My Relationship with Breasts

Monday night was a poetry event at my favorite bar. When asked if I would read something I asked about the themes and was told, “erotica”

The piece below is the one I wrote to share with crowd, but the motivation wasn’t simply drawn from nowhere, you see I had been thinking about breasts since the previous week, specifically my breasts. I had had my annual mammogram the week before. That annual event speaks to several thoughts I have,

First, my intake of hormones, as confirmed by said breasts, is always a concern in these matters.

Next is the fact that my mother had breast cancer when I was still in high school. I don’t know if familial breast cancer concerns past the gender change, but why not be cautious.

Finally, it provides a degree of validation of my femininity, and a shared experience with women everywhere.

With that said I have been given an additional insight into the world of women. The cold shiver at the phone call, that they have found something suspicious on my mammogram. I need to come back for an additional mammogram plus an ultrasound.

Hit by an emotional sledgehammer I spent the 3 day weekend musing over the importance my breasts play in my sexual self. I could have lived quite nicely without having a breast cancer scare, but it has certainly made the point clear that I do inhabit a different world now and it is most certainly real.


My long and troubled relationship with my body began so many years ago

An erotic desire held in the darkest corner of my transgender mind.

Naturally it all began with breasts, the universally visible,

Forbidden objects of fascination, of desire, of infinite envy,

A gateway drug to my sexual self, an aid to fantasy of my feminine body

Each momentary brush against an extraordinarily sensitive nipple

Producing a breath catching shudder, private exploration and secret exultation.

Yet each foray into my trans desires, each caress of a waiting nipple,

Each flutter of arousal demanded full payment in shame,

To keep me from ever doing that again, to prevent the enjoyment of my body.

It didn’t work, the scars I collected are simply receipts willingly paid

In tribute, for each journey into my feminine desire.

When I discovered, somewhat late in life, I could be who I wanted to be

It began the search for the proper parts, a monumental personal scavenger hunt.

I often written of what I lost in transition.

My house, my marriage, my friends, my muscles…

My penis, although admittedly that was more of a recycling project,

What I gained in return, breasts, oh those breasts

When the hormones had begun to fulfill their promise

I began my daily vigil, each day the question, are they there yet?

Each week a surreptitious feel for change.

Then wonder of wonders, yes now I can feel them

Slight mounds at first, then a slightly cupped handful,

Each month more sensation, nipples rising, areolas darkening, widening

Sensitivity growing, shivers of pleasure as they meet the coarse fabric of  a shirt.

Finally, round and firm handfuls straining at shirt buttons.

With the recycled penis transformed to vagina, a vulva and clitoris

The dreams of a lifetime have become reality.

My quest for my own pleasure has finally been fulfilled,

Again and again and again……

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