Saturday, December 3, 2016


He was obsessed with my boobs. He was one of my first few consequential sexual experiences in life and he just couldn’t get enough. He’d grab them as he pleased, he’d put his head on them and sleep in on rainy afternoons and he’d suck them till they hurt sometimes. I was in the 10th grade and if I’d leave my top button unbuttoned of this particular yellow shirt, it’d make him crazy.

I remember the first time he touched my boobs. It was my first real kiss and I’ll forever be indebted to him for making it as amazing as he did. I still feel tingly when I think about it - which admittedly, is often enough. There we were - I was pinned against the wall in a dark room and he kissed me like he’d loved me forever. His hand slowly slid inside my shirt and I think I was way too young to feel what I felt.

Like I said: tingly.

Years after we broke up, we reconnected and conveniently fell into a pattern of hyper-sexual behavior. We stopped making love, but we’d fuck all the time. He was still obsessed with my boobs. He’d suck me off in the backseat of his car and ask me for pictures when I moved to a new city. He’d pinch and he’d bite and I’ve seen him jerk off once to me just stroking my nipples softly.

We were really good in bed together, but I guess when you’re young and doped out, you need more loving than you need love. He was still obsessed with my boobs. I remember I’d met him once with someone else’s marks on my chest and he wasn’t impressed at all. He didn’t look at me when he came that day.

It’s almost poetic then that it was he who found the lumps in my breasts.