My breasts are communal.

Breasts in a way are fairly public sphere.  I mean, they are out there, some more than others.  They are constantly being appraised and viewed.  When I used to nanny I found that small children view them as comfort objects or alternatively, as balance handles.  It is also fairly common, when trying on clothes to have your breasts touched in some way when the fit is being altered.  And this is the case which I will address today.

I went shopping with Bülent and his mother.  There was a store with buy one get one free sale, so I swooped in there like cotton was going off the market.  I found two lovely dresses.  I was in the dressing room deciding which size I needed while Bülent and his mom waited outside to see the selection.  So I come out, and they both love the dress.  His mother starts to fuss over the fit, apparently it was sitting too low.  In the effort to alter the fit she was adjusting the bodice and occasionally touching my breasts in a business like manner.  Anyone who has been fussed over for fit knows what I am talking about, the casual, non-sexual brush and poke.  I did not even notice it, I was paying attention to the dress.  But Bülent did.  And the look on his face was priceless.  Apparently it never occurred to him that his mother would be handling what he considers his personal play toys.  As if he wasn’t scandalized enough, she didn’t like they way the dress looked on my breasts and starts asking him if I was wearing a bra.  (I wasn’t.)  When she figured that out, she said, “Oh, have her wear a bra with the dress, it will lift the breasts right up”…and started to demonstrate.  And she has a formidable bosom.

It was at this time I told Bülent to meet me at the cash register because I wasn’t sure if he was going to start crying or go catatonic.  He was pretty uncomfortable.  I thought it was hilarious and she had missed the entire by-play and thought nothing of it.   Later I intensified his discomfort by telling him about how she had already seen my breasts another time when we were trying on clothes.

He is still recovering.

He Rocks My Socks

We have been together for five years, and every night is still like a slumber party.  He still opens doors for me and carries my bags.  It is just how he is.  In the beginning, I was not old enough to go to bars with him.  He  bought me my first legal drink.  When he learned I was a feminist he took me on a date to see Benazir Bhutto speak.  In the grungy student apartment in Cambridge, he braved the kitchen to make me breakfast in bed every Saturday.

When I went back to school at night, and was working full time during the day, he made me breakfast and packed me a lunch and dinner.  Every. Day.  When I need to cry he hands me a tissue, holds me until I am done and pours me a glass of wine.  If we don’t have wine, he will go out and buy it.

Today is his day, and it will be a good one.

Happy Birthday Aşkım, the 5th together so far, with many more to come.


With lots of love, from me, and Butterfinger.

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