Moobs driving him mad!
Lee's 'moobs' made him depressed
Tuesday 1st July 2008
Hooters, bangers, funbags, Babylons, Bristols, baps…Just how many words are there for breasts? It seems like the whole world is bonkers about boobs, especially my boyfriend, Lee Jardine, 23. If he wasn't talking about them, he was thinking about them and, for all I know, dreaming about them, too. But it wasn't my boobs that Lee was obsessed with. It wasn't even some Page 3 model's perky bosom that he couldn't get off his mind.
No. The breasts that Lee was preoccupied with were his own.
You see, my boyfriend had man boobs. Moobs.
'What are you on about?' I frowned, when he blurted it out, back in November 2003. We'd met online years earlier, but six months ago, on our first date, I'd fallen for his silly personality. This must have been one of his daft jokes.
'No really,' he repeated, deadpan. 'I do have boobs.'
'Surely I'd have noticed…' I began, but then, Lee lifted his T-shirt,
and I shut up fast.
He stood there, 5ft 11in, a strapping 12st, with his manly hairy chest on display. But there was no denying it. Beneath the curly, dark hair was a pair of soft, round, girly boobs. Poor bloke.
'Oh babe,' I said. 'No one's body is perfect. I bet no one ever notices.'
But as Lee opened up, I could see his moobs were getting him down.
'I first got them when I was 13,' he mumbled. 'The lads at school called me “pretty boy” and laughed at me.'
When we first slept together, he was a bag of nerves.
'I was sure you were going to say something about them,' he
said afterwards. 'I thought you'd dump me.'
'As if!' I said, giving him a kiss.
We'd been mates for years, and since we'd become a couple, I'd fallen for him hard. Soon, I was expecting his baby. Two little lumps wouldn't be getting in the way of this family.
I reassured Lee that I fancied him rotten, moobs or no moobs, and hoped that would be enough to stop him worrying. But if anything, he got worse...
'Can you see them?' Lee would ask daily, checking out hissilhouette in the mirror.
'No,' I'd say honestly. I'd need to have X-ray eyes. But he'd cover up in three baggy T-shirts and a thick jumper, whatever the weather. He'd even taken to tightening a belt around his chest to flatten it down.
'Doesn't it hurt?' I gasped, when I first saw him unbuckling it at the end of the day.
'Yeah,' he admitted. 'But at least I know people aren't staring.
'Maybe they aren't as big as you think. Here,' I said, passing him a white, C-cup bra. 'Try that on.'
He covered one of the boobs with the cup, but flesh bulged out the sides.
'I must be at least a D-cup,' he groaned. 'I'm revolting.'
But despite his fears, we had a good sex life, got on brilliantly and, in July 2005, we both beamed with joy as I gave birth to our son, Taylor, at Kingsmill Hospital, Mansfield.
'If only you were always this happy,' I said to Lee.
But there were two things that stopped our life together being perfect. Lee's moobs.
He wouldn't come with me to the playground, or even to McDonald's. And as for the swimming pool, forget it. Our annual holiday in Skegness, Lincolnshire, meant being stuck in the caravan and I didn't dare ask if he fancied a dip. The only person who saw Lee topless was me, and even then, it was only if I caught sight of him before he dived under the duvet.
By June 2006, I'd had enough.
'You can't carry on like this,' I told him. 'I've made an appointment for you at the doctor's.'
But if I'd hoped the GP would make things better, I was wrong.
'It's called gynecomastia,' Lee said, when he got back. 'It's not dangerous, and there's no treatment on the NHS.'
The doctor said there was surgery available privately, but with us both out of work, and a young baby to look after, we'd never afford the £1,500 it would cost. Poor Lee. He looked gutted. The solution to all his problems was out there, and the only thing standing in the way was money.
'I'm going to try to lose weight instead,' he decided.
At 12st, he was a normal weight for his 5ft 11in frame, but, desperate to do whatever he could to try to reduce his moobs, he cut out junk food. Within three months, he'd dropped to 11st.
'They don't look better, do they?' he sighed.
I couldn't lie. While his tummy was flatter, his chest certainly wasn't. If anything, his weightloss had made his moobs look more pronounced.
'I'm going back to the GP,' he said. 'If he understands how miserable I am, he'll have to help.'
But again, he had no luck, and by January 2008, Lee was well and truly fed up.
'I'm writing to the local paper about my gynecomastia,' he said.
I couldn't believe it when he agreed to have a reporter come to the house — and to have a topless photograph taken.
'People need to know how serious this is,' he said, as the photographer snapped away.
Looking at his determined face, I could see that Lee thought this would be the answer to all his problems. But I was worried. Was he just opening himself up to ridicule? Thankfully, a week later, Lee's bravery came up trumps, when he got a phone call.
'It was my aunt Elaine,' he said, astonished. 'We lost touch when I was 18, but she saw me in the paper. She's going to pay for
my operation.'
I gave him a big hug, and we started to look for a surgeon straight away. We soon got in touch with Alex Karidis at The Hospital of Saint John and Saint Elizabeth, in West London.
Leaving Taylor with my mum and dad, Lee and I went down.
'We can sort this out,' Dr Karidis said, as he inspected Lee's chest.
He explained that the fatty tissue beneath Lee's nipples would be sucked out by liposuction, and the glands behind them removed, to stop it growing back.
'Are you sure you want to go ahead?' I asked Lee.
Silly question. He was already dreaming of a moob-free life. That's not to say he wasn't nervous when, eight weeks later, on 20 March, he was about to go under the knife.
'I'll be right here when you get back,' I said, as he was wheeled from his room down to surgery.
I waited anxiously for an hour, but when Lee was wheeled back
in, he was awake and smiling.
'It went well,' Dr Karidis said.
'They're gone,' Lee croaked, looking at his flat chest.
But it was heavily bandaged, so we couldn't see for sure until
we got home the following day.
'Get 'em out then,' I joked, up in the bedroom.
But there was no 'them' left.
Despite being heavily bruised and swollen, Lee's chest was flat as a pancake. Not a moob in sight. Lee's eyes welled up and he gave me a huge hug,
'I've been waiting for that for 10 years,' he whispered.
Lee would have to wear a special corset for three weeks, to stop regrowth, but even so, the difference was amazing.
'Where are your boobies, Daddy?' asked Taylor, as Lee strapped him into the buggy for a trip to the park.
'Gone forever,' he smiled, and wheeled him out the door.
Since the operation, it's like I'm living with a different man. Rather than moping around the house, scared to go out, he's up the playground all day with Taylor, and at night, he'll pop out for a beer at out local pub, Towers. Even better, we're going to Skegness next month, and this time, we won't be sweltering in the caravan. He's promised to go topless at the poolside, and I for one, can't wait. And as for the bedroom, Lee is so much more confident now. It's the one place where he still has boobs on the brain — but at least now, they're mine!