Me, My Breasts, & I

Copyright by Trish Causey.

I always hated my breasts.

For most of my life that was all I was good for. Having breasts. And thick hair. Breasts and hair. That was me in a nutshell. Nevermind that I was intelligent, talented in the performing and literary arts, a Girl Scout, an honor student, an activist, a nice person. None of that mattered. I had thick, red hair and large, lust-inducing breasts.

I woke up one morning at the age of 10, and POOF! There they were. Size C practically overnight. Not long after, I was up to a DD. I went from being the wallflower nerd in 5th grade to getting weird looks from the boys who glanced at me from lowered eyelids but no longer talked to me.

At age 11, my ballet teacher measured me for my recital costume and announced (in front of my class, much to my horror) that my measurements were 37-26-37. She then had the nerve to tell me if I gained an inch in my waist, I’d have perfect measurements. I had recently started my period and was about to get braces. Having “perfect measurements” at age 11 was nowhere on my radar. And neither were boyfriends.

I was 13, working backstage at an international ballet competition, when a German photographer wanted to take “pictures” of me.

At age 15, I had my first experience of being mauled by a guy — a fellow cast member of a show, who was my ride home after a rehearsal. I got into his car, and as I began to put my seatbelt on, he climbed in on top of me and forcibly kissed me and groped my breasts roughly. With no other way to get home, I thought I had to let him do what he wanted so he wouldn’t leave me there at the deserted building at 10 o’clock at night. Lucky for me, my leotard didn’t have snaps at the crotch.

Working tech on a play, I stood backstage during a performance while one of the actors paced in the wings. Heavy character make-up covered his face. He stopped in front of me, looked at my breasts, and said, “If I didn’t have all this make-up on, I’d put my face in there and—” He shook his head vigorously back and forth. I had no idea what to say to that. He was married — with daughters. I was 16.

When I was volunteering with a ballet company at age 18, the ballet master of a Russian dance troupe attacked me in the Green Room after everyone else had left. Before I knew what was happening, he shoved me into a corner, maneuvered both of my arms behind me, and held my wrists in one of his hands while his other hand untucked my blouse. He grabbed my breasts and squeezed them hard. I was shocked by the pain. He pushed his knee between my legs which were trapped in a pencil skirt. The more I fought, the stronger he became. My only recourse when he kissed me was to bite his tongue as hard as I could. He backed off immediately, blood pouring from his mouth. I tucked in my shirt and told him he was never to do that again. Even in this situation, my Southern upbringing would not allow me to be rude.

Around this time, I was performing in a dance-intense musical. For the beginning of Act I, I wore a bra that showed off the curve of my breasts, but for the big tap-dance number at the end of Act I, I would change into a compression bra to help prevent bouncing. The local TV station came to film us during a dress rehearsal; and due to the tight filming schedule, there would be no costume change in between numbers. We performed one musical number that was mostly singing; and I asked if I could change really quickly, but the costume mistress said, “No.” I implored her, “I really need to change.” Again, “No.” I was tempted not to dance in the big tap number, but I was required to. Torn between dancing full-out or just marking it since I wasn’t wearing my compression bra, I attempted a middle-of-the-road approach to minimize my breasts bouncing up-and-down too much. Afterward, the costume mistress couldn’t look me in the eye. I asked, “Well?” She said, “It was … obscene.” Labeling my breasts as “obscene” damaged me more than I realized at the time.

At age 20, I traveled with a theatre company to South Korea for an international theatre competition. I was friendly with the troupe from Tblisi, in the Republic of Georgia. Just friends. Nothing happened. It was brought to my attention on the plane-ride home that almost everyone in the competition thought I’d fucked the entire acting company from Tblisi … and some of the Germans … and a French guy.

Back in the States, I was cast in another play. Sitting in the dressing room before one show, I was getting dressed when the male director walked in unannounced, holding his camera. He started snapping pictures, laughing at the women’s shrieks of dismay. He saw me in my bra as I was putting on my top, and he smirked as he took several pictures without asking my permission. I was taken aback but tried to play it off. Inside, I felt violated. The women’s dressing room no longer felt like a safe space.

