You're right man
Sorry for waiting you so long, but i had a lot of things to do, and then i've totally forgotten to share my story. But now its finished. A friend of mine has translated my story cause im not sooo good in english writing. So, im sorry if things are not right or when there are indifferent things in the story. Feel free to write me a PM. I will answer your questions. And now, have fun with reading my boobie-bio. ^^
Ever since I was small, I’ve been fascinated by breasts. At a wild guess, it’s a fascination shared by perhaps 80% of the male population.
Now that my desire was identified, how to proceed? There are a number of techniques and devices we can use to simulate a bosom. Mostly, they won’t stand up to scrutiny if visible skin is a requirement. About the best you can hope for in getting cleavage is duct-taping your flesh into a fold and augmenting it with a breast form or something. The adhesive, attachable, forms also produce the illusion of cleavage, but not really well.
I was left with three possibilities: do nothing, take hormones, or have breast augmentation surgery. I didn’t feel hormones were appropriate for me. Doing nothing (and daydreaming about how things could be different) was the easy option, but there was still that nagging desire to have boobs. I wanted cleavage. The best option, I decided, was surgery.
The way I usually do things, is to act and damn the consequences. But this was perhaps the most unusual thing I’ve ever contemplated, and I took a different tack. First was the research. Here’s where modern technology takes on the heavy lifting. There’s a ton of data on the Internet, and plenty about what I was planning, known technically as breast augmentation and colloquially as getting a boob job.
The really important questions were of a more personal nature. How could a relatively average guy survive the daily tests of modern life whilst sporting a chest of female proportion? I’d thought about this for a long time prior, and figured the best way would be to try something temporary to test the waters. One fine fall day, full of fear and trepidation, I tried wearing my smaller breast prostheses while in male mode.
What a strange sense of fear and awe as I stepped out into a guy world with my 80Bs, in broad daylight, here in my hometown, for the very first time! The most clinical description of my personal head space was scared . Of course, I did my best to camouflage my silicone protuberances under a rather baggy shirt, but I knew they were there! I suppose a casual observer wouldn’t have noticed much difference. Just a guy wearing a baggy flannel shirt. It’s different when you’re inside the shirt and sure everyone around you is staring at your chest, because it’s certainly the most important thing on your mind.
The first hour seemed like a week. Everyone was fixated on my chest. Everywhere I went, I heard loud, boisterous laughter from behind me. Groups of small children ran after me, throwing small stones and heckling me at every turn. Several small women wearing sensible shoes and brandishing religious tracts in one hand and a copy of The National Enquirer in the other chased after me, chanting a mantra of ?Pervert! Pervert!? It was horrible! It was awful! It was terrible! It was completely imaginary!
Actually nothing happened! Nada. Zip. Zero. The demons inside my head got a great workout, but as far as the real world was concerned, it was business as usual.
By the end of that first fateful day, the total reaction had been a big goose-egg. Life went on all around me as if nothing had happened. Lots of turmoil between my own ears, but the rest of the world seemed blithely oblivious. It was a bit of a letdown actually, finding I’m not the center of the known universe.
So that was that, a fitful start into bosomness. Day two was a bit less stressful than day one, and day three a bit less again. After a month of daily enhancement and public scrutiny, life was pretty ordinary, just a bit lumpier. All the while, I knew deep inside that if any of this became a problem I could just stop wearing the forms. I admit I was still doing what I could to cover my synthetic assets by wearing loose clothing and crossing my arms a lot, but as I slowly became accustomed to the twins and became comfortable with my new look, I started to relax. And the strangest thing I found I enjoyed having breasts!
Not wanting to mislead you, I have to be frank for a moment. Of course other people noticed the change in my appearance. Some people did stare. Undoubtedly there was discussion of my apparent remodeling behind my back. But after a few months, the issue just seemed to disappear. The chatterboxes moved on to the next bit of juicy gossip, and my life went on.
As I grew more comfortable with my new look, I spent less time trying to hide it from others. When summer came and bulky flannel shirts weren’t appropriate attire, I did change to somewhat thinner and less obscuring clothing. Still the earth didn’t open under my feet and swallow me into a sulphurous pit. What a relief! It was time to fish or cut bait.
But first, a quick time-out. Over the year I spent wearing breast forms, I discovered something about disconcerting about silicone breast forms. They wear out! If you wear your forms 24/7, the outer shell eventually splits and a greasy silicone mess leaks out. When this happened at five months, I thought it was just a fluke and replaced the smaller set with my favorite, larger pair. I was now a 80C and life went on pretty much as usual. I did stop wearing the forms while sleeping, as I thought this was shortening their life.
When I embarked on the journey, I decided to try a year with prosthetic breasts before doing anything permanent. I figured that would give me time to acclimate to the situation. I could stop anytime and revert to being a flat-chested guy. At the same time, I would be saving my pennies to finance the surgery if I really decided to do it. The plan was: by the time I had the cash in hand I would know if I really wanted to travel down this road.
