Jumbo tools of sex

[Private journal entry written on August 20, 2009]

I keep thinking about my experience yesterday with Matt – and the part my boobs played in that experience.

I keep thinking about how these lumps of flesh affect my life in so many ways.

Whenever I think about hugging someone (like Matt), I have to first think about how the presence of my boobs will impact the other person. Will they turn him on? Will they cause impure thoughts? Do I need to hug from the side so the other person doesn’t have to be grossed out by them? They are a liability I have to manage.

Photo by Martin Chen

Even in the taking of photographs, I have to manage them so it doesn’t look like I am all boobs. The photo has to either show just my head, or my entire body – anything in between causes my boobs to dominate the photo.

I am forced to lead with these huge things – literally and figuratively. Men stare at them when I’m trying to have a serious/professional conversation. Men want to grab them, squeeze them, suck on them, frap their stuff between them – I (the person) don’t even have to be there, just my boobs. I could cut them off and mount them on a board and hang them on the wall . . . along with my pussy . . . then, men could do whatever they want with them while I remain blissfully unaware.

My boobs are simply these jumbo tools of sex that stand in the way of connection with another human being. They cause my clothes to fit weird. My bra has cut valleys into my shoulders from the weight.

I receive no pleasure or benefit from them – I have no kids, so they haven’t provided vital nutrition for anyone. I have no pleasurable sensation from them during sex . . . they are dead to sexual touch – except when pain is inflicted. I can feel the pain . . . it feeds the rape fantasy . . . the pain helps my body respond while I am absent from my body.

My entire sexuality has been rolled up and stuffed inside of these dumb boobs.

When I think about them, I flash back to my dream where my chest was sliced off . . . and it feels like my boobs of today have been sewn onto my chest of that dream . . . the raw backside of the boobs has been sewn to the raw skin of my chest. In my mind, they look like wads of flesh colored material sewn onto a cloth doll – with huge, sloppy stitches. They are not part of me. They are simply something I am required to carry around with me and shove in people’s faces.

I hate seeing these words showing up on my computer screen. When I read them, I realize how broken my sexuality is, and how disconnected I am from my gender. I hate this.

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Is it really okay to write such ugly stuff, such ugly secrets? Evan says so (here and here). I pray he is right. If he isn’t right, then it is too late now . . . my dark secrets are already exploding out of me. I can’t stop them.

I have been a carrier of shameful secrets all of my life. I am finding that the keeping of secrets brings death to my soul.

Now that I have started experiencing the relief that comes with purging my secrets, even one shameful secret feels too heavy to carry.

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