A Conversation of Anatomy : Boobs

I suppose for the sake of anatomy I should have used breasts, but everyone knows what boobs are and my friend Barefoot has taken over a meme called Boobday, so I thought I’d join in. Because, you know, sharing is caring.

At the tip….

Instead of beginning at the beginning, I’ll start here… It was around my last birthday, as I was standing in the mirror, lifting one breast and then the other, letting them drop and jiggle, whilst calculating the distance they have fallen from their original perch, when Mister K asked what I was doing. Honestly, I was reminiscing, and perhaps feeling a bit sorry for myself. And maybe also a bit angry for not enjoying them when they were perky and higher up on my chest.

I said as much

And I was given a blunt reminder…

Well, you’re not twenty anymore, you can’t expect your boobs to look as they are….

He had a valid point. They’ve had twenty extra years of life. How many times had I looked in the mirror and not judged only my breasts but my entire body the same way? Compared it to a younger versions? Or worse, to someone else?

Back to the Beginning with Boobs

I have always had a complicated relationship with my breasts. I was a not a girly girl for most of my life, and would argue that I still am not, although my femininity is more evident now. I had no use for breasts, and as I grew and so did they, they sorta just got in the way. And the pain. Why must everything about becoming a women involve a form of pain?

As they grew and I got older, I still didn’t see the value in mine. I say mine as I certainly noticed others forming, and as young people are prone to do, I looked. I’m not sure if I was at the comparison stage in life yet, or if it was simple curiosity, but it wasn’t hard to see the difference of shape, size and positioning.

As much as I appreciated others breasts’ (because let’s be honest, what’s not to appreciate?), I didn’t want to show mine off, preferring sweaters and baggy clothes and I certainly didn’t want them touched. That was the extent of my relationship with my boobs all the way until adulthood, which was okay, because my sexual relationships up to that point involved little to no breast play anyway.

When one door closes…..

Another opens. The things about doors is, sometimes when you open them you find things you wish you’d not seen, but I can not say the same about breasts. Once I followed the trail down the road to BDSM, I found a new appreciation for my boobs. They are a vestige of feelings and sensations and hold a very unique key to my vulnerability and my voyeurism.

A headspace us created when I’m engaged in nipple, or breast play. When rope slides across the supple skin, or clamps block the flow of blood. When they take repeated cane strikes, or are pinched and pulled to the full extent. When the bruises are left behind as tiny reminders of how strong they, and I have become.

Maybe I owe my boobs an apology

It’s hardly the fault of my boobs that I have high expectations of them, or that I feel they don’t bring me value. Because for all the abuse, and hatred I’ve put towards them. The days I’ve cursed the stretch marks, or flicked my lazy left nipple wondering why it was so slow to respond, they’ve turned into fine breasts, suited for a woman who has lived 20 extra years, with everything that’s included.
I think I’ll show them off a little more.