unbound

when i was in high school, i powerlifted and crude peers joked that my "tits would get hard." this didn't seem like a problem to me, but i knew what they intended to mean—small breasts, flat, more like pecs, defined and masculine. how derogatory of a woman. unfitting and disgusting. my irreverence toward gendered expectations bristled, challenged, and disturbed some. it excited others.

one boy told me he couldn't wait for it. the day that, when we were all grown up, he would see me on the street with my "hard tits," and be proud. strikingly odd fantasy bordering on fetish aside, it was a sentiment that i found affirming.

i often wonder what that same boy might say about my flat chest now.

would he still be proud? or mad, like the other straight-cis-men, that, according to toxic and reductive masculinity, could no longer find me fuckable. a pity. a waste.

2022

when i scheduled my top surgery and announced it to friends and family, people generally supported. the close and dear ones who knew i bound myself tightly every day, swam with t-shirts on or avoided swimming entirely, and flinched when new, flattering, or excited people came too close to touching my chest, also knew how important this was to me. there were those in my life, mostly cis-women i'm not as close to, who didn't understand. who hadn't witnessed my pain and dysphoria, and therefore couldn't fathom why i would do something so "extreme."

"mutilation,"

some said.

"could never be me,"

said others, as if my decision was a direct request for them to follow suit.

"how far do you plan to take this?" asked one brave soul in my family. she can never know the lengths i will go to reject the gender binary, so why explain it?

but that's not what she was asking anyway. yet again, i knew what she intended to mean.

2018

when a person asks about your genitalia and you're not in a doctor's office, that is generally considered a sign of concern.

but if you don't conform to the expectations for binary gender expression, you have relinquished your right to privacy. people will ask, touch, or feel anything they are curious about.

when she asked how i had a bulge in my slacks, we were outside the reception hall of my brother's wedding, smoking a cigarette. she was a bridesmaid and the wife of someone standing with my brother.

she reached for the cigarette and my crotch at the same time.

i took a step back and laughed.

"what's down there?" she cooed.

"a silicone packer," i replied.

she asked to touch it. her husband laughed as she extended her arm, grabbing the zippered portion of my pants and rubbing downward.

"that's fucked up," my plus one snapped, staring at her with eyes wide. she grabbed my arm and pulled me away quickly.

we left the reception and went to a gay bar to dance and sweat with our people.

2023

when i got my bandages and tubes removed post-op, i cried. maybe from pain, stiffness from being unable to use my full range of motion. maybe from the relief of having the tubes removed, they had begun to irritate and unnerve me. maybe from alignment, until that point, seeing a flat bare chest on my body had only happened in dreams.

now i had it.

i was looking at it in a mirror, and thought

what incredible pain we must endure to feel such unrelenting joy.

perhaps because it was so painful, it was so joyous to heal and reveal

the chest my body had been aching for.

2017

when i tattooed "earnestly" on my thigh, it wasn't just a tribute to a friend passed,

it was a promise to myself.

to be myself, no matter what others said or thought of me.

i feel no end to this gender journey, no particular goal except to authentically express myself my whole life,

whatever that looks like.