You're Not a Boy

"I thought it would make the pain go away," He whispers, looking at himself in the mirror. He traces one of the red puffy scars under his chest where B-cups used to be. The skin is still so puffy and sore, but he trails it with feather-like touches. "You know, make me feel more like…. me. A boy. But, now I just have these ugly, stupid scars. They remind me that, no matter how hard I try, I'm still not a boy."

Brooklyn, standing behind him, places her chin on his shoulder and wraps her arms around his waist. Her fingertips slip under the waistband of his jeans and of his boxers.

"You're scars," she says, kissing his neck. "Are anything but ugly and stupid." Brooklyn says strongly, her voice not more than a breathless whisper ghosting over heated skin. "They show me that my boyfriend is brave, and strong, and absolutely brilliant. That you're a fighter and you've persevered and overcome more than others our age will ever even begin to comprehend.

"You're right, though," Brooklyn says, her hands moving from His waistband to slide slowly up his sides, resting solidly on his hips. "You're not a boy."

He gasps and tries to turn wildly back towards Brooklyn, but her hands hold him steady, forcing him to look in the mirror.

"You're not a boy," She repeats, mouth hovering dangerously close to the sensitive skin of His collarbone. "You're a man."