came out okay, she should call Honor, who was in charge of telling everyone else, but if I died on the table she would have to call my mother and Brayden, neither of whom would be thrilled to hear from her. Dr. Connor, in scrubs instead of his usual finery, had me change into scrubs of my own, and then I stood topless in the operating room while he drew guiding lines around my chest with red and blue magic markers. Had I been small-breasted, this would have been a matter of a touch of lipo here, perhaps a tuck there. But I was 38D, which meant they had to open me up, take my chest apart, and put me back together in a manlier form. A week earlier, we had spent two hours talking through my nipple options—vertical
ramifications of scar tissue on my eventual muscle growth, assuming I started using testosterone eventually. Meanwhile, Andrea paced, and Dr. Connor’s assistant and the anesthesiologist got the table ready. They
The Winter Issue of Black Fox Literary Magazine featuring new fiction, poetry, non-fiction and photography.