At 21 and working the ballet competition again, I was more fully aware of my seeming powers over men, and I was ready to be slightly more proactive. An Adonis of a male dancer from Cuba lusted after me, but his partner didn’t make it to Round 2, so I couldn’t take that opportunity to the next step. I was surprisingly relieved. A ballet master from Spain wanted me; and one night while we were making out, he, of course, grabbed my breasts first. The intensity of the situation was too much, and while he wiped off his fogged-up glasses, I made an excuse about needing to do something and left.

I didn’t understand what the big fuss was about. I would think back to when I was 9, when my molestor, who lived down the street, would admire the beginnings of my breasts. She was greatly thrilled when my breasts came in when I was 10. The sexual abuse went on for two years, and I didn’t tell anyone because she threatened to kill my dog if I told. I lived in fear. And shame.

This, coupled with all the other sexually traumatic events, made me leery of sex. I was sexually attracted to men but simultaneously fearful of men.

I was still a virgin at 21 when I was raped. I knew the guy, and we were in my bedroom, just talking, fully clothed. With no warning, he was suddenly inside me. The pain was unimaginable. I felt like I was falling backward but still held in place. I almost blacked out as the room seemed to swim around me. He repeatedly ran his fingernails up and down my chest and across my bra. Then he commented that he’d dreamt of the day when he could get his hands on my breasts. I bled for four days, but I still felt his nails on my skin.

At the time, date-rape was not considered “real” rape. I was so embarrassed that I was still a virgin at 21 that I did not report the rape for fear the policemen would laugh at me. Or worse: it was too much to fathom sitting in a courtroom, having to explain why I had never had sex, when everyone around me thought I was a slut.

For years, everyone thought I was a “loose girl” because I had large breasts. Everyone just assumed I was a “certain way” because my Irish anatomy was genetically predisposed to being full-figured. Well, with the date-rape, I’d finally been penetrated.

My breasts were never pin-up fabulous, but they were large. And I was proud of them — but only because I knew they gave me power over men. At one theatre orgy when I was 24, a guy wanted time with them, so I laid back on the bed, preening, until he said — out loud where everyone heard, “They went to the sides.” I responded, “Yes, that’s what breasts do.” He replied, “Nevermind. They’re just sacks of skin.” Everyone laughed. And I was humiliated. He was accustomed to breasts that didn’t move, defied gravity, and were perfect(ly fake). As large as mine were, my breasts didn’t measure up.

Aged 25 and working as a leasing consultant at an apartment property, I’d forgotten the cardinal rule of being big-busted — never wear form-fitting sweaters. Sure enough, as I sat at my desk, a paint contractor I’d never seen before walked into the office. He took one look at my sweater and exclaimed, “Damn, but don’t you put Dolly Parton to shame!” How a complete stranger thought this was appropriate to say to me boggled my mind. Why he thought that was an appropriate thing to say in the workplace confuses me to this day.

In my late 20’s, I was having dinner at a restaurant with a male friend. At one point, I sat down at the nearby piano and played an arpeggiated song that looked much more difficult than it actually was, with fancy crossing-one-hand-over-the-other repeatedly up-and-down the keys throughout the piece. My friend leaned on the piano and said, “Do that again.” So, I did. “Again,” he encouraged me. So, I did, thinking he was impressed with my adequate piano skills. “You like that part, do you?” I remarked. He answered with a lascivious smile, “I like how your breasts get squeezed together when you cross your arms.” I stopped playing. And I have not played the piano in public ever since.

I hated my breasts, and I wanted them gone. I thoroughly researched breast reduction. I watched every nerd-channel show on plastic surgery, scrutinizing the process and the results. I even worked for a plastic surgeon and felt I could practically do a breast reduction consult and procedure myself by that point.

When I was married, I frequently asked my then-husband to massage my back to help release the knots. These massages were never spa-worthy or romance-novel-sexy. They were painful — horribly-hot, sharp, stabbing, searing-pain painful.

