Let me get this off my chest first: I don't want to be a boy. I like being a girl.
But I have this thing. A protruding body part thing, to be exact. They sit there, two useless balls of flesh. They dangle and swing, they itch and sweat. I have to rearrange them on occasion, and I have a darn hard time finding a comfortable under-garment to contain them in.
My breasts (what else?).
And I have this other thing. I just don't feel like they are mine. I've never wanted to be without them, exactly. But I've just never gotten attached. Some women name theirs, but I don't have such an amiable relationship with mine.
They cause me trouble. I can't hide them, so they poke out and say hi to men on the street before my face ever does. They make necklines an area of my life that requires extreme scrutiny and debate.
Bras? Don't even get me started on that one. What mannequin do they model bras for? My boobs never seem to fit the shape of those smooth, curved cups.
And I don't think they look nice. In fact, the one thing I can never get my head around is why they attract so much attention. Why does my boyfriend like to hold them, to see them bare?
They are just two things hanging off my body. Just there.
So, in a word my breast's are this - tenants. They have taken up residence on my chest and they haven't put down a damage deposit. They don't pay rent. They aren't particularly nice to deal with. In fact, they are a nuisance. They don't play music at odd hours of the night, but they have been known to invite a seedy crowd around my dwelling.
But I can't just turn them out on the street now can I?
Alas, they are here to stay. It would be too expensive to give them the boot anyway. So this is the story of my breasts. The grief they cause me, the neglect inflicted on them by their owner, the touch and attention they receive, the looks they get, the impressions they make.