Yanking at the placket of yet another men’s dress shirt, I tug until I’m able to close the last three buttons around the apex of my chest. Even in a TomboyX compression bra, which works better for someone my size than any binder on the market, the buttons gap and strain. To find a shirt my breasts will fit in, I have to size up and up until the collar of the shirt looks like a gaping, cavernous ring around my neck. The arms sag and cover my hands, and the length guarantees I’ll end up with wads of material bunched up under my waistband when I tuck in the shirt.