The Bar
- mpcleroux
- 34 minutes ago
- 7 min read
A body rebuilt for desire
The Bar
Author's Note
This piece is about body dysmorphia, the fantasy of being "fixed," and the sex life surgery was supposed to upgrade. It's the story of a body, a bar, and the market it tried to impress.
You feel the sneeze coming.
Nose prickling. Breath hitching. Face contorting. Your whole body coils around the promise of one clean, filthy little explosion.
Then your ribs hit metal.
Everything locks. The sneeze slams into something hard and invisible, ricochets through your chest, and dies mid-launch. Pain goes white. Eyes water. No relief. Just the aftershocks of a reflex that never gets to finish.
You haven't sneezed properly in years.
Because there's a bar in your chest.
Stainless steel. Curved. Threaded through your ribs like a clothes hanger someone forgot to remove.
You did this on purpose.
Not to breathe better.
Not to live longer.
You did it to look hot.
Before the bar, there's the hole.
“Pectus excavatum” sounds elegant until you see it in the mirror.
Your sternum caves inward. Your ribs flare. The center of your chest dips, a neat little bowl like someone thumbed wet clay and never smoothed it out.
As a kid, it barely registers. Shirts are cheap magic.
Then puberty.
Then Instagram.
Then the apps.
Suddenly torsos are currency.
Good arms: you get flirted with.
Great chest: you get laid.
You tell yourself it isn’t “real” body dysmorphia. Just standards. Just taste. Just you failing a test everyone else seems to be writing better than you.
You lift. You chase the pump. You grow shoulders, arms, back.
People notice.
“Nice arms.”
“Jesus, your delts are big.”
Then you take your shirt off and watch their eyes fall into the crater.
In bed, someone runs a hand down your chest, fingers dropping into the hollow.
“So… what’s this?”
They’re still half hard, half interested, scrolling your body like a product page.
“Birth defect,” you shrug.
“Limited edition,” you joke.
Sometimes they laugh and fuck you harder, fingers skimming past the dip like it’s nothing.
Sometimes they stall, lose rhythm, and you both feel the temperature drop.
Another hookup: his head on your chest, finger circling the rim of the dent.
“It’s kind of hot,” he says. “Like battle damage.”
You smile like you’re in on the kink.
You know he wouldn’t choose it from a catalogue.
Another night:
You’re naked by his window, pulling your jeans back on. He’s sprawled on the bed, scrolling.
“You should get that fixed,” he says, casual. “With your face? You’d kill if your body matched.”
Not cruel. Just obvious.
You go home and Google surgeons.
You meet the Nuss procedure the way people meet cults: late at night, tired, suggestible, alone with a glowing screen.
Surgery for pectus excavatum.
“Minimally invasive,” the sites promise. Less bone-saw, more engineering.
Fine print: designed for teenagers with soft, cooperative ribs. Adults get calcified bones, more pain, worse results.
You read that.
You keep scrolling.
Before/after photos.
Soft, caved chests turned flat, glossy ones.
You don’t see risk. You see the version of yourself who walks into a room and doesn’t apologize with his posture.
Your family doctor reminds you your heart and lungs are fine. No medical need.
“I know,” you say. “I still want the referral.”
The surgeon is blunt.
“This will hurt. A lot. Months of pain. No guarantee you’ll like how it looks.”
“Why do you want this?”
You don’t say:
Because every time a man hesitates over my chest, something in me sinks.
Because I want to wear a harness like I actually belong in it.
Because I’m tired of being hot, but.
You say, “I just want to look normal.”
He gives you off-ramps.
You decline all of them.
On surgery day, they draw purple lines across your chest like a renovation plan.
You flirt with the anesthesiologist. Last little performance in the old body.
Then lights, mask, drop.
Here’s what happens while you’re gone:
They cut under each armpit.
Tunnel under your ribs, side to side.
Pass a guiding rod through.
Hook the curved steel bar to it and drag it under your sternum.
Metal flossing bone.
They flip the bar, forcing your chest outward, bolt it to ribs that never asked to move.
You wake up to a world of pain.
There’s an epidural numbing everything from the nipples down, until it slips out on day three and they can’t get it back in.
So they bring out the heavy hitters.
Morphine.
Fentanyl.
Ketamine.
They pour a pharmacy into you. The pain drops from “scream” to “continuous swear word.”
Four Dilaudid every ninety minutes, plus anti-inflammatories, analgesics, nerve meds, muscle relaxants.
Eighty pills a day.
Alarms every 1.5 hours so the pain doesn’t outrun the clock. You don’t sleep so much as black out between doses. Somewhere in there, your nervous system quietly updates its settings: suffering is negotiable now, if you can find the right chemical price.
You wanted to be the upgrade; you currently look like a recall notice.
Sex feels fictional.
You scroll old thirst traps like obituaries.
Time passes. Agony backs off to ache. Pill counts shrink.
You finally get to the moment you paid for.
