Until my prophylactic mastectomy at 26, I had nice tits. A full rack. Thick, dense dew drops still unaffected by gravity’s call. Yes, mine was a bosom providing for ample cleavage, divinely aligned, like two DD scoops of butter pecan ice cream slowly melting in a silver bowl. And my nipples? Pink. Round. Yet not too pink. And not too round. And no stray pubic hairs circling them, either.
But don’t allow my ability to acknowledge that I was blessed to lead you to conclude that I liked them. I didn’t. Not on me. On a lover, certainly. Some woman walking down the street, wearing a tight shirt with a plunging neckline, yes. But as my breasts? My cleavage? Not so much. Weightlifting since eleven, I’d long fantasized about bench-pressing my way to the chest I wanted: solid, muscular man-pecks, so hard that it would hurt to punch ’em. It wasn’t, however, an image I thought I’d actually indulge.
As what felt like payback for my dislike, my nipples were often painfully cold. During high school soccer practice, despite wearing a t-shirt, padded goalie jersey, and hooded jacket and the heat generated during sprints, my erect nipples often chaffed against the soft cotton fabric of my sports bra. At home, I’d have to drown them in hot water just to get the throbbing to subside.
Though the sensitivity persisted for years, I never mentioned the issue to a doctor. To me: Breasts equaled cancer equaled death. An unwanted wart is killed by freezing it off. I figured my body was simply doing the same.
This is what you would’ve seen if you met me then: back hunched, shoulders rounded in and lifted toward my neck. I looked like I was trying to abandon part of myself, like someone unable to fill up the space of her body. I’m sure you’ve seen girls like this pass by you on the street, their feet shuffling along, eyes to the ground. As that girl, I thought that I was deft at hiding how I felt about myself. I didn’t realize that every move, every way I held myself, gave me away.
My fantasy life centered around the elaborate rituals I’d enact after the removal of my breasts. In one scenario, I’d bury their remains beneath my favorite princess tree, wrapped up in a pink flag to acknowledge their sacrifice to the nation of my body. In another, I’d ask my brother to mount them on a board like the deer heads and fish he stuffed, have him pierce the nipples with O-rings. I’d nail the plaque of them onto my front door, pull on the rings as I left for the day, tug myself into a future full of good luck. I didn’t realize then that the hospital wouldn’t let me take the carcasses home, that my body parts would be tossed into an incinerator, my flesh turned to smoke, released into our air.
In my twenties, I had lovers who wanted to enjoy my breasts, who wanted me to enjoy them, but I resisted. I assumed that bodies were incapable of accepting pleasure the mind refused. From my chest protruded two lumps of soft, inorganic clay still waiting to be cut into their final form. I didn’t want any information to the contrary.
Picture with me a typical scene: my lover and I are making out, her hand moves north, I push it away. It returns. I grab the hand, place it somewhere else. Out of politeness maybe she keeps it away for a few minutes. But eventually it returns. And at this point I’m tired of fending her off, so I acquiesce, allow the sausage casing of my flesh to be manipulated; my consciousness drifts off into the ether. And then: One. Right. Touch. Sensation moves from my breasts to my clitoris, yanking me back into my body. My nipples aren’t cold now. Warm and charged, each tweak of exquisitely applied pressure resuscitates the corpse of me. It’s uncomfortable being forced awake and in the end, not a place I can exist for long.
“Stop.”
“Why?” she replies. “You’re just starting to get into it.”
“Seriously, anywhere but there.”
“But Baby,” she pleads into my ear. “How do you expect me to stop myself? Your tits. They’re just so nice.”
Ira Feinstein, MFA 