserable -- and wet to reflect my mood. Along with my inadequate body, the news I had just received had broken my spirit, seeping into the deepest part of my soul.
When we arrived home my husband helped me out of the van. I slapped his hands away from my arm. I was not such an invalid that I could not fend for myself. The hurt in his eyes immediately forced me regret my actions but only for a moment. With a manner my mother had coined as my "iron will." I marched briskly down the steps and into the house.
"Can I get anything for you, Darling?" he asked me, the pain still evident in his face.
"I just need to be alone," I answered as I retired to the bedroom, forcefully engaging the lock on the door.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror gazing at the reflection that mocked my existence. It may have been the last time I would be able to enjoy that vision. I crossed my arms in front of me, grabbed the bottom of my shirt and pulled it slowly over my head. Again I beheld the sight of myself. The silky white fabric, trimmed in matching lace, further validated the feminism of the reflection.
I had had countless styles of brassieres over the years. My mother had to cajole me into wearing that first one -- the training bra, as it was called. I wondered what the bras were training for until I discovered the answer to the enigma. They had to learn how to deal with the punishment meted out by my female friends. These friends were so awed by the size and structure of the bras that they nicknamed them -- over-the-shoulder boulder holders, slings and keepers of the dreams, just to mention a few. Envious pranksters raised them on flagpoles, froze them in kitchen freezers and forced them to make personal public appearances. Embarrassment, mixed with a certain sense of pride, was my prevailing feeling about the contraptions.
Finally I loosened the front closure of this bra, freeing its contents. I held each heavy object in a hand. Breasts. One of the noticeable physical features that separate male from female in most species. I squeezed them, kneaded them, and caressed them.
I was enjoying the feeling but not in a sexual context. I fondled them as one would care for a rare and precious gift. For I had been blessed (or cursed) with a large bust. They had always been a large part of my sense of identity. My thoughts began to turn melancholy recalling the fond, and not so fond, memories we had shared together. Then, my image in the mirror was transformed before my eyes.
I am at the tender age of ten when upon my chest two bumps begin sprouting on my chest -- bumps that are not apparent in the other girls of my age. At first I am excited to launch my journey into womanhood, but also apprehensive. I am different from my peers and in adolescence diversity is not always easy. I know, even now, that this will be the bane of my existence. The image shifts again as the bumps expand over the years into rolling hills, and finally to great mountains.
I am beginning to recognize their powers. Most males, and even females -- as I would later discover-- had a predisposed image of my character from this scenery. They erroneously assume that, due to my large chest, I was either stupid or easy -- as if God had graced me with these treasures to compensate for lack of brains or morals.
Because of this assumption, however, I never lack for dates in high school. Boys flock around me just to be near them. They range from the bold ones, who just reach out and attempt to touch them, to the underdeveloped shy ones, these are the ones who blush crimson but smile as we twirl around the dance floor with his head nestled against my bosom. They try all sorts of ways to touch them; from buying me gifts, to daring me, and even holding me down my while taunting me. In the end the majestic peaks were just too intimidating for they give up their conquest.
I have endless nicknames, also, because of their existence. The monikers range from the affectionate, Boom-Boom, to the mocking, Puffs – since the boys believe the scenery is enhance by tissues. The taunting causes me to hide my bosoms whenever possible – schoolbooks were made for this type of camouflage.
One day, to my utter astonishment, I realize that they have developed into separate creatures -- totally disconnected from me. They take on their own anatomy. Each sex of the human race gazes into them intently, so they must have their own eyes. Since most conversations are directed to my breasts, they have to possess their own ears. Oh yes, they have a mouth too, for every time I reach across the dinner table they plop right into the mashed potatoes.
As a young adult I appreciate the gifts nature bestowed. I no longer hide them. I display them proudly in low cut blouses and tight sweaters. I wield their power when I need them. At times I use them as silent promises, promises of love or protection or passion. They are very powerful tools. They define many aspects of my existence.
The vision before me in the mirror snapped me out of my memories. I continued to caress my breasts softly as I praised their existence -- something I had taken for granted for too long now. I stepped closer to the image and grabbed my left breast in both of my hands. I felt the need to memorize every feature. They were not perfect but they were mine and I wanted to cherish their imperfections. Each one bore the stretch marks from growing too quickly as they developed. A handful of small freckles dotted each one. The nipples were slightly darker than the actual breasts, covering just the tips.
Lazily, I swirled each forefinger over their surface, bringing them to hard peaks. I bent my head down into my right breast, licking and sucking the nipple. The familiar stirrings began at this site and traveled deep down to the center of my being and groin. I nipped each breast rather sharply. My breath caught in my throat for just a moment. Many lovers had performed the same acts upon my treasures -- worshipped them, and pleased me. Now it was my turn to worship these endowments. Sexual release was not intended. My intention was to show my adulation for these wondrous beings.
As the doctor's words came back to me, I realized that their life may be cut short. I was grieving for them when the tear slipped out of the corner of my eyes, running down my cheek and ironically landing upon my breast. Losing these precious, rare presents have forced me to redefine myself sexually, physically and mentally – a daunting task, to say the least.
Would I still a woman without them? Would I still be attractive? And would I still have the same desires? I read once that when a person loses a limb they can nevertheless feel it, as if it were still connected.
Send private anonymous feedback to the author (to post a public comment instead).