illusion

So last Monday I had my man made nipples and areolae tattooed. Amazing what can be done with a little shading and artistry. Nicole, the beautiful feisty cosmetic tattoo queen, is an artist. An empathetic, caring, beautiful artist who has blown me away with her skill, her confidence, her humour and her kindness.  I love my weird, very scarred, oddly shaped yet strangely normal, made up of back skin and pelvic area skin, with different shaped nipples, one ten years older than the other, and with the odd short and curly and absolutely no sensation, boobs. Or foobs some call them. False boobs. One with an implant one without. Ok, not normal at all but I’ve got what I wanted. The smoke and mirrors. At a glance I forget. In fact I remember but I smile rather than grimace. The tattoos are healing and crusting so hopefully all goes as it should without too much touching up required.  Okay maybe not loving the foobs, but loving the illusion.  But please know as happy as I am, as accepting as I have learnt to be, as often as I show you and I will,  I would still rather have your perfectly imperfect breasts. Your old, saggy mismatched boobs. Your breastfed my children and look at them now breasts. Your flat breasts, your large boobs, your inverted nipples, your stretch marks, your droop. This has been torture, not a choice. I will do it again in a heartbeat to be here. But still. Please stop telling me how much better mine are than yours. Even if just to be kind. And remember, as do I, to always count your blessings. Nothing, nothing lasts forever.

 

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