From the nape of my neck to the bottom of my ribs, from one shoulder across to the other, my back was one, huge knotted mass of constricted muscles and pinched nerves — for years. Constant back pain affected how I walked and how I slept — when I could sleep. Permanent red grooves still scar my shoulders from their weight.

I thought my marriage might work out. Things had looked up for a while, and I had surprised myself by thinking that I might actually grow to love him again. One afternoon, I was in the kitchen and made mention, quite off the cuff, that I had decided to have the breast reduction surgery. He shook his head, quickly getting angry, and he actually pouted.

I inquired what was wrong, and he said, “If you go through with it, I’ll never be able to make love to you again.” I was taken aback. “What are you saying?” I asked him. Still pouting, he said, “I would take one look at those hideous purple scars and be too disgusted to be aroused.” That cut me to my soul. And it solidified for me that he’d never truly loved me. No man ever had or ever would. I was nothing but breasts and hair to men.

External projections of cultural stereotypes compelled self-loathing within me I never would have imagined possible. Simply having large breasts made my body a target for repeated sexual abuse, and society assumed I “wanted” it or “deserved” it just because of the way my body developed when I was a child.

As an adult, I’ve given birth to a daughter, whom I breastfed. I purposely gained weight so my husband wouldn’t want to have sex, and I purposely stayed overweight in the hopes that men would leave me alone. Being obese wrecked my thyroid, made me pre-Diabetic, raised my blood pressure, and worsened my tendency for swelling in my legs and feet. Going through Hurricane Katrina and the subsequent post-traumatic stress certainly didn’t help. Nevertheless, I escaped my hellhole marriage a few years later and began a path of reclaiming my dreams, my identity, and my body.

I began an orgasm awakening practice based on Tantrik principles because reaching orgasm during masturbation was a laborious chore and I had never orgasmed during sex. A friend suggested I try sensual massage. I thought it was hokey, but I tried it anyway. At the same time, I read Tantric Orgasm for Women, that included a breast meditation, which I also thought was hokey. But I tried it anyway.

The sensual self-massage put me in touch with my body in a gentle, caressing way that I’d never experienced. I realized then that I had never been touched gently…. Ever…. By anyone…. Tingles rippled up and down my body. Energy zinged up my spine, across my scalp, and tickled my face.

The breast meditation involved gently holding my breasts from the outside while mentally entering my breasts from the inside. From my center. From my heart. This was the first time I experienced my breasts in relationship to my body and how they come from me. Since I was 9 years old, the attention my breasts received has been from the external world passing judgment, as other people groped, grabbed, shoved, clawed, and lusted after my breasts, while society applied the scarlet letter of shame to me.

My breasts had been the victim, not my enemy. For the first time in my life, I experienced my breasts as a part of me, and I cried uncontrollably. Holding my breasts, I wanted to apologize for ever hating them and sending decades of negativity to them.

I’m now a single mom, many pounds lighter, getting healthy once again; and I am infinitely happier. I’m living the life of my dreams.

While laying in bed one night, I noticed a woman on my laptop’s screen. I thought, “Wow, her breasts look good.”  I then realized the screen was dark due to the screen saver, and the breasts I saw were mine. I looked good laying down — with my breasts to the sides as large breasts are wont to do.

It was at that moment I knew without a doubt that I will never have breast reduction surgery. After years of wanting my breasts gone, I cannot imagine having them cut now. Knowing that the surgeon will slice through every nerve around the nipple-areolar complex — which is wired directly to my clitoris — and then the surgeon will remove a huge triangle of nerve-rich skin from the underside of each breast, simply hurts my heart — not to mention what it might do to my orgasms. (I don’t let anything mess with my orgasms!) After making peace with my breasts and experiencing such wonderful sensations and incredible orgasms directly because of them, I can’t fathom not having them exactly as they are.

My breasts will never grace a magazine’s centerfold, and they’d never withstand the scrutiny of men accustomed to ogling implants and the “perfect” breasts of 20-somethings in skin-mags or porn. I will never look good bra-less, and swimsuits will always be my arch-nemesis. I can live with that. And however society chooses to judge my non-perky, not-perfect breasts is society’s waste of time and energy. I have other things to do than worry about what other people think — which I can’t control anyway.