Mirror.
Lights on.
Tape off.
Scars red but neat.
You look.
The dent is still there.
Shallower, maybe.
But unmistakable.
For three weeks, you think maybe you’re being too hard on yourself. You take progress photos from every angle, compare them to the before, measure the depth with your fingers like you’re fact-checking your own disappointment.
The numbers don’t lie.
You almost wish they would.
At follow-up, the surgeon studies your scan.
“In adults this severe, we often use two bars,” he says. “One probably wasn’t enough.”
Weather-report voice. Oops, permanent edition.
You walk out with three scars, one bar, and a chest that still fails the test.
Eventually, you start swiping again.
The first time you have sex after surgery, he notices the scars immediately.
“Whoa,” he says, fingers tracing the lines under your arms. “What happened?”
“Chest surgery.”
“For what?”
“Cosmetic,” you admit.
He pauses. Looks at your chest. Looks at you.
“Huh,” he says. “I wouldn’t have noticed anything.”
It’s the kindest thing anyone’s said about your body in years.
Then his hands are on you, careful at first, asking “Does this hurt?” every two minutes until you have to grab his wrist and push it harder to prove you won’t shatter.
Afterwards, he’s sprawled next to you, one hand absently tracing the scars.
“These are kind of badass,” he murmurs.
You let him say it. You let yourself almost believe it. Then you catch your reflection in his bedroom mirror and feel the old grading system switch back on.
Then there’s the guy who doesn’t ask.
He’s straddling you, thighs clamped to your hips, fingers digging into your shoulders.
“Fuck, you feel solid,” he gasps, bouncing harder like he’s testing the frame.
His hand slides over your chest. Palm drops into the hollow. Thumb traces the scarred edge.
He doesn’t slow down.
Doesn’t comment.
He just uses the flared rib like a handhold, bracing himself as he grinds against you, head tipped back, body trusting yours completely.
For a few seconds, you’re not a defect.
You’re infrastructure.
Afterward, you’re still shaking.
Not from the orgasm.
From the possibility that maybe, for five minutes, your chest wasn’t the main character.
You go home anyway and stare at the dent in the bathroom mirror until everything else about you disappears.
Another night. Another body.
He’s sprawled half on top of you, fingers idly tracing the scars.
“What’s this from?”
“They put a bar in my chest. Birth defect.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
He presses his mouth to the scars, kisses down the ridge, then grinds his hips into yours.
“You’re like… engineered,” he murmurs. “It’s hot.”
You want to believe him.
You catalogue the interaction instead: pause, question, assessment, proceed.
Every touch becomes data.
Every “what’s this?” drops into the file marked: body, still wrong.
You thought a surgeon could delete that folder.
Turns out, all they did was add an attachment.
The bar was supposed to come out after two years.
That was the deal:
Suffer now, keep the shape, reclaim your chest.
Two years arrive. You start doing math: time off work, lost income, weeks of being fragile again.
Life is already overdrafted. There’s no space for “optional second surgery.”
You don’t call the surgeon.
If it were dangerous, they’d call you.
You never check if that’s true.
So the bar stays.
You learn what you actually traded.
Full sneezes, for half-screams that leave you doubled over, chest on fire.
Rugby, volleyball, rough sex where a forearm slamming into your ribs is just fun, not a medical event.
Deep stretches. Sleeping face-down without architectural planning.
The possibility of ever forgetting your chest exists.
For what?
A shallower dent and a permanent maybe.
You used to have one clean flaw.
Now you have hardware and a question mark.
Here’s the part the pamphlets don’t touch:
You didn’t do this because your body was failing.
You did it because your body was failing a market.
Surgery wasn’t treatment. It was a rebrand.
And even now you’re not sure if the rebrand flopped, or if you’re just incapable of seeing yourself as anything but “almost.”
Dysmorphia doesn’t do verdicts. It just keeps collecting exhibits.
The steel can’t fix that.
It only gives you something new to poke, a hardness under your fingers, a ridge you can obsess over when the mirror isn’t cruel enough on its own.
Tonight, a sneeze builds.
Nose prickling. Breath hitching. Your body braces for release.
Your ribs hit steel.
This time, something gives.
Not clean. Not satisfying. A messy, truncated explosion that sends pain spiking through your chest and leaves you gasping, eyes streaming, doubled over the bathroom sink.
It fucking hurts.
But the reflex completes.
For once, your body finishes something it started.
You catch your breath. Straighten up. Look in the mirror.
The dent’s still there: the scars, the faint ridge where metal pushes against bone.
Your chest, still yours. Still wrong. Still the same unreliable narrator it’s always been.
You pull on a shirt.
The bar shifts slightly as you move. You’ve learned its rhythms, the way it catches on certain angles, the way it almost feels like part of you until it doesn’t.
You step back into a world that grades on looks and always wants more: sharper lines, cleaner angles, less doubt.
The exam goes on.
The bar stays where it is.
You go anyway.