Boobs

Boobs


Thérèse Dreaming by Balthus

Today’s story is about boobs. My boobs. My personal boobs story. Here it is.

I was a tomboy. I ran in a flock of boys and had to be the fastest, the boldest and the most temerarious. I climbed so high that firemen brigade had to rescue me couple of times and I wandered in a graveyard at night when everybody else was shitting their pants. I didn’t possess even one skirt and my mother tore her hairs thinking I’m lesbian. And then very unexpectedly for all the participants of this story my boobs suddenly grew. It happened like this. In October I put a thick sweater on and when I took it off in April there they were. Big! Heavy! Uncontrollable! They had a life of they own and we definitely didn’t match. They were ridiculously jumping not only up and down but also sideways. Left and right at every step. They seemed to wake up at random times and then a perky nipple would peak to the outside world. They had to be restrained by an uncomfortable piece of clothes that seemed to be a lacy version of a horse harness. And an expensive version too.

I hated them. Big deal.

I was 14. I wasn’t a girl anymore but far from a woman. I had long skinny legs, long skinny arms, no waistline and these two ridiculous boobs on my chest. Young transsexual.

But there was something else. Something beyond physical change.

Alien to men attention before I suddenly became a magnet. Men looked at me in a different way now and it made me shriek. I could feel their gazes on my skin. Some tried to talk to me and there was always this air of ambiguity in the way they approached me.

I wasn’t unaware of what these men wanted. Being a curious mind I long knew what do the bees do to flowers but wasn’t exactly yearning to participate in that theater of the absurd. I was very very very but let me tell you again very unhappy about this soft tissue addition. I wanted to be like Mulan and soldier Jane and not like that beach guard with tight communist colored swimsuit. Huge disappointment.

Nobody knows how it would end. Maybe I’d become anorexic or like Saint Agata took a more drastic decision. Luckily my body decided to show some mercy and couple of month after the discovery of the flesh Vesuvius on my front side it flooded my brain with hormones opening me a dazzling world of desire, excitement and lust. Little change to my reading habits from Astrid Lindgren and Louisa May Alcott to a well-known marquis finished the transformation. By next summer we were friends and offered the fruit of our friendship to  a sweet lover boy who in the darkness of a forest night pushed me against a pine tree, lifted the immaculately white t-shirt and closed his lips around my left nipple making the amount of starts in the sky quadruplicate and whirl like in Van Gogh’s painting. 


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