MY MOTHER’S BRA

For my mother, her bra is just another piece of clothing. For me, it is a magical potion. My mother isn’t proud of her body at all. Specifically, she detests her breasts, and I smell that from the way she treats them. Whenever I open her lingerie drawer to grab a bra for masturbation, I am appalled by her saggy, deformed bras that remind me of vegetable bags.

Although I tighten them around my slightly rounded chest,  I cringe to see my mother’s bras appear on me. I wish she appreciated the erotic power of her female body, her breasts, the drenched glamour of vagina. The silken rush of her world in the madness of menstruation.

I have always hated my biological maleness.  This shapeless scrotum that crumbles like plastic trash and this penis that despite its countless ejaculations remains a gory bastard.   My penis (I nicknamed it Suicidal Plum) is a swine whose unwanted erection I must tame each morning. Utterly humiliated, I splash water on this organ. When my penis is soaked, it radiates a glowering redness. I imagine it begins to talk through tiny lips on its flap. It warns me, “You think it’s that easy to give me away? I rule you.”

I hammer it again with water and I start to masturbate.

***

Innately, I am a mature, promiscuous pubescent girl.

I know it is hard for others to understand, but I believe as you evolve as a transgendered individual, you stop giving a fuck about whether others understand. My body is in the process of change. I feel noxious and cramped around certain days of the month. These are the days when I bleed internally. I even wear those cheap sanitary pads inside my underwear, expecting a sudden blizzard of blood. I imagine my penis, my scrotum, my ugly childhood memories, all gathered in a pool of purple-streaked blood. I imagine the more pain I feel, the quicker my vagina will materialize. Sometimes I feel its nascent drumming, a prisoner curtained behind a fleshy wall. She thumps me at night and sirens shriek through me. I get goose bumps, my skin simmers, I wail silently under my pillow.

On these days, I cannot concentrate on my books or even   sex. My partner asks if he isn’t man enough for me (This attentiveness I demand from my men like a spoiled whore). I console him, splash a thousand smooches because it is not his fault.

***

Sex becomes complicated when you hate the body that receives the kisses. Or not “the body” per se, but rather its organs. Rahim is my longest running sex mate, and he relishes all of me just the way I desire. I don’t have to tell him repeatedly,” Fuck me like a woman! Fucker, fuck me right here!” Or groan before he tweaks my nipples with his warm tongue. I only have to put on my makeup, strap on a tighter bra (Rahim buys them for me) and the crazy woman inside me is unleashed like a thunderclap. My body runs amok in festivals, becomes a carnival of warmth. Rahim’s fingers pounce my chest as I navigate his penis into my mouth. There is a moment during sex when, reflexively, I compare my penis with his and my revulsion returns. I hate to see my hardening lump, but Rahim never pays attention to it. He slobbers over my red lips, rushes his cardamom taste into me like a poisonous serpent. His eyes linger on my anus, and before I can gnaw his tightly muscled neck, he jams his fingers into me. They enter me like an electric sword, I go into a trance. My hands melt off him, I feel down to where he penetrates me. He softens, curls his fingers like he is weaving words, lands on my nipples and gently smooches.

This is all I need to cum. The feeling of being penetrated. To be the woman of this burly man. Now his penis is inside me and centuries roll away in just one fuck.

***

When Rahim leaves, he hugs me formally, as if we are business partners. He ties his shoes and says, “It was great, Buddy!” He hops on his bike and dissolves into the road.

I go back to my room to clear up before my mother comes home from work. I curse Rahim, think about that repulsive name he called me: Buddy. Is that all he thinks I am? Not his girlfriend? Not even his slut? I dump the bra he gave me into the garden dust bin. I hated the color anyway. I will buy one for myself. It will be electric pink with a little bow in its center.