Over to DD

“Perhaps, my earliest memories of breasts go back to seeing my younger brother suckle my mom, tugging at her breasts with all the viciousness toothless gums can provide (or so I thought). Other than that, perhaps it was also the first time I somehow conjured a more ‘objective’ view of my mother, as a woman, distinguishable according to me by her voluminous ‘chest-pillows’ that could squirt milk when required. As I grew up, I realised my ‘tomboyish’ appearance and habits suddenly seemed to be at odds with my conceptions of feminity. A memorable incident included a family vacation, wherein I met an exceedingly pretty girl, but somehow felt so embarrassed of my painfully gawky features, that I instead preferred to play with some other boys at the hotel. Full of punkiness that can possess a 10-year-old, I would run around with them, till they discovered I was a girl and were aghast by the revelation. The discovery came about because we decided to play in a pool. I went to change clothes, and my mother made a makeshift swimsuit for me by stapling my chemise to make a tight upper body garment. Notwithstanding my skinny bare chest, it was then that I felt there was something that had to be covered. Never mind that boys have nipples too. The newfound realisation also led to some awkwardness as I gingerly stepped into the pool, and the boys immediately asked why was I “dressed up”? Suddenly feeling the heat rise up my cheeks, I replied, “Because I am a girl, dummy.” They looked at me as if I had suddenly turned into a mutant and the rest of the vacation didn’t include as many games as I would have liked.

My body remained a source of mystery, envy, and confusion as I made my way through puberty, and suddenly girls around my were popping noticeable breasts, snugly tucked into teenage bras. The sight repulsed and excited me at the same time. On one hand, it almost looked like some additional weight to be carried around, and I couldn’t imagine pulling off my usual jumping sprees with those seemingly alien protrusions. On the other hand, there was an implicit longing to experience the change in my body and change the perceptions of myself as a misfit. The lack of satisfactory growth even prompted me to beg my mom to let me wear a bra in hopes that somehow wearing one would coax my breasts to grow! I never did end up having big boobs, and somewhere along the line made peace with the fact too. I also realised that I hated bras with unusual viciousness, and had come to count myself lucky that I could usually do without wearing one for most informal settings.

Years later, I found myself troubled again, this time having met a partner I loved. At the prospect of eventually finding ourselves naked in front of each other, I felt a sudden rush of misgivings and blurted, “look, my boobs aren’t great. Don’t expect a potluck”. He just kissed me as a reply and said that he didn’t feel great about his dick either, but couldn’t say it in as many words. We shared an unexpected laugh, and needless to say, the boobs and the dick had a good time with subsequent mutual admiration. It took me a long time to feel comfortable with myself, and much of it happened when I felt confident sharing it with someone I love.”

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