This is Breast Cancer Awareness month. I have been seeing pink and ribbons and pink ribbons everywhere, as you might be too. So I am thinking about breasts.

Today I am also thinking about milk. Yum, yum, everyone loves milk: baby cows, me, my cousin, this guy I used to work with.

For a while I hated milk. Why? Because it was coming out of my breasts all of the time, twenty-four hours a day. It was soaking into my clothes, and even when I’d wash them and pull them out of the dryer, they’d still have that odd dairy smell. My baby smelled like milk too, of course, because if it wasn’t going into her every half hour, it was coming out in between.

For seven months, my life revolved around my breasts. They grew two cup sizes (double D’s, ack. The nightmare of every woman who is already decently endowed). I was forced to imprison them in Gigantor, ugly white (because I couldn’t pony up the dough for the snappy leopard or black ones), three-inch-thick strapped slings that had a pocket in each cup that you could pop your boobie out of on a moment’s notice and stuff it into your baby’s howling maw. In addition, I was what the books refer to as “a leaker”, so I had to reinforce what was already there with cotton “breast shields” to catch leaks, which often shifted around so they weren’t covering me for leaks anyway.

The restriction didn’t stop at my chest, though. No running, no sleeping on one’s tummy, no orgasms without the accompaniment of twin geysers of baby milk, which are usually aimed for your lover’s face. Sexy!

When my lil Spud was three months old, I went back to school. My boobs were not used to being without my baby for so long, and would get hot and sore after just a couple of hours. This meant one thing: I had to tote around a breast pump. I won’t bore you with the details; suffice it to say that it looks like an air horn and sucks milk out of your boobs when your baby can’t. Total nightmare.

Since the proposed “pumping center” at school’s medical center didn’t pan out, I had to sequester myself in the dimly-lit cave (bathroom) on the third floor of the university’s decrepit art building. I chose this spot because it was convenient between classes and didn’t get a lot of traffic, so I didn’t have to worry about tying up a stall.

There I would sit, with my sweater cranked up around my neck and my poor boobie popping out of its flap, pumping until the milk would flow.

It made a really funny noise that I can hear to this day.

When I would pump the handle, the device would make a loud “SLLLUURRRPPP” as if it was draining my life force.

Then the milk would come, spraying into the pump’s neck, a sound that was amplified in the echoey bathroom: “HISSSSS”.

Finally, I would release the suction and start over. The release resulted in the milk draining out of the neck and into the pump’s body: “Blup, blup, blup,” like the sound of a slow drain.

Sometimes while I was up there, my fellow art department students would come in, often in pairs. I would be going at it full force in the last stall.

“SSSLLLUUURRRPP! Hisssss…. Blup! Blup! Blup!”

The girls would often stop their conversations.

(Quietly): “Oh my God! What was that?”

“I don’t know. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Should we call the janitor?”

“No! Just go!” (Hurried scuffling, departure.)

One time I was in there for quite a while. It’s funny how people seem to think you’re deaf because you’re encased in this flimsy stall that doesn’t even have a top or cover your legs completely.

(Two girls enter)

First girl: “Yeah, that’s what I said… What is that noise?”

Second girl (whispering loudly): “I don’t know, but she’s been in here for quite a while. And she’s in here a lot. Marcie thinks she’s *psst psst psst*”

First girl (full volume): “Marcie thinks what?”

Second girl (back to whispering): “Shhh…I said, Marcie thinks she’s doing heroin.”

First girl (disgustedly): “Ohhh…let’s use the bathroom on the second floor.”

I bring this up because just today I was playing with my daughter, who I weaned five whole months ago, and I hugged her to my chest. When she pulled away, I noticed a quarter-sized spot on my shirt- I leaked.

There is no escaping death, taxes, or my breasts.