A few months ago I wrote about what it feels like to have tits. I love and enjoy mine and I’m very grateful for every squishy, bouncy inch of them. But not everyone feels the same way, and when I published the audio on Patreon, the lovely Dr Phoenix Andrews shared his take on tits and I asked if he’d be up for expanding into a guest blog: “I couldn’t enjoy them until mine were gone, and now you can’t stop me playing with them.” If you don’t know him already, do follow @thatdocphoenix.com on BlueSky for insightful political takes and occasional sexy tattooed thirst traps. And dive in to his incredible guest blog about tits: why he’s definitely a tit man, but he had to get rid of his own before he could appreciate them…
Top surgery turned me into a tit man
Tits. I could barely even look at them, let alone eroticise or even exoticise them. They hung from my narrow frame like they’d been installed with a supporting bracket. Hanging baskets. I joked to my surgeon on measuring day that they were porn star tits, looked stuck on, and he found it hard to disagree.
Tits belong on a woman’s body, and on a woman’s body they belong. My big naturals looked unnatural. I didn’t have the softness and the curves to go with them. They jutted like a jawline. Prominent and uncompromising. It’s less that I felt dysphoria and more an utter sense of disconnection. In the mirror, with my face. In my body, at my body.
I spend enough time in all-male company now to know that when people looked at me before, they saw a gawky face and a walking pair of tits, a couple of sizes too large. My tits were objectively fine to look at in isolation, but clown shoes on me. I didn’t want men to look at me. I didn’t want women to look at me. I didn’t want to look at myself.
The change since I had top surgery has been profound. Not just in my masculinised body, hard and muscled and hairy. The scars are thin, white and barely visible. The tits were never there.
But now I see them everywhere, and they turn me on like nothing else. Now I can be perceived, I can see them. Want them. Touch them. Long for them.
Tiny beestings you can fit in your mouth whole, sometimes two at a time. Giant melons, each bigger than my head. Dinner plate areoles and delicate little bumps. Pierced, tattooed, every shade and size. Tits of every kind. Not just on cis women and non-binary people who went through an oestrogen-dominant puberty. There’s a precise moment when someone is taking feminising hormones when a masculine chest becomes bigger nipples and breast buds and that exact point hits me like an electromagnetic force. I’m drawn to those tiny titties, brand new and tentatively emerging, every bit as much as breasts that have inhabited space on a body for decades.
The jolt goes straight to my cock, all the blood rushing there at once. The alarm has been sounded. Tits in the vicinity. Pictures, videos, or best of all – the real thing. I need to touch them, tweak them, lick them, bite them, stroke them, press against them, lie amongst them like the happiest soft play centre with no nonconsensual screaming. I crave them. Tits. Delicious, soft, wonderful, blissful. Tits.
Arses and cunts are a joy to behold and hard cocks can be very inviting, but I’ll always be a tit man now that I can live without them on my chest.