Bra

One of the garments that are still in my closet after the big clear-out is a bra. In pink. With lace. It is in the very back of my wardrobe if I, against all odds, ever would need it again. I don’t know why I think that I would ever need it, I prefer to use tight, stabile sports bras so I don’t have to feel the breasts during the day and that makes them as small as possible. I should really invest in a proper binder, but I haven’t got to it yet. Since I have fairly large breasts (d-cup) I am worried that it won’t make any significant difference from the tight sports bras that I am wearing now. I’m also worried that they will be less comfortable and get sweatier. But it would have been really nice to get a flatter chest, the ultimate is of cause to remove them completely and not have to worry about the whole bra thing. Not have to worry about how tight the clothes are fitting and not have the urge to press my chest flatter every time I stand before a mirror.
I didn’t have the same aversion for my breasts a couple of years ago – I didn’t exactly like them, but they were where they were. Back then I had a B/C-cup and could walk around without a bra without looking weird. If I were to walk around braless today, there would be two gigantic boobs juggling around in the corner of my eye and distract me from everything I do. If I hated them before it’s nothing compared to what I do when they hang loose.
I have also created certain strategies to avoid the look of my breasts. In the bathroom our mirror is placed so high that you couldn’t see your chest no matter how hard you would try. Our only full-figure mirror is in our hallway, and I only go there fully clothed. Several weeks can pass without me seeing my boobs (I generally don’t look down either). During these periods, I use to fantasize about not having any boobs and can convince myself pretty well – until it’s time for my period… A couple of days before my period arrive my boobs start to grow and ache, and it’s virtually impossible to ignore them then.
This weekend we looked in old photo albums from our wedding and honeymoon. Even though its years before I even started my transition, I’m far from feminine-looking. I do have long hair, but my clothes and body language are clearly butch. In particularly one of the pictures stand out. It’s a really good full body picture of me, one of few that I like, where I look straight into the camera. I have khaki trousers and a tank top, standing with my hands in my pockets. My wife stopped by this picture when she flicked through the album, pointed at it and said “This is a good picture of you, there’s only two things wrong with it.” She moved her finger over the picture where my breasts were clearly showing under the top. Every part of me just wanted to scream “YES! Exactly! You see, it’s not just me imagining, the breasts just don’t belong to me!” But I didn’t, I said it with a normal voice instead. I was really happy that even my wife, who really love my breasts, clearly could see that they don’t belong to me. They really look like someone glued them on, or photo shopped them there.

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