Category Archives: breast cancer

Wraith

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I do believe there is nothing quite as sobering as having someone you love tell you they were diagnosed with cancer.  But, for me, she is not simply a loved one.  I don’t let a lot of people in.  I thrive in extremes, so I either uphold a person as someone of incredible value to my life, or someone that can pass through aimlessly as they please.  Of course, with the latter, I don’t give much care or consideration but ample freedom and an available ear.  I struggle to manage the intense responsibility I feel for the people I love, so I limit whom I give it to.  I have been disappointed too many times at people’s lack of integrity, that I keep most people at arm’s length.  They say that love is an infinite resource, and although I would love to agree, I cannot.  Personally, my love is finite.  My heart is a capsule with only so much room.  I divide it amongst the few people I would die for and I love them with reckless abandon.  She’s one of them.  She’s a warm, soft cashmere.  She’s a radiant light in a world full of dim, flitting embers.  She’s strong as oak; yet, presently a trembling leaf holding to the branch with but a thin stem.  I can’t protect her.  My loyalty can’t make this better.  My steadfast dedication can’t shield the cold zephyr of the shadow at her back.  I can’t do a fucking thing but watch her fear and watch her fight.  I feel like a rabid dog on a leash with nothing to attack but an apparition, a crazed bitch barking at the air.  He’s holding my leash and keeping me steady, tethered as I bark tirelessly.  Tethered to my greatest source of strength.  Tethered to my beloved.

The largest portion of my heart belongs to him.  He is my King, and I am forever the warrior at his side.  If I lose him, I die.  There is no in-between.  No survival.  No desire.  No life.  Not because I can’t survive, but because I won’t want to.  She held the other spot of the greatest value and some fucking ghost permeated my defenses and is threatening one of my two greatest allies.  Powerless, a resonating message keeps repeating itself in my head:

Time is dwindling down your army, warrior.  Time is an impossible weapon to fight.

I’m grasping for resources and there he is, at my side.  My battle tested right-hand man.  My life’s purpose.  He’s here, and at least as we watch each other age, I see nothing but beauty in it.  We have our spears in hand, and with each kiss we thrust forward, piercing through fear’s frail skin.  I have you, I have all I need.

In the darkness of our room late last night, you pressed your lips to mine.  The full, softness of them comforting a beaten soul, a tepid cloth to the wound.  I pulled you on top of me and wrapped my arms and legs around your body like a cocoon to the moth.  Entering my body, my embrace pressing you as close to my flesh as materially possible.  My body’s feeble attempt to physically convey my undying dedication to loving you, protecting you.  As if acknowledging that I cannot fix her, but I can block anything from getting to you.  My love a forcefield from all the specters that threaten you.

Get me first.  Here I am, you fucking phantom!  You got one; but, you let him be! Phantom, get at me!

And I held you there within me, gently rocking my hips into you, running my hands up and down the muscular terrain of your back, flooding pleasure over the pain affecting both of our hearts.  The breath of your life upon the nape of my neck to the pattern of our swaying bodies.  Your breath permeating the very thickness of my skin, you breathe life into me.  In turn, I dedicate my life to you.  I give my body to you.  I’ve handed over my very soul countless times.  Here I am again, offering you all that I have.  You always want me.  You want me even when I’m broken.  I am forever yours.  Yours after time claims all my pieces.  Placing my body over yours, it will need to get through me first.  Yours before and after my final battle with the wraith.


Mastrophobia

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The first thing I did when I got home was strip off my top and hold each breast within each hand.  I kneaded them between my fingers, the flesh extending through the spaces in between my fingers like porcelain colored dough.  I relished the warmth of them against the palms of my hands, the blood accumulating there in response to my stimulation.  I ran my erect nipples through each separated digit like a flapper on a prize wheel, closing my eyes and appreciating the sensitivity I’ve been afforded with these glorious accumulations of tissue.  I held my breasts in my hands, for what must have been over twenty minutes, appreciating the natural texture of my flesh and the intricate network nerves, tissues and glands that nestles below.  I tugged and pinched my nipples in between my fingers and watched as the skin stretched outward and rebounded back into a perfect mound of taught flesh.  I thought heavily about what I would do if I were to lose these, seemingly pointless (as I’ve never had nor wanted children), breasts that I’ve connected with on a far more intimate level than ever in my past.  The thought brought a mist to my eyes.  Although my femininity consists of far more than my breasts, I’d be lying to say that I don’t associate a healthy amount of pride toward my breasts and how they make me feel, so deliciously, female.

