There is no one that I know or have ever known that would accuse me of being a girly girl. The only visually feminine thing about me is the fact that I have breasts, and as a kid, if I could have stopped them from growing I would have. I was too comfortable in my tom-boy skin and was horrified at the reality that my father seemed to enjoy torturing me with… that eventually, like my two older sisters, I too would grow boobs. As if I could somehow prevent that, I rebelled against it in every way I could as a kid. I had Tonka trucks and played with dinosaurs that would run over and attack my older sisters’ Barbie dolls. I read my bother’s comic books and wanted to be a cowboy! I did NOT want to be the girl that I was. Dresses… forget it! Makeup… hell no!

While I’d like to say that I fought the good fight and was never actually photographed in a dress, sadly, it would be a lie. There are a few pictures of me in a dress; one particular atrocity is of an embarrassing moment taken at my 4th grade square dancing performance, me, dorky as I have ever looked, in a country bumpkin floor length contraption complete with a bonnet on my head. It would take years for me to recover from the humiliation of being teased by my older siblings.

So why am I sitting here, writing this with bright neon (HOOKER) pink nail polish on my fingernails? Boobs! Not my own, of course. The tom-boy all grown up is now a healthy lesbian with a salacious appreciation and love for the very thing I loathed as a kid. Boobs. Yep, I’m a boob girl. I’m not picky, really. Any size will do, just as long as they actually appear to be boobs and not enormously large pimples and of course, they must must must be real.

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