When my breast cancer appeared for the first time in my twenties, we were just married and decided that our sexual life would survive simply because that's how we wanted it to happen. We had sex when I was a chemist, when I had an armpit tube when I had new signs in the body from the operation. The sense of mortality made sex a act of resistance, triumph.
When a second shocking tumor appeared to me 18 years later, I knew that letting myself free in the hands of anger was the only way to pardon my body, to make peace with what was happening. After deciding that I would remove the two breasts, we continued to make Sesk. But we gradually retreated from my chest, to protect ourselves from the loss that awaited us.
Insured on the couch, in recovery, I ordered the suckers and stripes that women and sex wear. I expected my new breasts to have no sensuality. I did not know that sensitivity would lose me in the abdomen where they took the tissue to create my new breasts. I did not know how important it was in the area from hips to navel.
We are still firm. My new cool duot in leopard print, tulle nib, black lace. Adhesives and adhesive tapes are fun, but distracting. I do not get any heat or touch, but I can feel the pressure. What is important is what survived, the sweet pleasure of nakedness on nudity, compressed together.
Written by an anonymous woman for The Guardian
