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My super-erogenous nipples have always been something of a shock to men, and my ability to orgasm based solely on their stimulation is seen as some kind of bizarre talent, like those people who can touch their tongue to their nose, or girls who are double-jointed. My ex-boyfriend used to idly flick one of my nips while we lay in bed in the morning, and when I winced, my back arching in an involuntary spasm of pleasure, he would raise his eyebrows and say, "Really?" his Doubting-Thomas tone unmistakable. "Yes," I'd tell him, feeling defensive. But what I meant was, Yes. Yes! My breasts arrived right on time in sixth grade, and within two years they had grown into their full, glorious DD cup. From the start it was clear that I was supposed to be self-conscious about my boobs, hiding my bras and complaining to my friends about how embarrassing it was to find guys staring at my chest, but secretly I rejoiced in my buxom bounty. My body seemed to get everything wrong — I was too short, too round, too muscular — but finally my Eastern-European roots were smiling on me. Big, beautiful breasts. Thank God. Those same Eastern-European roots provided a significant drawback. When I was in fifth grade I first heard the word lumpectomy in a conversation between my mother and my grandmother, who was about to undergo the procedure. I learned all kinds of other words that summer, including radiation, chemotherapy, and biopsy.
My grandmother's breast cancer was treated effectively, and for a solid decade my breasts were an unadulterated joy. Sometimes my friends would complain about the frustrations of having huge boobs, and though I could sympathize to a degree, none of the downsides ever seemed that bad to me. Yes, bras and especially sports bras were difficult to find and very expensive, but it was a price I was willing to pay for the advantages of having my DDs. When I was twenty-two I got my right nipple pierced. My friends were getting tattoos on their lower backs, but I couldn't imagine picking a design I'd have to live with for the rest of my life. The silver barbell I chose was my little punk-rock secret, never failing to elicit a gasp from the men I brought home. Sometimes guys would ask if it hurt to get it pierced, and I answered honestly: a little, but it was worth it. That same year my aunt had an abnormal mammogram, and eventually she had a lumpectomy followed by radiation. It was becoming increasingly clear that my genes were stacked against me in the breast-cancer department, but the news didn't seem all that bad. Breast cancer was highly treatable. Practically everyone I knew had an aunt or a grandmother or a mother who'd had breast cancer at some point, and most of them were fine. I bought things with pink ribbons on them in October to be supportive. My aunt went into remission. At twenty-three I started doing yoga every day and finally discovered one of the real disadvantages to having big breasts: while doing inverted poses, my boobs hung in front of my face making it difficult to take deep yogic breaths. My yoga teacher blushed when I explained my problem. "I-I don't know what to suggest," he stammered. I experimented with blankets and blocks, but never found anything that made it much better. I was sitting in my car after yoga one day when my mom called and told me she had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. I shivered uncontrollably while she explained that it had been caught early, she was sure she would be fine. Those words became a mantra in the weeks that followed. Caught early, she'll be fine, I always told people. She had more tests, and she and my dad met with surgeons and oncologists to plan the best course of action. They chose to do a somewhat complicated procedure — a bilateral mastectomy, followed immediately by reconstructive surgery using fat and skin from her stomach. A boob job and a tummy tuck, we joked with each other, and both were covered by insurance. What good luck!
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