Boobs: A Monologue

First performed at the performance “Beyond Cisterhood,” an alternative piece to the Vagina Monologues.

My breasts have gotten heavy again. Ok, can I just say… I hate the word “breasts.” It’s too clinical, too precocious. “Boobs,” on the other hand, is just way too childish. Not gonna lie, I actually prefer “tits,” not that I’ve ever really been able to fit into that category. At least not since 4th grade.

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God, I thought I was past this already. I was sure the years of carving out shoulder dents with bra straps was behind me. I was gonna be held, someone was finally gonna want me, grab me, hold me and never let go. Squeeze me tighter and tighter, constricting me. Tighter, tighter. I don’t want to breathe, tighter, tighter. I don’t want to think, I just want to fall inside, deeper deeper, bound by another’s arms. I want to feel – female. I want to be able to look into a mirror and understand exactly how I fit into this body. How this body fits with whatever it is I feel inside. I’ve never been delicate or feminine, but I am a woman! God, I can’t even say the word. I just never looked the way I thought a woman should look. At least, not the kind I felt underneath.

I want to be admired, ogled, lusted after, and goddamn it, somebody grope me already! Please, anybody, just want me, take me, please, before my tits balloon out to heavy sandbags again. Before my back pain returns to full force.

But I’m already back there again – behemoth breasts that only appear under certain sections of porn sites. Big Beautiful Woman with monster boobs – but at least it’s taped proof that my size can be considered attractive. People grab at them, hold them, yank them, harder harder – want me! Want me so bad that you will grab me so hard that you can’t ever let go.

I grew up terrified. I covered myself as much as I possibly could, the way I was supposed to, just to avoid the slightest possibility of someone leering at me. To avoid the stares and whispers, the gasps when people realized my true age. It’s not that I didn’t want young romance and sexual exploration. No, this was something different – not the innocent infatuation associated with 13 year olds. But disgusting, slobbering lust and the overflowing bust of the whore everyone despises but will romp around with in the sack if there’s no one else. One glance from a man would send me shivering. Goes to show what happens when a 12-year old is hit on by someone four years older than them. I wanted to be touched, but not in the way I was convinced they would want to touch me. But with women – I felt safer, I felt valued, I felt a rich warmth I didn’t recognize. I felt like I could be the woman I felt inside. I just needed to find a way to bring her out on my own, without relying on anyone else.

A breast reduction gave me the chance to try all the things that I felt excluded from. I finally flirted with the belief that a relationship could follow. I finally grinded with people at dances, I finally felt good in what I wore. I was unburdened, I felt free. I finally looked and felt the way I had yearned for, for as long as I can remember. I had permission to feel sexy in an attractive way, in a way worthy of romance, love. I felt like a woman. I want people to look, to lust, to fantasize. Not that I wanted to be the ideal or anything, just someone’s fantasy, their true desire. But no – I will always be seen as the sleazy whore who’s allowed to want sex, but never be wanted.

Take me. Bind me, take me because you can. Because you desperately want to. Tight, tighter, tight. Make me feel the pleasure I’m not allowed to feel. Make me feel what I don’t deserve to feel. I’m supposed to cover up because I’m disgusting. Showing myself is unseemly. I’m not ogled, I’m disdained. And I finally have my chance, and I’m this close to blowing it. My shot to be sexy in the way that I want, to feel united with this body I’ve supposedly been blessed with. But I’ve got to wake up. The opportunity’s already gone.

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