I sometimes wonder why the male species pay so much attention to breasts. I really don’t get it. Yes, they are peculiar additions to the female body, but what makes them so captivating that every man must stop in his tracks to either gawk at or make some lustful sexual comment about them. I just don’t get it.
But then, I wish that I had breasts too. That my chest wasn’t so flat. That they would grow and become fairly noteworthy, or even – dare I say it – an ogle or two. That my body composition would not appear to be so much like a male. I do my best to stay within the parameters of what my body is meant to do and to look like, but I cannot escape the overwhelming desire to judge, pose, and touch my own body, making sure that I still can maintain a feminine appearance. I am not obsessed with this desire, but rather find an exquisite beauty in the curvature of the female body.
I dream of smooth, unblemished skin. I fawn over the hourglass-shaped silhouette, existing only to reflect the perfection I seek in the full-body mirror of my quarters. It is mine, and I will not let go of this seductive, enticing dream to touch myself, guiding my index finger up my slender, but certainly not anorexic, frame and know that this body is truly my own…and not my lover’s.
Though we are one, their body is theirs. My body is mine.