My breasts may never seem perfect to anyone else. But they will always be mine. And I love my breasts.

trish

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0 Replies to “Me, My Breasts, & I”

  1. Several years ago I took part in a new play workshop at a college.
    I had recently read “Reviving Ophelia” and I had an idea for a play about women and growing up. So I “interviewed” the cast–well, half the cast, the young women. I was astonished that EVERY ONE OF THEM had some story about abuse or unwanted sexual attention in the hallways at school or something in that whole category of awful stories.
    I was astonished because, while I knew that sort of thing went on sometimes, I thought it was mostly individual cases here and there. I just did not have any clue that it was such an incredibly wide-spread problem. That sort of aggressive sexuality was just never a part of my experience growing up. And I suppose when I was in jr. high and high school, it was so far from my mind, from my sense of possible behavior, that if it was there, I just did not see it.
    It reminds me of the one time in college when I walked in on a couple of people making out and groping each other in the dorm bathroom late one weekend. I had no clue such things went on. And why wasn’t I involved in them!?

    Anyway…I think it’s great for you that you are loving your body. And I think it’s tragic that it’s taken you so long to get there. I’m sorry for the pain you’ve dealt with, and I applaud your willingness to share your experiences with the world.

    1. Thank YOU for writing this comment. It is SO important for men to understand women’s perspective, and vice versa. Having directed ‘Vagina Monologues,’ I know firsthand how women rejoice in a chance to share their experiences that they otherwise think are not valid. Many women hide deep pain that’s been systematically inflicted upon them most of their lives. I hope men start to see women as more than just a vagina with breasts for men’s pleasure any time men want it, any way men want it. And we need more men like you who DO value women and our bodies. 😀

  2. Thank you for sharing your journey. I love that you love your breasts, now! I am happy for you, because I know how deep and arduous this type of journey is. Much love to you!

  3. Thank you for sharing your story. I smiled at the much deserved happy ending when you realized it was your reflection in the laptop screen. I am going to share this with my girlfriend in the morning. I think she’ll benefit from your experience, she too has “Irish anatomy” and has received much unwanted attention because of it. I am ashamed to admit it, but, the first time I saw her 38 DDD breasts, it was a little off-putting because of how porn had twisted my view of what is normal, but I soon had the realization that “Oh, this is what real breasts are!” Now I appreciate them as they deserve. I’m glad you appreciate yours too. I’m sure they are equally beautiful.

    1. Hey! Thanks so much. And don’t say you’re “ashamed to admit” you were deluded by porn! It’s an epidemic. I’m working on several posts right now on this very thing. And remember, men are as much affected by male stereotypes as women are by the silicone Barbie fakery. But we can overcome it by communicating with each other, just like we’re doing now.

      I hope you’re girlfriend will write a comment as well, and be sure to forward this article to ALL THE MEN you know! 😀

      trish

  4. Hey Trish,
    Thanks for your wonderful blog, I am so glad you’re loving yourself in this way having had those terrible experiences. I too am astounded at how widespread men’s inability to control themselves in the presence of beauty and especially full breasts. My first girlfriend was well endowed at an early age (and a redhead too BTW!) she was constantly harassed by leering and groping men, I just don’t get why they think they have a right to do this.
    Anyway, love your work.
    p

  5. I shared your story with my girlfriend. She enjoyed it and could relate to it in many ways. I don’t think she has gotten around to leaving you a comment yet though. I wanted to ask if you would like to be email penpals. You are very knowledgeable about all things natural and spiritual. I’ve always associated the word “spiritual” with religion but you define it as something else entirely. I have so many curiosities about things like yoga, nutrition, sex, and the right way to view and treat women. My email is Fantist@gmail.com. Hope to hear from you soon! 🙂

  6. So deeply touched me, resonated with my own journey. I did have a breast reduction at age 19 though. I had already suffered so much shame from being groped in the halls in high school, using the power of my breasts seduction, severe back pain and dents in my shoulders, desperately wanting to look like my friends in bikinis while getting disapproving looks from them for how I looked in mine. I often wonder how my body would look now if I hadn’t done it. I wonder how my sex would be different if I hadn’t lost so much sensitivity. I am saddened that I didn’t have anyone help me process my experiences before I had part of my body cut away. I grieve the loss now. And it is beautiful too. My scars are there helping me embrace the grief, love that little girl so desperately wanting to be loved for me.