I had decided that being a guy with boobs was not only tolerable, but a lot of fun. By this time, the worst was over. So far as my relationship to the outside world was concerned, my attitude was positive and I was looking forward to having a cleavage. My savings plan had resulted in enough to pay for the expected surgery. All systems were go. It was time for the next step.
First on the menu was selecting a surgeon. That was easy. . I have searched for a transgender forum, where a list was with names of surgeons who make general makeovers. I have contacted three ones. All where willed to do the OP, but i had to make a small psychiatric test (I was curious only a small test and no big psychiatric consultation). I’ve asked for the price of making me boobs. The first wanted 3000€. It was very cheap and the rooms where he consulted me where somewhat dirty too, so I quit him. The second doc was a woman, but she wanted around 8000€ and that was a way too expensive. The last doc was a guy and it should cost around 6000€ (I’ve informed me and that is a normal price for a boobjob(for a woman)). Who would be better to put boobs on a guy than someone who’s done hundreds already? I made the call and scheduled an appointment for a consultation.
I called Doctor’s office and made an appointment for a surgical consult. One small step for man, one giant step for me.
A couple of days later I got up nerve to make the phone call. You know how it goes. Just too busy to make a doctor’s appointment. I was a bit apprehensive about this one, as it would certainly be an unusual request for a garden-variety plastic surgeon to do a breast augmentation on a male. Or so I thought. The cheerful person who answered the phone listened to my request and said “Well, I’ll have to check with the doctor and see if he’s willing to do it. Hang on!?” She came back on the line about a minute later and said, “When would you like an appointment?” Sheesh! This is too easy!
The consultation was end of February, 2009. During that time, my second set of forms (the 80Cs) gave up the ghost or the silicone. Whatever. A quick shop scored me a nice pair of forms that were larger than any I had ever tried before. I became a 80C+ or 80D, depending on the brassiere manufacturer. And life went on pretty normally.
From my research on the internet, I knew that breast implants are sized by their volume in cubic centimeters. Since I was expecting to leave the world of external prostheses and move inside, I got busy determining the size of the forms I was using to get an idea of what I wanted as far as implant size. The external forms I started with (the 80Bs) were about 400 cc, the C forms were 450 cc and the D’s were 500 cc. These should be useful numbers for the consult, I thought.
My consultation appointment day neared, and I called the office to confirm it. I was halfway hoping some external force would intercede to postpone the inevitable. You know what I mean calling the dentist’s office to see if he had a sudden change of heart about doing your root canal or had been abducted by space aliens and couldn’t see you this year or something like that. Nope. We were set for the consultation, as advertised.
I drove to the surgeon’s office and met the Doc, a cheerful office manager. He looked me over in that trademarked doctorly way and asked me what I wanted. I explained my situation, and he queried me about perhaps actually wanting pectoral implants, not breast implants. Seems it’s more common for men to want bigger pecs, not bigger breasts. Hmmm. Hadn’t occurred to me that there was another way to get big pecs other than exercise...
Gotta have enough skin to stretch over the implants, is the motto of breast augmentation. Makes sense. Before even unbuttoning my shirt in the examination room, I knew skin was my issue. Natal females apparently are more endowed with available skin that are males, so it’s easier to work on them. Or they’re stretchier. Or something. When the doctor came in and had a look and a squeeze and a pinch and whatever else, he said “Hmmm... looks like this could work.” He estimated he could fit 500 cc expanders into the available space, using an incision under the armpit.
He made a final evaluation of my mental state. “Are you sure you want to do this?” After receiving an affirmative reply, the consult was over. The results: 500 cc saline expanders, armpit incision, and local anesthetic, with the procedure done in his office surgical suite.
I now had three weeks to give the operation my full consideration. I wasn't fully committed yet. I should probably have just been committed. But as the time passed and the surgery date drew near, I grew enthusiastic about actually going through with it. Yeah, it was a big step, but I felt I was ready.
The surgeon didn't require lab tests prior to my surgery. This concerned me. I wanted to be sure there was nothing problematic lurking in my most inner parts. I scheduled a physical exam with my general practitioner for mid-February.
Everything was fine. My doc commented that I had lost weight since my last exam (woo hoo!) and my blood pressure was better than it had been. It was due to my sense of inner calm, I suppose.
I had a pre-op appointment with the plastic surgeon about a week prior to B-Day. Surgery was scheduled for 8:45 am. My instructions were no food after midnight. I was instructed to get a front-zip sports bra to bring to the surgery so we'd have a bag to put the new additions in and take them home. He made sure I had reliable transportation to and from his office and someone to look after me post-surgery. The night before my surgery, I slept like a log. No worries, no nagging doubts, just a warm anticipation. And all this with no drugs! All right!
