et me first state forthright that

contrary　to　what　we’ve　often　read　in　books　and　heard　from　preachers；　when

you　are　a　woman；　you　don’t　feel　like　the　Devil。

Not at all！ When I pulled on my mother’s rose…embroidered wool

underclothes；　a　gentle　sense　of　well…being　spread　over　me　and　I　felt　as　sensitive

as　she。　The　touch　against　my　bare　skin　of　my　aunt’s　pistachio…green　silk　shirt；

which she could never bring herself to wear； made me feel an irrepressible

affection toward all children； including myself。 I wanted to nurse everybody

and　cook　for　the　whole　world。　After　I　understood　to　some　extent　what　it　was

like　to　have　breasts；　I　stuffed　my　chest　with　whatever　I　could　find—socks　and

washcloths—so　I　might　understand　what　really　made　me　curious：　how　it　felt

to　be　a　large…breasted　woman。　When　I　saw　these　huge　protrusions；　yes；　I　admit

it； I was as proud as Satan。 I understood at once that men； merely catching

sight　of　the　shadow　of　my　overabundant　breasts；　would　chase　after　them　and

strive　to　take　them　into　their　mouths；　I　felt　quite　powerful；　but　is　that　what　I

wanted？　I　was　befuddled：　I　wanted　both　to　be　powerful　and　to　be　the　object　of

pity；　I　wanted　a　rich；　powerful　and　intelligent　man；　whom　I　didn’t　know　from

Adam；　to　fall　madly　in　love　with　me；　yet　I　also　feared　such　a　man。　Sliding　on

the　bracelets　made