Passing Thoughts #3

I still miss my breasts.

People told me it would pass. That feeling the phantom sway of bosom would ebb and eventually trail off into my new freedom. People told me I could wear v-necks, play pool, stand on the bus without an all-consuming awareness of the size of my breasts. I should be freem from the shackles of femininity.

I never felt shackled by my own femininity – I never felt I had enough to fetter me, honestly. I felt bound by society’s response to my breasts. The confusion, fascination, or fury people inevitably felt in reply to my shaved head butch frame with tits that no longer fit into an affordable bra. Some would shout out excitement or confusion at what they saw, and then as my stance or words made it clear my breasts weren’t available to them the anger would grow. By the time I walked past people on the street, some tried to beat me up. Some succeeded. People followed me home, determined to prove I was just as available to them as any other person with huge tits. It never failed. The shirts that never fit right, the pool cue chalk dust on the pockets of my button downs, the strangers on public transit accidentally rubbing up against me never bothered me that much. It was the anger that I wasn’t what I seemed.

And still, I miss my breasts.