Content Note: this entry nonchalantly acknowledges that I once had breasts.
I had small breasts, A cups. During the few years between when they came around and I started binding, I mostly wore sport bras. On the rare occasions that I wore a “regular” bra, and even fewer times that was combined with a low cut top, 2 things:
- it never crossed my mind at the time, nor would it have accommodated much, to utilise my bra/chest as a more-or-less-secret “pocket”
- I never had anything fall and stay stuck in between the rather vast valley between them
To this day, when one of my friends or a character on TV pulls something out of their bosom, I have a moment of surprise and remembering that indeed, that’s a place many people wearing bras can put stuff.
Earlier today, a friend asked people with breasts to share things they’d “lost” in their cleavage. For a split second I tried to remember, see if I had anything to contribute, only to realise, nope; that’s not an experience of having breasts with which I can relate at all.
I’m grateful I’m that comfortable with revisiting my past.
Gender/sex essentialism is such a farce.