    Thank you for your raw and beautiful sharing!

    1. Hey, there!

      Thank you so much for taking the time to comment on this IMPORTANT issue from the female perspective of post-surgery experience. Again, I wanted breast reduction for almost 2 decades! Two things kept me from doing it — #1 – I gained weight after having my daughter, and I didn’t want the result to be skewed when I lost the weight… and #2 – the MONEY!

      I support any woman who DOES choose to have the breast redux surgery. The years of misery, bullying, sexual abuse, and horrible physical pain are almost unbearable at times.

      BUT! You CAN learn to love yourself and re-learn your body’s sexual/sensual response post-surgery. I personally think you can re-learn sexual/sensual feeling through KSMO and other energy paths like Kundalini, Tantra, Tao, or similar. I would suggest you get an individual teacher if you want to pursue Kundalini or Tao — that kind of energy awakening isn’t always pleasant to go through alone. These paths stimulate the autonomic/ parasympathetic nervous system, so the nerve damage may be a moot point.

      I look forward to hearing from you again if you feel comfortable commenting here or on any other post!

      Take care,
      trish

  7. As a man, I have often felt simultaneously horrified, ashamed, and outraged at the many violent ways that members of my gender have treated women across a wide spectrum of interactions. I find sexual violence and intimidation particularly horrifying and infuriating. I am very sorry for all the monstrous ways men have treated you. These men are criminals in my view deserving of severe punishment.

    It’s a bit difficult to switch from the feeling of outrage to my feelings about women and their breasts, but here goes. I don’t have a size or firmness preference at all. In my case, if I care for the woman romantically, then her breasts are fetching to me regardless of their size or relative firmness. While I am capable of being attracted before the onset of romantic feelings, it also remains true that desirability often follows my heart.

  8. Thank you for your insight. My daughter has been talking about have a reduction after her last child and I will share this page with her. I am particularly concerned with the statement you made about severing of the nerves, etc. I suppose a doctor would disclose all of the downsides of such a procedure.

  9. Great article! You are so right. I can’t even imagine my wife being able to have an orgasm without some twiddling of her nipples. Sometimes she has orgasms just from doing that. Also, women should love their breasts–no matter what size or shape. The majority of men don’t like overly perfect, fake looking, cookie-cutter breasts. I’ve always loved all types of breasts. They can be big, small, flat, big nipple, inverted nipple, big aeola, small aeola–they are all BEAUTIFUL!

  10. Trish–loved reading your article.

    The older I get, the more and more I am fascinated by women and their views of the world. When a woman lets me into her mind and I get to know her I lose all potentially judgmental views of her anatomy. When I fall in love with her mind I almost automatically love everything else about her.

    Even when we are not likely to make love, because we are both with others, she senses my appreciation of her and responds. She begins to carry herself like my yoga instructor. Her voice changes. She smiles more often, and sometimes whispers a confidence she might not have shared with just anyone.

    Of course, depending on her history, she may be more cautious even when we have made a loving but respectful contact–mind to mind. But, one is not just trying to apply a technique that somehow directs another toward specific conscious and non-conscious responses. It’s an approach to interacting that tends to allow mutual and nonjudgmental respect to develop.

    I like it and thought I might tell you about it. It’s probably not unique and you could likely tell me of similar approaches. Your essay caused me to think more about this.

  11. All I can say is wow! Thanks for sharing as I know it will probably help a lot of other people caught in the same cycles and traps. I have known lots of women who seem to hate their bodies and typically themselves for no reason that I could fathom. I will send them your way to see there is a path to love and growth. Love and Blessings! Keep up the good work, and yes I have started voting for you on the Shorty Awards and will continue so that I get all the categories covered.

