Boob Man Prelude

My husband is a boob man.

I've known that since we met. Hell, I thought his eyes would fall out that first time, staring at my cleavage, my WonderBra doing its job.

But I liked him from the start and loved him from the second date.

He's a boob man.

He loved taking my bra off and playing with them.

When I got pregnant I blossomed, going from the D-cup I had worn since eighth grade to the GG-cup I had on today.

He's a boob man.

And I had just been told I would lose him.

"You have the BRCA mutation," the doctor said. "That lump is cancer and we need to get it out or you'll die. It's that simple. And if you want my advice, we'll take the other breast. You are at extremely high risk of more breast cancer."

He's a boob man.

And I was going to lose my boobs.

My tears were because I was scared, it was fucking BREAST CANCER!!!! The tears were for my loss. Hell, I enjoyed them almost as much as he did. Mostly they were mourning tears, mourning my marriage. After all - -

He's a boob man.

Oh, he was sweet about it. Part of the reason I'm still in love with him is that he's so damn NICE.

He laid out my sexiest outfit for date night the day we found out. At the Club, my boobs drew looks as they always did. The scoop neck blouse left about a foot of blue-veined cleavage on display. The short skirt put my bubble butt and, okay, I'll say it, fat thighs out there for all to see. But he likes it and I'm a bit of an exhibitionist, so I guess I do too. But with every look, I was reminded - -

He's a boob man.

When we got home we made love. I think he felt the same sort of desperation I did. He was energetic enough. He played with my boobs more than usual. He suckled until they were sore, and I enjoyed it.

When he was inside of me, smiling down, kissing me, telling me how much he loved me, for a few minutes I could forget. But then it came back - -

He's a boob man.

The cancer, the doctor said, was "aggressive." Four days later my husband took me to the hospital. He helped me undress and get into that ridiculous backless gown and then held my hand while they stuck needles into me and talked endlessly about how things would work. Eventually, he kissed me, they wheeled me through a maze, said "Count backward from ten," and I went out.

As my eyes fluttered open he kissed me. "They got it all," he said, relief palpable in his voice.

"Yeah," I thought, "they got both of them,"

and cried. After all - -

He's a boob man.

I sent him home before the nurse came in to check on me. It had been a long day for him too.

"Please," I said, "I want to see." She argued but in the end, surrendered. In the bathroom, she pulled tape free, some special tape I guess because it didn't hurt. I looked.

He's a boob man.

They were gone, of course, but it was much worse than that. There was a red line where the right had been but the left wasn't just "gone." There was a deep channel and a "Y-shaped" scar that ran under my armpit.

I had to hold onto the sink. God, I was hideous. And - -

He's a boob man.

He was kind and gentle. He didn't seem bothered that I insisted on changing my own dressings no matter how often he said he'd help.

He insisted on a Date Night after three months. I dressed in my finest and put on the prosthetic bra, the one that emulated my missing GG boobs. After all - -

He's a boob man.

When we got home I couldn't hide anymore.

He saw.

He's a boob man.

I was crying when he said, "You're beautiful."

The way he said it, I believed him.

He's a boob man.

When we made love he told me I was beautiful. When he traced my scars with his fingertips and then with his tongue he told me I was beautiful.

I believed him. I cried and I believed him.

He's a boob man.

But evidently, he's a wife man more.