While I’m over here fighting my curves and trying to restrain my breasts with the most restrictive bras I can find to please her.
It’s exhausting, pretending to be something I’m not.
I whip the T-shirt off and drop it on the floor, kicking it out of the way. I step out of my shoes. Peel off my socks. Then I take off my jeans, flinging them so they hit the wall with a loud thwap.
Until I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom in nothing but my underwear.
Girls my age wear thongs or lacy, sexy panties. See-through bras or bralettes, or sometimes no bra at all. They wear these items for themselves, to give them confidence. To feel sexy. To turn on the boys or girls or whoever they’re with. Whoever they allow to peel back the layers and see what’s beneath their clothes.
I don’t look at underwear that way at all. They’re just daily items I’ve worn for what feels like forever. I started developing at a young age, like in the fifth grade, and it was so embarrassing, having to get fitted for my first bra, the salesperson exclaiming over my large cup size at such a young age. The way my mother viewed me, undeniable disgust flickering in her gaze.
My breasts have always felt like a burden.
Reaching behind me, I undo the snap, the garment sliding away from my body, and I let it drop to the floor. My breasts are free, my nipples growing hard the longer I stare at them. They’re pink, the areolas large and nothing like what I’ve seen on social media, where all the girls have small breasts and pretty nipples.
Not that I check out nipples but…I’m curious. I’ve been curious about a lot of things lately.
I curl my hands around them, cupping them in my palms. Bringing them together so I can make deeper cleavage. I turn to the side, staring at myself. My stomach. The flare of my hips. My legs. I’m so pale. Almost translucent, with faint blue veins showing just beneath my skin.
I think of Natalie with her perfect body and her tiny breasts. Her long legs and obvious confidence when she sat on Ezra’s lap a few days ago, like she belonged there. All while eyeing Crew as if he was a tasty steak and she was craving red meat. What would it be like, to act like Natalie?
I have no clue.
Facing the mirror once more, I drop my hands from my breasts and reach for the waistband of my underwear, yanking them down before I have second thoughts. Until I’m standing completely naked, staring at my reflection. My body on complete and total display, for my eyes only.
I fixate on my dark pubic hair, and what it hides just beneath. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I know what a vagina is good for. I have periods every month. Sometimes I have cramps. When I was younger, I suffered from them all the time, and my period was so irregular, my mother secretly put me on the pill, never telling my father.
“Just because you’re on birth control doesn’t mean you get to have sex with whoever you want,” she lectured me. I was fourteen at the time, and the last thing I thought about was having sex with anyone.
Someday I’ll marry a nice man and we’ll have plenty of sex that I might or might not enjoy and eventually make babies. That’s how my mother explained it to me. That’s what I have to look forward to.
God, it all sounds so clinical. Awful.
Boring.
I think of Crew. How he touched my breast when he caught me. His firm grip, his muscular body pressed against mine, his fingers streaking across my chest in a featherlight caress. I felt it.
I can feel it right now. When he touched my lips in class this afternoon.
You have a sexy mouth.
His deep voice washes over me and I cup my breasts. Brush my thumbs over my nipples. Making myself tingle.
I go to my bed and lie on top of it, quickly realizing when I prop myself up on my elbows, I can still see my reflection in the mirror. Slowly, I part my knees. My thighs. Until I can see everything. I’m pink.
Everywhere.
I’ve never done anything like this before, examined myself so thoroughly. I stare at the spot between my legs, really looking at myself, and wonder what it would be like, to have someone touch me there.
Oh, I’ve tried masturbating before—more than a few times. Lots of times. But I can never manage to actually make myself come. My mind would start to wander and I’d think of dumb things, like stuff that worried me. Or the guilt would creep in and I’d feel that hint of shame I’m so familiar with. Like I was doing something bad. Plus, I’d never allowed myself to crush on a boy before. Not really.
Until Crew. I think about him constantly. And he makes me feel all of these…things. Feelings I’ve never experienced before and am slowly becoming addicted to.
The way he watches me with that penetrating gaze. His flirtatious tone when he calls me Birdy. I act like I hate it, but secretly I enjoy the nickname.
It makes me feel like we share something special.
Hemakes me feel special.