Fun Bags, jugs, cupcakes, bee stings, baps, jubblies, the twins, yes, I’m talking about boobs (I will not be using the word breast in this post because I don’t like it, it feels impersonal and medical and that just isn’t what tits are about for me). Sweater stretchers hold a special place in all of our lives and have throughout history. From Botticelli’s Venus to Dolly Parton, Jessica Rabbit to Janet Jackson and the glorious Joan Holloway we are a society who has a healthy appreciation for any pair of snuggle pups. We all have those friends who have absolutely fabulous norks and the best nork-growers will gift their friends with the unmatched joy of using them as a pillow. Praise be to BBWs for their majestic racks like clouds offered up to the tired and the needy like life rafts bearing us off into the sunset.
But let us not forget, the pain that those of us ‘gifted’ with large chi chis, the constant bra wearing, the holding on whilst running up and down stairs, the inability to wear anything backless. This is where our less endowed sisters come into their own. Now I know that ladies with smaller ta tas often see this as debilitating, the problems of ill fitting clothes, mistaken gender and nipple erections that could cut glass are all too familiar. However, the glory of being constantly perky, not having the fear of the dreaded pencil test (ladies you know the one), the absolute triumph over the multi-million pound bra industry to whom you give a massive middle finger is an absolute revelation!
I myself am a 34DD, a nice size, however I, like many of my sisters, am not a fan of cracking out the cleavage of an evening. However, one night about two weeks ago, I donned a dress which spectacularly showcased the bahamma mammas, and the reaction I got when out and about was hilarious. Like I’ve said before I’m no Megan Fox, but in this particular dress I was received in a way that I have never experienced before. The reaction from the males at this particular venue was ridiculous, I was standing having a casual cigarette with my ladies, buzzing my tits off, chattering like a monkey and I overheard some douche bag beside us utter something along the lines of ‘my God, if i could still be breastfed’. Firstly, son, the amount of mummy issues you are displaying in this one short gormless statement is nothing short of laughable. Secondly, they are MY bazoos, how dare you assume that if you could still be breastfed that I would allow a man of such callous remarks to lay so much as a finger tip on them. For about 45% of the night I felt as though I didn’t have a face, many conversations were had between my mambas and members of the general public who probably wouldn’t have notice if I had a horse’s head where my own should be.
On the plus side,I was never standing at the absolutely rammed bar for more than a couple of minutes before being served my rum and coke. Even my friends were appreciating, both verbally and physically, momentary cupping, a slight squeeze, a gentle yet firm glance. Also I think I spent approximately half an hour with a huge lipstick mark on my right tit caused by a friend essentially frenching it. This difference in reception has got me thinking about performing a series of social experiments. I have my own sense of style which is not for everyone. I will essentially NEVER go out in heels, no matter how awesome my legs could potentially look, I will not get my cleavage out, I will not wear a tiny little bodycon number complete with full body spanx to hold in the multitude of wobbles with which I am blessed. Following a conversation with my mum, I realized that it is very likely that if I dressed like your average girl on a night out, it is likely that I would receive more positive’ attention from males. So I’ve decided, I will (at some point in the future) don a teenie tiny dress, mega heels, crack out some ridiculous false eyelashes, maybe some hair extensions, wear control pants that will crush my organs but give me the “silhouette of my dreams” and see what happens. Wish me luck!