Binding My Breasts

In the summer of 1993 I read a book none of you will have heard of, so I won’t elaborate on the author or the title. But the heroine of the story has remained in my head for years.

About three quarters into the plot, the action had built and, due to a series of tragedies, she decided to pose as a boy and join the Revolutionary War effort. And for her it was simple. Cut the hair. Bind the breasts. Put on pants.

Of course in the end she was found out by her one true love, which made it even more romantic.

I fantasized about that. The idea of transforming so completely. The idea of being a boy, while being a girl.

I rummaged in my parents medicine cabinet for some ancient ace bandages and then stood naked in front of my full length closet holding them. Around and around I wrapped the three inch elastic fabric, binding my already size C cups tighter and tighter.

When I finished I could barely breathe. And though I had bound them as tight as I physically could, the telling curve of a blooming figure still showed.

Disappointed, I slipped on jeans and a loose plaid shirt that had been my grandfather’s in the 1950s. My hair went up and under a hat, and I stepped close to the mirror, hoping what I saw could pass for a boy.

But it was useless. I pushed the closet door shut and flopped across my pastel covered twin bed. I started to sigh, but the bandages kept me from inhaling enough to release my exasperation.

So I sat up and took off the shirt. And slowly unbound my breasts. Free as last, I ran my hands over them, noticing the strange patterns left by the fabric. I could breathe again.

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