Boobs in Space

Dear Dr. Schultz, 

I don’t remember much from your linguistics class in college. (To be fair, it was on Zoom at 7:30am right in the middle of the pandemic. Was anyone actually present?) However, I do remember one thing you said on the very first day of class: “Boobs aren’t floating around in space. They’re always attached to somebody.” I don’t know what you were getting at then, probably something about language and meaning, but I know what I’m getting from it now. 

Let me tell you, it is a uniquely dissociative experience growing up in purity culture while also a) being ace-spec and b) having zero concept of asexuality. But it doesn’t really matter all that much in the moment because, as a Christian girl, your body isn’t yours anyway. It exists under the jurisdiction of others. So, why bother thinking about it too much? Or at all. 

That is, until your mid-twenties after you’ve deconstructed your religion as the framework of your entire life and you realize with some shock and horror that oh. Oh my god. All those chapels you sat through about staying pure and NOT having sex where you looked at your peers and thought geez guys get it together this is easy… Yeah, people were actually feeling things. 

I won’t get into the nuances of how I connected with my sexuality in my twenties (because frankly, why would I tell you that?), but I will say there came a moment when I remembered what you said. When—in seeing myself through the eyes of a partner—I realized: I have boobs. Up until that point, they’d been something of an unaffiliated organization renting space on my chest. 

But you were right! You and my first girlfriend brought me to the same conclusion: boobs are attached to somebody. They’re not just floating around in space. My boobs are attached to me. They’re in my space. And I get to decide who and how and when someone gets to enter that orbit. 

This is probably the weirdest email you’ve received from a former student, but thanks for letting me get that off my chest. 

Best, 

M.J.