  12. While I was in High School ,junior to Senior summer ,There was this girl that rode the bus with me.
    I occasionally talked to her never dated or any thing like that.
    The summer was over an I was riding the bus (senior year) I saw this girl again , she had grown a pair of DDs over the summer.
    She sat behind me and we started talking.
    I asked her about her summer ,she said it was painful ,Why I asked .
    She went on to explain that she grew from almost flat to DD in about 2 months.
    I was kind of embarrassed about it but curious too.
    She called them her “werewolf titties ” one full moon and bang they were there .
    She met a much older man who impregnated her and abandoned her to rais the kid on her own.

  13. I have thick red hair (but average size breasts– usually a small B when I’m not overweight) and it absolutely astounds me the way men respond when I wear my hair down. It’s like they think I’m saying I want to have sex with them. I’m trying to get braver about wearing it down, but between men trying to pick me up and women telling me to cut it and give it away, sometimes it’s too much of a hassle. (Then again, my creepiest experience, which I’m beginning to recognize as a trusted adult in my school trying to “groom” me, happened before puberty and when my hair was almost boy-short.)

    I’m glad you’ve made a decision that works for you about your breasts. You’ve had a lot of traumatic experiences.

  14. Any man who’s ever objectified a woman–guilty here–should read this. I’d like to believe those MoMos would feel the same shame I feel. But I also think EVERY girl should read this as well, should know they’re more than their anatomy–more than some idiot dickhead’s juvenile opinion.

    I’ve dated women who believed their anterior or posterior gives light to the sun and I’ve fed that foolishness. And, I’ve dated women who believed themselves deficient for the lack of either/or and I pained for my inability to counter their doubts. When I read of experiences like this, I think of my Mrs., my sisters, and my nieces and I burn with anger and embarrassment. We (men) all have our “heel,” but we can mature if we try.

    Thank you for sharing this Trish.

  15. I basically just read your whole website. Fascinating as always I also wanted to give you some (probably unnecessary) reassurance that you are making a difference, no matter how people will critique and judge. I turned 24 this year, and in the past few months I have slowly been inching my way out of every.single.pair of pants I own. 2 weeks ago I was trying to get dressed and went through every single pair. I have one pair of jeans that still fits. I felt like my soul had been crushed. I haven’t gained weight, but my body is doing that thing that women’s bodies do where I’m starting to store fat differently and my butt and thighs are just expanding and expanding. I know that this is normal, and I kind of always knew to expect it, but suddenly I was noticing girls around me ALOT more. Suddenly there was a visual difference between me and the 19 year old women on campus. I tried to look at pin-ups and all those curvy beautiful women- Marilyn, Bettie, Jean, and it helped (to a degree), but when you feel crappy about yourself, nothing REALLY helps. Long story short(ish), I read your article, “Me, My Breasts, and I,” and it brought me joy. I haven’t suffered through all that you have, but it made me feel better knowing that you went from hating your body, to truly being one and at peace with yourself. I hope that in years to come I will learn to love my hips. Until then, I’ll just have to get used to my changing size so I can stop running into things all the time!

    Also, your articles are hilarious. I love your ability to be blunt and real. I don’t know why so many people pretend that sex doesn’t exist. It’s 2013, folks, are we still really living “Behind Closed Doors” ?

  16. I was and am incredibly moved by your story. Men do not realize how much pain we subject women to by reducing them to just mere objects to be touched, groped, and fondled at out whim. Women are human beings, wonderful, deep, loving human being without which none of us would exist.

    Thank you for sharing your story! I look forward to reading more of your BLOG.

    ~An Understanding Man

  17. It would make this world a better place if everybody and every body would be appreciated and respected peacefully and carefully. It’s not only women who more or less suffer from experiences making them hate their body – it’s almost always coming back also to more decent men, who are either being thought to act the same way, or be avoided, just to be on the safe side.

    But like it is said, first and most, pleasure and orgasm lies in your brain. How could it be possible to please yourself, if your body does not please you?

