Photo courtesy of Dr. Brian Glatt When I was younger and had the chance to walk around half undressed as only the young can do, strangers would often come up to me, with face screwed in a knot of fright, point and ask: What's wrong with your armpits? I stare at other women's breasts, constantly on the lookout, seeing where mine stand in this self inflicted imaginary lineup of perfection. I used to notice cleavages a lot because I didn't seem to have one. I have one now because I figured out: It's all in the bra, baby. I also notice women who have no need for a bra, and if I tell you the truth here, right now, I harbour great big green, smoldering stinking envy for these women. I hate them. I've been shackled in a bra since the age of 6 months and women who can traipse around braless just get on my nerves. I inherited my grandmothers breasts, and if you ask me on what side that grandmother was, I will say: It doesn't matter because on both sides each ...
mostly gentle, sometimes turbulent