| Pirates don't have breasts. Nor do princes, zoros or ninjas. So when tiny lumps emerged underneath oversized sweatshirts, my acting carrer ended: rather retire my sword than exchange it for a purse. My arms crossed over layers of cotton, and at the core, touching skin, a sports bra, straps cutting into boney slouching shoulders. Entering junior high, pop culture invaded my consciousness, with it's supermodels, beer commercials and beauty magazines. with a subscription to seventeen at age thirteen, my tiny lumps were insufficient and unsexy. i became aware i didn't "fill out" a shirt, didn't "attract" guys. and thus came the padded bras, to give me "shape." with more cotton than flesh, shoulders still slouched, i still didn't "fit" didn't "attract." my first girlfriend was confused, then amused by my cotton "support." she touched my breasts, which fit perfectly in her palm, and with the slightest movement of her fingers sent tingles done my spine. and so i found a subculture, ditched the cotton restraint completely, and permitted easy acces for her fingers to find me. and years later, i become a drag king for the first time, strapping breasts down with ace bandage; close, tight, secure. I look at my profile, and marvel how my a-line shirt falls on my breastless flattness, with hair peaking out from beneith armpits adding to the effect. I strut down the streets of The Castro, imitating the strides and gestures of men around me. I walk tall, shoulders thrown back "how YOU doin?" as i remove the ace bandage, my tiny breasts cautiously peak out, free to breathe again. but now, the a-line shirt doesn't hang quite right and i long for the closeness of binding. i re-discover my sports bras, and watch as my tiny breast dissapear once again, only this time, not completely. i walk across campus, feeling my breasts close to my chest, like pectoral muscles, no, like a flat chested dyke. so fucking what. this time, my shoulders are thrown back and i hold my head high. "how YOU doin?" |
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| Breasts |
| Written 5/30/02 |