I’ve been gloomy lately, and my writing has reflected it. While the world is noisy, my mind does bounce back and find the positive after a good night’s sleep or, when things are bad, a depressive slump of a few days.
One of the positives in my life recently are my tits. I love them.
They were born September 24, 2025 and weighed 2.38lbs. The left one is called Maggie (after Dame Maggie Smith) and the right is Nina (after Nina Simone). A girlfriend of mine at university, Anastasia, named her breasts and referred to them collectively as “the girls” and that level of playful intimacy has always stuck with me.
Inanimate objects with names are just one piece of the panentheist worldview which, more than anything else, sustains me. Maggie could love up on or cuss you out in the space of a single sentence. Nina, while smaller, brings a balance of romance and tenor badassery to the udder choir.
It’s not so much that I got tits. My breasts were developing under the tutelage of Madame Estrogen, but just a little too slowly. While some dolls are lucky to develop fast, even with the progesterone and high saturated fat diet mine were moving at a glacial pace.
Alas, Madame Estrogen’s slow work was too much for me to bear. For me she was the kind of teacher who focused extensively on the rudiments of Latin well before any actual reading or writing. I needed active tittage. I needed it fast.
And thus, blessed by a cancellation, my surgery was brought forward and my tits were born under a Libra moon. Whispered incantations inside silicone domes, I woke up to them in the post-surgery recovery area and immediately felt my transition leap forward.
Getting misgendered is part and parcel of the transition journey. As I have written elsewhere, while such mistakes initially felt like sunlight on a vampire’s skin, I try to pass them off with more casualness these days. I have only so much control over how others perceive me, as much as I wish it were different. Tits, however, have moved the needle dramatically.
This now mountainous silhouette that I cut results in at least one car horn or cat call a day. Underlying terrifying masculine primal aggression aside, these moments nonetheless have a validating impact that has been long sought.
In the drowsy moments shortly after waking, as my mind is rebooting and remembering itself, I still have a moment of surprise.
“Fuck me, I’ve got tits”
Dysphoria is still a part of my life. My penis hangs like a dead flower, missed by the gardener and bringing down the vibe of the entire rose garden. However, the girls pendulous weight lifts my mind out of the mucky muck of depression more than occasionally. Shallow? Vain? Nope. Trans and seeing a dream come true.
The disinclination to top people in the bedroom (or wherever my wild oats find fertile soil) is slowing and while I’m a submissive bottom through and through, knowing that I wouldn’t need to close my eyes to dissociate through penetrating someone opens up possibilities.
The nipple clamps haven’t yet been brought back down from the shelf because the area is still largely numb. Nibbles and tongues do little to arouse me, although the psychological tingling is there. I don’t fully appreciate the way people fondle, smoosh and cup them but, again, the addition of that menu item is a welcome diversification of the fornication portfolio.
As Miriam Margolyes says in her memoir of incomparable honesty and laugh-a-minute authenticity, Oh, Miriam, “tits make all the difference.” My roommate, who has had large knockers for over a decade, echoed this, “it never gets old.”
And with that, they clasp the sides of their bells, clap them together with a branch-snapping thunder, and we salute the busty gods with beaming smiles.