I didn’t always have such a fond relationship with my chest.  I seemed to have jumped from a mere flat chested little girl to a full C overnight at the turning of my 10th birthday. The boys would stare whenever we played sports, and since I was a tomboy running with a large group of athletic boys in the neighborhood, that just wouldn’t do.  I began to wear multiple sports bras and, literally, tape my breasts with duct tape over an undershirt.  I didn’t start appreciating the luscious allure of plump cleavage until much later in my teens.  From that point on, I had a healthy obsession with breasts and found myself drawn to women with ample, natural bosoms.  Now, breasts are often the focus of my porn endeavors.  I usually separate my porn watching habits into two distinct categories.  I am usually in the mood for either traditional/vanilla porn, or more often, some incredibly kinky (no one else, besides my King, knows I watch this kind of shit) porn.  In any case, the female lead must have large breasts.  Some of the sexiest GIFs locked up in the recesses of my dirty mind are the most basic black and white images of a stubbly, hyper-masculine looking man diving head first between two perky tits, only to emerge and sink an erect nipple into his mouth and suck until his cheeks concave. Such an image makes me think of my nipples in my man’s mouth, to which I’m hard pressed to find a better feeling outside of one generated by his cock.  But, this feeling of appreciation for my breasts extended far beyond the sexual benefits they afford me.  I began to understand how much my breasts are a part of my identity of a woman.  I often speak of enjoying being an active part of a patriarchal society, to include being sexualized as a woman.  Breasts are not only a thing of sustenance, they are an icon of beauty, a force of power, symbols of utter femininity.  However, a recent event taught me just how much I identify with my bountiful breasts and the experience will accompany me for a lifetime…

I sat nervously in the chair in the doctor’s office watching the ultrasound machine images flashing before my eyes, and I began to appreciate the breast on a whole new level.  On an ultrasound machine, the breast tissue appears like clouds composed of various shades of gray.  In a way,  as I watched the probe traverse the terrain of her breast, the image resembled a moving overcast sky.  I continued to watch the rolling clouds until they appeared to part, revealing a patch of black sky, like a specter of doom forecasting events to come.  The probe rolled back and forth over the shadow, which appeared more as a void than the ominous “thing” that is truly is.  “If this is what I think it is, then take them BOTH,” she exclaimed.  I reassured her, although an honest reaction, it is too soon for such demands.  “I don’t care.  I want to make sure there is nothing left to attack,” she remarks abruptly.  You could hear the contempt for her breasts in her tone.  Her breasts had become two twin adversaries standing in the way of her survival.  What I see as two beautiful symbols of femininity are turned, in her opinion, to a despised enemy within mere minutes.  To be so willing to part with such a beautiful part of the female form, although totally understandable, shocked me to my core.  Her reaction caused my mind to wonder…

Will I ever see my breasts as the source of utter anguish?

Will I ever hear myself command a doctor to remove my breasts from my very chest?

Will that shadow ever cross the screen of one of my ultrasounds?

I’m not as strong as her…

I instantly became more aware of the heaviness of my full chest, appreciating the way my breasts sat supported in the cup of my bra.  I drew my attention to the tingly pressure of my erected nipples from the cold office.  I folded my arms under them, feeling the weight of my breasts resting on my crossed forearms.  I could smell the rose scented oil radiating off the tops of my full breasts.  I thought to myself how much I adore my breasts.  I have kept that perspective in mind with each passing day since.  I’m going to appreciate my breasts every day that I have them, use them for all their glorious abilities, because I’ll never know if a shadow may someday take them away.