Drift (caption) - part 1 (free version) (Patreon)

Read part 2 here.

The digital display of the alarm clock on the nightstand shifts from 4:59 to 5:00. The streetlamp outside the window puts a pale orange rectangle across the foot of the bed. I wake before the alarm sounds and reach out to press the button. My arm moves without the resistance I expect. I pull it back under the duvet and lie on my back. The air in the bedroom is cold. The thermostat in the hallway is set to sixty-two degrees. The duvet usually keeps me warm. This morning the heat sits on my skin wrong. There's a heavy mass on my chest, held tight against my ribs by the band of my sleep bra.

I'm a doctor. I know the physiology of sleep and waking. The parasympathetic nervous system hands control back to the sympathetic, and the brain comes online on a chemical schedule I could recite. I feel the weight pressing down on my chest. The mass shifts outward against the ribbed cotton as I take a breath, yielding to gravity, pulling toward my armpits. I have breasts. I know I have them. I'm a woman. I've always been a woman. My medical degree in the hallway has my name on it. My memories of residency, of my first attending shift in the emergency department, feature this exact body. The tissue resting on my ribcage still feels like an intrusion.

I push the duvet down to my waist. The cool air hits my chest through the thin cotton of my sleep shirt. The fabric drapes over the mounds of flesh. The nipples tighten in the temperature drop and rub against the inside of the bra. I sit up. The mechanics are wrong. My center of gravity sits deep in the pelvis, pulling me backward into the mattress. I have to engage my core differently, pivoting on a fulcrum set too low, to get my torso upright. I swing my legs over the side of the mattress and my feet hit the woven rug. The arch of my foot is too high, the metatarsals thin under my weight. I press down into the floor. The joints hold fine.

I stand up. My hips tilt forward to compensate. The pelvis is broad. My knees angle inward to account for the width and the angle of the femurs. I walk toward the bathroom. My inner thighs brush together with every step. There's a layer of subcutaneous fat cushioning the friction. I trace my hand along the hallway wall to steady myself. The painted drywall is smooth. My palm is small against it.

I flip the bathroom light switch. The light throws yellow shadows across the porcelain sink. I stand at the vanity and look into the mirror. The cheekbones are high. The jawline is soft. The skin is clear, no open pores, no coarse hair. The eyebrows are plucked into thin arches. Two weeks ago I sat in the salon chair with a magazine open on my lap while the aesthetician worked with the tweezers. I remember the sting of each hair coming out at the root. The memory is mine. The face is mine.

I grip the edge of the sink. The fingers pressing into the porcelain are slender. The nails are trimmed short and filed round, a professional necessity for palpating abdomens and getting into nitrile gloves without tearing them. The veins on the back of my hand are faint, buried under the skin. They don't map it in raised ridges. I let go of the sink, take the hem of my t-shirt, pull it up over my head and drop it on the tile.

I'm wearing a white bra and white cotton underwear. The band digs into my ribs, the fabric straining over the fullness of the breasts. I reach back and unhook the clasp. The tension goes. I pull the straps down my arms and drop the garment. The breasts fall forward, heavy and unsupported. I hook my thumbs under the elastic waistband of my underwear, push the fabric down over the flare of my hips and my thighs, and step out of it. I kick it aside.

I'm nude. I stand still and look down at my breasts and crotch.

The breasts slope downward, the areolas broad and dark against the paler skin of my chest. The nipples are still contracted from the cold of the tile room. I know the anatomy. Glandular tissue, adipose, suspensory ligaments of Cooper, lactiferous ducts. I can name every structure under the skin. They pull at it. Every movement of my torso makes them sway.

The stomach is flat, but there's no definition under the soft layer over the muscle. The waist indents sharply and curves out into the flare of the hips. Below the curve of the stomach the hair is a trimmed triangle. Below that, the cleft between my thighs. I've menstruated for two decades. I've sat on exam tables in stirrups. Standing here on the cold tile, having breasts and female anatomy feels wrong.

I need to touch it. I bring my right hand up to my left breast. I hesitate before making contact. The anticipation of the texture makes my stomach clench. I press the flat of my palm against the skin.

The tissue yields immediately. It's soft, dense, and heavy. The sensation of touching my own breast sends a jolt through my nervous system. The nerve endings in the areola register the pressure of my palm with intense acuity. I close my fingers, squeezing the flesh.

A spike of heat shoots straight down into my pelvis. I gasp. The sound echoes off the tile walls. I let go of the breast and pull my hand back. The skin where my hand rested feels hot. I'm turned on by my own body. The sensation is internal, a drawing inward, an aching pulse that demands friction and attention.

I refuse to engage with it. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth. The air smells slightly of the bleach I used to clean the grout on Sunday. I look back down. The arousal isn't fading. It's increasing.

I pull my hand away and turn on the faucet. The water comes out cold. I put my hands under it, take the pump bottle of antibacterial soap and dispense three heavy pumps into my palm. I scrub my hands together hard. I rinse the lather down the drain and leave the water running. I stare at my wet hands. Between my legs the pulse keeps its rhythm.

I turn away from the sink and step into the shower stall. The glass door squeaks on its metal track. I turn the valve all the way left. The pipes rattle inside the wall. The water bursts out of the head hot and hard, and I step under it without waiting for the temperature to settle.

The water beats against my back. I put my forehead against the wet fiberglass. Steam fills the enclosure and clouds the glass. The water runs down my neck, over my shoulders, and parts around the mounds on my chest. I feel it tracing the underside of the breasts. I keep my eyes closed.

I reach blind for the loofah and the body wash hanging on the caddy. I squirt gel onto the mesh and work it into a lather between my palms. I start on my arms and use too much pressure. The skin on my forearms reddens under the soap. Shoulders, collarbone. I have to wash the chest. I bring the loofah down and pass it over the breasts fast, minimizing contact. The mesh catches on the hardened nipples. The heat spikes in my pelvis again. I grit my teeth and force the loofah down over the soft curve of the stomach.

I wash the legs. The softness of the inner thighs is an irritant. The skin gives too much under the scrubbing. The water pools at my feet and circles the drain. The hot water running between my legs makes it worse.

I drop the loofah. It lands on the fiberglass with a wet slap. I stand under the water and let it take the soap off. Both hands flat against the wall. The water pounds the back of my head. I listen to it hitting the floor. I'm an attending physician at County General. I have rounds at seven. I have a mortgage. The feeling is a fact, as real as the hot water on my skin.

I turn the valve and shut the water off. Steam clings to the walls and the mirror. I open the glass door.

The cold air of the bathroom hits my wet skin. I shiver. The nipples contract again, painful. I take a towel off the rack, dry my hair roughly, dry my face. I bring the towel down to my shoulders and stop. I don't want to dry the rest of it. I want to step out of it. I pat the chest dry, avoiding the areolas. I drag the towel down the stomach and do my legs fast. I stand in the middle of the bathroom tile with the damp towel hanging in my grip. My reflection is blurred in the fogged mirror. I'm nude. I look down at my breasts and crotch again. The breasts are flushed pink from the hot water, the dark areolas standing out against the pale skin. Below the soft curve of my stomach, the neat triangle of hair. I'm a woman. I've always been a woman.