I’ve seen a facial expression of a mammal who had a litter and is nursing numerous baby animals. Mostly a mama cat, lying on her side, with countless kittens climbing on her and going for the milk. She gave birth to them a few days ago. She’s lying there as they knead her, find a teat, climb around and nudge each other for a good spot, nursing away, using her for her body.
Her facial expression looks like, “Oh god–really? Am I just tits for these babies?” It’s blase and maybe bored, but mostly resigned, like, “Yes, I’m a milk machine, valued for one thing. I will lie here and let these babies do what they want with me. It is my mama cat destiny.”
I feel an intense connection to the mama cat. She’s kind of stuck there, wanted not for her mind or spirit, but for her teats. I relate very very much. I’ve seen a similar expression on mama dogs and maybe mama pigs also.
The weirdness has to do with the contrast–the kittens are excited and hungry for the milk. Milk will give them Life and allow them to grow up into cats and do all the cat things. The kittens have youthful vigor and energy for what they want. On the other hand, the mama cat is just waiting it out. Her attitude is more like, “Whatever.”
how I relate
Since I developed breasts as a child, boys and men have been after them. I expended a lot of energy as a kid and young teenager on minimizing my breasts and wanting to be left alone.
If boys and men wanted to connect honestly with me, possibly with love and honor, and my beautiful breasts were a factor, that would have been great. But no. They mostly wanted to get sexy contact with my breasts, have their jollies with the least possible effort on their part, and walk away.
It’s fine for my breasts to be considered beautiful, and important body parts I carry. But it’s not fine for people to deceive, use, and exploit me in order to have moments with them.
When I was a teenager, teenage boys would take me out in their truck or car or van to make out with me. My breasts were the main thing they were going for. Some wanted a blowjob also, a hand job, or to fuck me. But a basic common denominator was they were going for my breasts.
content warning: mention of assault
My breasts are large and responsive, and when I’m aroused, I get a ton of pleasure from them being touched. But it was scary, to be out with these dudes who could do a lot to me, wherever we were parked, in an isolated place.
So I could feel sexual pleasure, but I was in a very vulnerable position. They could do a lot of different harms to me. So I was usually scared.
I could be scared of assault, but I could also be scared just that I would love them and they wouldn’t love me back. Also I was scared of being lied to, which was very common, and scared of what they were going to tell the other kids at school on Monday… Afraid of missing my curfew. What time is it? Scared of how they were judging me for my fatness.
I was disabled in an undiagnosed way. All my life I’ve heard voices, had powerful moods of intense need, and I was struggling with the autism. During sexual encounters, I was overwhelmed by the intense experience, sensory and social, of being physically close to a new person.
content warning: sexual assault trauma mention
Who is this guy? The cold one who tired to rape me in his van was doused in cologne, and it smelled horrible. The smell lingered on me, afterward when I was home. I smelled this horrible cologne on my clothes and body, as I felt that confused “what just happened?” shell shocked feeling. Something hit me, but I wasn’t sure what.
Do all afabs carry this trauma from being a teenager with breasts, preyed upon? Did the other girls not get hurt by these experiences? Maybe it didn’t freak them out, like it freaked me out, or maybe it didn’t happen to them. I don’t hear people talk about it.
Did they stick to well-lit areas with other people around? Going off into the bushes or around the corner seems a very common part of the human experience.
content warning: more assault detail and trauma
For me it was so common, it’s a blur. I remember the names of a few of the boys and men, but many–I have no idea. If I did a ritual and said, “fuck you–that wasn’t ok,” to all of them, back through time, that might help me. But I’m imagining trying to make the list of names–it would have several blanks.
I was not bored or blase like a mama cat, but the combination of fear and arousal might have given me a weird facial expression. The dude is grabbing my breasts and going for my nipples like a wild animal, and I’m ambivalent with fear.
In a truck, my shirt is lifted up. My bra is maybe lifted up also, or pulled down. The boy is going for these breasts. And there I am, vulnerable, and strangely alone. We’re doing a physical thing, together in space, but we’re not two connected, honest people. I’m trying to be honest and clear, but my words aren’t welcome. He’s using me.
I’m worried, wondering, and allowing it in an “uh, I guess so” sort of way. What will he pressure me for next? It wasn’t enthusiastic consent with clarity and kindness, a conversation beforehand, and mutual respect. It was him trying to get something from me fast, before I took it away.
It’s not a problem with sex–it’s a problem with toxic masculinity, deceit, and the failures of culture. Young people aren’t taught to get their needs met in healthy ways. Sex doesn’t have to be predator and prey, lies, too much risk, and using people. We can do better than this.
mama cat
I’m not a mama cat. I didn’t have kittens for many reasons. My breasts are my own. If I want to, I share them with people who love me and will do relationship.
I was crying this morning, remembering being in bed with the man I loved who visited and used me. That night in bed, he asked if he could suck on my nipples. I said, “no–next time.” If he’d licked and sucked my nipples, I knew I might lose control, so aroused that my mind would no longer be the boss. I’d suck his dick and beg him to fuck me with no pre-sex conversation.
No way would I risk STI for me and my spouse, by doing those kinds of sex with a new person and no conversation. I said no, thinking there would be years to do that. I truly I believed we were embarking on a long, delicious, caring sexual relationship. Of course he could lick, suck, rub his dick on, ejaculate on, or whatever he wanted to do, with my nipples–the following day, after we had a conversation about safer sex and needs.
But the second encounter never happened. He rejected me, broke my heart, knocked me off balance, hurt me badly, triggered old trauma I didn’t know was still alive in me, and he was lost to me. He didn’t seem to understand that by using me, he’d destroyed our relationship and lost access to all the love and resources I offered.
I tried for a few days to be ok, but I was sick with emotional pain. No one is allowed to do that to me.
kissing my breasts goodbye
The part that makes me cry this morning is remembering how right before I left his bed, he kissed the tops of my breasts. Making sure not to get near the nipples, he kissed both tits seriously–kissing them goodbye.
I’m crying again, to remember that solemn moment. He was saying goodbye also to me. There I went. Goodbye, Nest. Thanks for the half an hour, worth ruining our entire friendship. I’ll beat off, and that will be that. See you never.
I believed that the next day, we would make love freely–he took all that away. His fear of intimacy is what mattered, and another lady elsewhere mattered, the lady I had no idea existed. Being close to me and my beautiful body was not important to him. My love was not valuable enough.
I was ready to embark on mutual support, respect, and healing. I’d already started! He had the choice to cherish me and stay close, or to reject me and risk my life. It was so destabilizing, I could have ended up in the hospital easily, and dead from there.
He wants to pretend he can do anything on a whim. He and his well-being matter, but other people are toys. My needs were nothing. It was chilling.
thank you
Thank you for hearing this story, reader. It helps me to explain. Please believe me that I’m not just spinning my wheels. I process it bit by bit. It does take me a while. I have a terribly good memory–it’s gotten me into trouble.
Love to your breasts, or the breasts you worship and adore. Or breasts that nourished you as a baby. Or the breasts of the lady who gives you the best hugs.
Yeah, the part that hurts most is the flicker of potential. He did love me and these breasts, in some way. The spark was real, but not enough for him to actually choose me. Maybe almost enough? It doesn’t matter now.
But I don’t want to relate to a mama cat. When anyone is going for my tits, I want to be present and equally engaged, not worried or strangely absent. I choose to go to bed with adults who can have conversations and be real with me. It’s the least I can do for my well-being.
