Trophy of Bosom

In the essence of womanhood I find profound love, yet tethered to it, a lamentation for the unbounded liberty that seems forever elusive to me as a woman. Residing on a tropical island, my senses are besieged by the sight of bare-chested males, their torsos adorned solely by the warmth of the sun and a comfortable breeze. I comprehend the rationale behind their lack of attire, yet it pains me deeply to realize that their liberation remains but a distant dream for me. And please, spare me the flirty remarks on your ‘personal tolerance’ for my topless presence, for we know it is not my comfort that you care for but merely a thrill of voyeurism that seeks to strip me bare.

Today marked our monthly rendezvous with Bert, an enigmatic proprietor of one of the island’s many car rental services, for we had to submit our vehicle for inspection and tender our monthly dues. However, Bert, who formed the testament for island life while simultaneously bearing the unmistakable traits of a stubborn Frisian, inadvertently ignited some trigger within me. As we settled into his office, my gaze was drawn, albeit reluctantly, to his extremely unconventional comfort. There he sat, reclined on his office throne, half-clad in the afternoon light, with his hand unabashedly glued to his cigarettes. As he and my brother delved into discussions of car mechanics and various other topics I know nothing about, my attention remained ensnared by the bulge of his protruding belly and his unsightly dangling nipples, intruding relentlessly into my field of vision. I could practically count the droplets of sweat cascading from the ample folds of his stomach, rolling into the aged pelt that obscured his wrinkled navel.

To my surprise it did not seem to border on defiance in any way, as everyone within that space seemed to regard the situation as entirely ordinary, as if this was the norm for how the masculine was allowed to present itself. Therefore, I could not help but envy the man's unencumbered existence. At home I find myself clothed with just the tiniest pieces of fabric, as I too seek solace from the unbearable heat. To think that with every outing beyond that I am compelled to cloak myself in additional layers of fabric, lest even the <slightest> suggestion of exposure may emerge, shows the profound divergence in conduct that is expected of us. So there I was, realizing that my brother had the liberty to mimic Bert whenever the island’s sun would overwhelm him too, realizing that I would always be confined by the patriarchal chains of objectification, realizing that it is they who have crafted this rigged cage for us, all the while brandishing their trophies of bosom provocatively in our faces each and every day. It is, essentially, but a tragicomedy, for our punishment is merely a poignant reminder of their fragile impulse, and thereby, a testament of our own fortitude.