By Shideh Etaat
The first time I went to my boss’ house I didn’t expect to see her breasts. She was the director of an after-school program where I was one of the lead teachers and she wanted to check in with me and brainstorm ways to better our programming. This conversation occurred, however, while her child sucked away at her nipple. She’d given birth a few months before, and although her kid was ridiculously cute, it was her massive, veiny breast I couldn’t keep my eyes off.
I don’t blame the woman — why should her role as a mother get in the way of getting her job done? The feminist in me wanted to sympathize, acknowledge her for not slacking on her work just because she’d recently had a child. I couldn’t do it, though. It was impossible to stay focused and have a productive conversation while her right boob stared right back at me.
I have nothing against breasts, or breastfeeding for that matter. Boobs are great, and using them to feed your infant is a beautiful and intimate process, but it’s also one I don’t necessarily want to be a part of. Whether it’s at a block party, La Boulange, or in the middle of the grocery store, I’d appreciate a little bit of cover up.
It’s not just the breast-feeding that I have a hard time with, though. I’ve seen more penises while living in San Francisco than I’d ever witnessed before living here, and I must say I’ve seen quite a few in my lifetime. Whether it’s older men wearing nothing but a purse and sneakers, or flaccid penises flapping around during Bay to Breakers, it’s a little too jarring for me. Like when the girl next to me at yoga decided to take her shirt off and practice topless — I couldn’t help but lose my balance and almost collapse onto her hardened nipple. I want to be accepting, and universally loving, and to not give a shit, but don’t mess with my tree pose.
Before we go on, I have to confess something: When I was little my vagina was called my “no-no.” When said in a Middle-Eastern accent by your mother, it sounds rhythmic, enchanting even, but when I look back, my mother was most likely just making sure I knew that those parts were off limits. NO. NO.
I’ve never had an open and comfortable conversation about sex with my mother. My parents used a seat-belt analogy when they found out I had a boyfriend in high school: “If you get in the car, and there is no seat belt, there is more chance for accidents. You put the seat belt on and there is no accident. It protects you, do you see? You understand?” Seat belt was just code for “wear a fucking condom because we’re sure as hell not taking care of your baby.” Sex has always been a taboo subject in my family, and even though I’d like to think of myself as someone who’s comfortable with her own body and sexuality, I know that’s not always completely true.
I thought I’d give it a shot once, this whole being naked in front of people thing. In the good old days of my early 20s when I lived abroad in Spain, I found myself at a topless beach along with all my skinny friends. My bathing suit could hardly contain my double D’s, and I hesitated when everyone asked why I wouldn’t take my top off. “I’m in Europe, why the hell not,” I kept thinking, so I flung it off. There was nothing liberating about it though; I felt embarrassed that my chest was so big, it stood out and everyone’s eyes were glued on me. Maybe it was the paranoid mind of a big-breasted girl taking over, but it’s been a struggle over the years accepting that my body has always been different than everyone else’s. It’s a struggle I know I’m only now really coming to terms with.
For the most part, I feel at home in this city; it’s taken a few years and an open mind to get used to certain aspects of San Francisco, and I’m still working on others. It’s obvious that people like to be naked here. Some seem to be into undressing to make a statement, while others seem to enjoy the feeling of letting it all hang out. But the experience of eyeballing so much flesh in one city can be alienating at first for someone who’s not so used to it. The recent public ban on nudity, which grants exceptions for certain public events, is a sign that there are others out there who aren’t totally comfortable with urban nudity.
Although I think the nudity ban takes things a little too far, I do think people need to realize that some of us lean more on the modest side. We may be a liberal city, but there are gradations in there of what people are cool with seeing, and I’m among those who need some time to get used to all these bare body parts.
It’s possible that this city of liberated boobs and penises is doing something positive to my head, though, even as it burns my eyeballs. I’m starting to appreciate my own body a little bit more. It’s a process — some nights I’ll even sleep naked, which my boyfriend doesn’t seem to mind at all. I’m learning to see things anew living in San Francisco — although I don’t plan on ever being the topless girl in yoga, and I’ll always do a double take when I see a penis out on the street.