    I’m a single man in my fourties and only a decade or so, I’ve been starting to find myself, my sexuality and my abilities pleasing myself and my company. And I used to meet a woman with partially identical abusive experiences. She’s very much healed now – I’ve heard – and I can only be proud not making her situation any worse in our past.

    – kind a kindled –

  18. Wow. I wish I could be that way but I am 38 and have hated my DD floppy breasts sinse age 17 and still plan to reduce them down to nothing asap the insurance agrees to pay, or as soon as I somehow by some miracle gwt the money.Of course I hate nipple. Stimulation& it personally does nothing for my orgasms. I do strictly outer body clit stimulation& that is just fine with no other touching elsewhere ever, I still orgasm every time so I can live without breasts. I dont enjoy internal touch unless its during intercourse only.I never have felt completely female or male but rather some in between mixture that shouldnt be seen ir jusges or treated like either gender but rather just a neutral human being.I want my chest not just smaller but flattened. I wouldnt rven care if they dont replace my nipples to be honest& if my man didnt like it oh well. Its my body not his.

    1. Hey!

      Thanks so much for leaving a comment. I think it’s very brave of you to talk about how you feel (not completely male or female), and I think labels can be very useless or even damaging. Just try to be a good human being, and if others don’t understand you because they can’t see past their narrow-mindedness, you don’t need them. I do think that self-exploration is a great tool for enhancing the feelings you can get orgasmically, regardless of genitals or identity. After all, the largest organ of the body is the skin, and awakening the nerves and the subtle body can do amazing things! 🙂

      Take care,
      trish

  19. In the early nineties, I attended a lecture by a naturopath who quoted a survey of 1000 women that had been published in “Cosmopolitan.” He pointed out that not one woman surveyed was happy with her breasts.

    He paused, then asked rhetorically, “Is there any wonder breast cancer rates are so high?”

    Very insightful and well written. I applaud you and look forward to more.

    1. Hey, David!

      I can attest that the energy we send to our bodies (women and men) manifests in physical issues. It has to. The mind, body, and spirit are connected. I will be addressing body image more in-depth in a new project due out soon. 🙂

      Love yourself.
      trish

  20. This very personal exposé must elicit emotions that some of us (men) could hide from or simply deny. I read your words several times over, because I wanted to understand what it was exactly that evoked from me this uneasiness about myself.

    I have this understanding with myself, and for quite some time now I had come to terms with my past when it came to my tawdry objectification of women. So reading about you Trish just brings back those embarrassing memories.

    I was lucky though because as I grew older I realized the wrongs of my ways. After years of growing up, women became my equals and my partners in every way possible, spiritually, sexually, emotionally, and then some.

    Let me also mention that the best benefit of this type of growth is the freedom a that man can achieve, freedom from jealousy, envy, mistrust, misogyny. Then as you grow into yourself you become attracted not just to the physical things like fake tits and ass but you start to find yourself being absorbed by a woman’s abstract qualities too, now you get turned on by her intellect, attitude, character, and her ability to not be a needy person and your not threatened by her self reliance, these are all good things to adore too.

    Sadly some men no matter what their age, they never get out of their adolescence and they persist on sexism and carry that immature attitude that I once had to the grave and remain forever shackled to misery.

    I am guilty of being sexist and of having said or done all of those undignified acts that Trish had to endure. So when I now read how damaging and irresponsible my acts had been I need to apologize, but those acts were long ago and now I have no one to give me contrition.

    So Trish will you accept my apology?

    Joseph M. Fasciana

    P S

    “If you go through with it, I’ll never be able to make love to you again. I would take one look at those hideous purple scars and be too disgusted to be aroused.” That cut me to my soul. And it solidified for me that he’d never truly loved me. No man ever had or would. I was nothing but breasts and hair to men.

    For this I have no other explanation except that it is simply a high degree of abuse.

  21. An after thought, I said I did all those undignified acts and that is true. Trish you said you were a virgin until being raped at 21. I just want to make it clear that rape was not one of those acts that I would ever do. Although the sexism and womanizing were bad enough.