I was up early the next morning. B-Day was here. No breakfast, no coffee, no nothing, except a little tiny pill. Ah well, small sacrifices. The nurse drove us to the surgeon's office; we arrived right on time. Things got a little confusing after that. Took off my shirt and put on a gown, sat down in the chair. I was going to have what is called conscious sedation or twilight sleep anesthesia. It's mostly local anesthetic injected into the area they're actually working on to make it numb, plus an IV that makes you pretty much indifferent to what's going on around you.
The nurse put a transducer on my wrist, inserted an IV needle into my arm, and ummm, I was outta there or was I?
I had the strangest dream. I was pleasantly floating in space. It was dark, and it was light, and there were people around me saying things that almost made sense, but I couldn't quite understand what they were saying. What's happening? Oh, that's an odd sensation. I feel some pressure on my chest now. What could that be? Hey, that tickles! Oh well, back to dreamland....
They timed the anesthetic so I'd come back to consciousness shortly after they finished. These people really knew their stuff. Perfect timing. I wandered back to the land of the living at about 10:30, a bit woozy, surrounded by strangers and with the darndest feeling in my chest. I still had about a gallon of the local anesthetic sloshing around in there, so I was mostly numb, but even in that condition I realized something had changed.
Put my shirt back on and got instructions for pain management. I was still a bit dopey , but the nurse got it all straight for me. We left the office, got into the car, and I promptly went back to sleep for the drive home. In the hour of driving, the anesthetic wore off and I was almost awake by the time we got home. I jumped out of the car and no, wait, let's be honest here, crawled out of the car and into the house, swallowed a pain pill, and went straight to bed.
I dozed for a couple of hours. Interesting dreams. Woke up with a couple of cantaloupes inserted under the skin on my chest. What the heck? Oh, yeah. I remember now. I took a quick peek under the sports bra, without unzipping the front. Wasn't sure I could get it to close again if I opened it. Goodness gracious, there really are cantaloupes under my skin! Yikes! What have I done?
At that moment I had a serious attack of boobie remorse. How could I have done such a thing? What was I thinking? Am I nuts? It was terrible. It was awful. It was horrible. It was . . . Hey, wait a minute! I've got boobs! Cool! The boobie remorse lasted almost ten seconds. It was replaced by a warm and fuzzy feeling and a big smile. Woo hoo!
I went back to the surgeon's office on Friday for a checkup and to have the steri-strips replaced. That's the band-aid thing that covered the incision. I was surprised to learn there were no stitches involved on the incision. Cool! I went for a second checkup the week after; everything was healing just fine. The rest of the recovery was mostly uneventful.
The surgeon did a wonderful job. At first, the twins were as hard as rocks and sat too high on my chest. When they softened a bit, the Doc refilled them a bit to reach the goal. Freaky, indeed. They hurt badly for a day or so, but then most of the pain went away.
I think I used two of the high-test pain pills. I had to sleep on my back for a week or so, and then was allowed to lie on my side and actually get some sleep.
My surgeon believes in compression to speed healing, so a zip-front sports bra was my constant companion for four weeks, 24/7.
The healing process is slow. After about four weeks, the girls started to soften a bit as the skin stretched around them. They were still firm and positioned high on the chest. There were bouts of small pains and itchiness and numbness for about three months, as everything came back together, nothing serious. One lesson: don't scratch your boobs in public. People will stare. Trust me on this one.
So here we are,. And the answers to the frequently asked questions:
What do they feel like?
Interesting question. The procedure didn't add nerve endings to my body, just a bit of extra mass in strategic places. They feel (internally) exactly like they did before augmentation. The extra weight and flexibility makes them move differently against clothing, and going braless does cause the nipples to be more sensitive to external stimuli. This is not entirely unpleasant. Wearing a brassiere, I feel them more in the shoulder straps than at the breast surface. The weight, feel and bounciness are similar to external forms in a brassiere. I rather enjoy it.
Externally, they feel just like female breasts. Warm, firm, squishy, malleable and oooh!
How have people around you reacted to this?
Since I already had a noticeable chest prior to surgery and people around me got over it early, there seem to have been no adverse reactions.
How much do they weigh?
About 1kg in total.
Any surgical complications?
None at all. My surgeon did an excellent job.
Anything you would have done differently?
I would have started sleeping on my tummy a bit sooner. That seems to accelerate the softening of the implants by compressing them more and keeping the pocket they're in opened up. The tradeoff is that until they're ready to be slept on, they hurt when you do that. Do what they tell you.
I would not have gone bra shopping at Victorias Se'cret so soon. My first junket was at about six weeks, and the girls were nowhere near ready to be harnessed. Underwires were torturous and the cantaloupes didn't take kindly to being forced into unnatural positions. This situation is now firmly under control.
If you had it to do over, would you?
Oh yes. In a heartbeat.
THANK YOU for sharing this fascinating story. It seems completely plausible and believable to me. And brave. Please keep posting photos and accounts of your daily life. You are a big-boob lover who is also a player in the larger world of body modification and gender bending in general. More power to you. I assume you are aware of Genesis P-Orridge and his recent adventures in "pandrogeny" ?