FRESH YARN presents: My First Time... by Lisa Cron

FRESH YARN presents:

My First Time
By Lisa Cron

"One last question," I say to the plastic surgeon who will do the reconstruction, "can you give me some idea what it will look like, I mean will it look like a real breast?"

"Oh yes," he says. "Absolutely. In clothes you won't be able to tell the difference."

I want to say, hey, in junior high I could do that with a pair of gym socks and a box of Kleenex. I'm talking about stark naked for the first time with a new boyfriend. How about then? None of the doctors understand about sex. I am over forty. I have two kids. What does sex have to do with anything?

They'd found the calcification cluster a month earlier during a routine mammogram. After the biopsy my doctor told me it might never become cancerous. We could monitor it. Forever. Or I could have a mastectomy. I realized that any chance it had to remain benign ended with that statement, because now, subjected to a daily stress cocktail, it was sure to turn deadly in no time. Either that or I'd have a stroke worrying about it. Besides, I was about to move from New York to Los Angeles, losing my health insurance in the process. I didn't see it as a choice.

So I have a mastectomy. Which comes with a consolation prize. Implants. My left breast, the healthy one, is a trophy -- voluptuous, pendulous, ripe, all those words that never applied to me before. My right breast is misshapen, the areola crudely colored in, the tattoo ink is already fading. A scar runs from the nearly invisible nipple deep into my armpit. The breast itself is hard, unforgiving, completely devoid of its mate's new soft pliable plumpness. It is nothing more than skin stretched over muscle stretched over a saline filled silicone sac, that I can always feel, like if you swallowed a rock and it got stuck in your throat.

In the beginning, I touch it all the time and pretend I am an amorous man. Would it destroy the mood? I feel like a scientist. I am so curious that I am tempted to walk up to strangers and ask them to fondle it and give me their opinion. Finally, I turn to an old boyfriend who I haven't seen since the operation.

At first Jeff is a little uncomfortable, but he soon warms to the topic in a way I hadn't anticipated. "You had the smallest tits I ever saw, " he says, like he is confessing something it had been hard to hold in, "I didn't know a woman who'd had two kids could be that flat-chested. I was amazed, stunned, and you know me, I've always liked small breasted women. But now, I mean it's not like you're busty or anything, but you look really good in profile, you must be happy about that part of it." He has no idea that what he is saying hurts. Not a clue.

Like the nurse, the day after the mastectomy. She tidies my hospital room, eying me with nervous pity. I can tell she just has to say something. Finally she blurts, "You know who I really feel sorry for? The women with big breasts. They have so much more to lose. It's such a shock for them. You're lucky, it's not such a big change for you." My face freezes, and I am seized with the absurd desire to keep her from realizing what she's just said. But she isn't paying attention to me anymore. She's humming as she takes away my uneaten breakfast tray. Then it hits me, she thought she was comforting me.

We are now standing in Jeff's kitchen. "Let me see them, " he says. "You want me to lift my shirt?" "Yeah" he says.

I stand up straight and quickly suck in my stomach. I pull my shirt up to my chin. He stands back, arms crossed, head cocked, and takes a good long look. That's when I realize that, in his mind, this is not personal at all. He is pretending to be any man. He is going to give me an objective opinion. I feel myself blush. I am glad he isn't looking at my face.

"Honestly," he says at last, "they're fine." His glance lingers on the gimp. "It's not so bad." Like a doctor, he reaches for it. "It's hot," he sounds surprised. What did he think it would feel like? Doesn't he know it's me? Can't he feel my heart beating like a drum, amplified by that fucking saline? He reaches for the other one, my prize, with the same detachment. Nodding he says, "this one feels real." He steps back, smiling. "They're fine, I don't think you need to worry. You meet some guy and it's just one thing, no big deal really."

For the first time I look him in the eye. "Easy for you to say."

For a split second, he looks sheepish. I pull my shirt down. I can tell from his face that while to some hypothetical guy it would be no big deal, to him it is a very big deal. It reminds me of my daughter. When she was little she'd never tell me outright that she didn't like a dress I'd bought for her. Instead, every time I'd take it out of her drawer and hold it up, she'd say, "I think it's really beautiful, I just don't feel like wearing it today." I wonder if the hypothetical guys will feel like that.

After living in Los Angeles for a year, I meet Stuart. He is nothing like my ex-boyfriend, who is a playwright, or my ex-husband, who is a lawyer. He is a working man. Although he makes very little money, he takes great pride in what he does. He is the first stranger to flirt with me in 25 years. Or maybe, the first one I really noticed.

We are walking home. We've just finished dinner at an Indian restaurant on Pico, not far from my apartment. It is a warm night, though quickly cooling. He carries a thin plastic bag with the remains of our meal. We stop occasionally to kiss. He holds me tight, his long arms snaking around my waist, his palms resting in the small of my back, his fingers splayed, bearing down gently, urging my hips forward. The bag bobs against the back of my knees, which threaten to buckle. We are an unlikely couple to be necking on the street. Way too old. But then he leans hard into me and I feel his heat through my jeans, and I swear I am 17.

Without a word, we start to walk. Sex begins to feel inevitable. At 17 who wants to put it off for even one night, at 47, who can afford to? We ramble, giddy, toward my apartment, his fingers laced into mine. And I know that I have to tell him. I have to tell him now.

I am only sure of two things. That I have to say something before we get up stairs, and that I absolutely can't. Say. Anything.

We turn the corner. I see my apartment building up ahead. Finally we stop the way people do without planning it, one person slows and the other follows suit like dancing. It looks like a joint decision, but it's not. We're standing in front of the house next door.

"There's something I have to tell you," I say.

"What?" He's still smiling, not ready to surrender the dizziness that drove us here, five minutes from buck-naked. I tip my head forward, until it touches his chest. "This is really hard," I say over and over.

"What?" He asks again, not wary, as I'd suspected he would be, but with concern.

"I can't, I can't, I can't," I mutter into his chest. I know what he's thinking. Because ever since the operation, I've imagined this conversation. I just wasn't sure who I'd be having it with. I want to comfort him. I say, "It's not that bad. I'm not ill or anything. But it's sort of bad. I hope you'll still like me."

"Tell me," he says, "you can tell me anything." But I can't.

"You have cancer," he says.

"No, I told you I'm not sick, I was never sick."

Then, right on cue, "You're gay."

"No."

He pauses. I know exactly what he's going to say next. He tries to look into my face, "You're a man. "

"No," I say, this time to his sleeve.

He stands awkwardly. "I'm going to put the food bag down now," he says. "Do you want to sit on the curb?" I nod. Gently he leads me over, together we sit. I lean against his shoulder. I take a big shuddery breath. And I tell him the story. When I'm finished, he looks at me, confused, like he's still waiting for the bad part. Finally he says, "I have scars all over. Two on my face. It's all right."

"It's more than scars, " I tell him.

I take his hand and put it on my left breast first, giving him a soft warm handful, then I move it to the right, hard as a rubber ball. His eyes never leave mine. "I'm an adult." He says, "I like you. Why would this matter? I don't understand." Genuinely puzzled, he hugs me, nuzzles my hair, and for the first time in two years, I relax.