May 2, 2005

• A Dissertation On Breasts:

  Or

   The Great Bra
  Journey

  Warning: nudity implied. 
  Tender consciences best not proceed.

       My twelfth birthday found me the proud owner of set of small
  but nicely made breasts, perched upon the top of my ribcage (much to the envy
  of all my friends) Being one of the lucky few who actually had them this early,
  I relished all the attention they got me, although in retrospect I now know Jr.
  High boys find just about anything attractive.  

       Early teens saw me at a nice, cute, perky 32 B, I needed to
  wear a bra, but barely.  And at that
  size they come in all sorts of cute designs and colors. Gingham, leopard print,
  demi-cups edged in eyelet…all two hook, spaghetti strap, colorful bits of
  fabric.  Yep, my breasts were happily
  ensconced in such frivolity.

       Tragedy struck around the time I was sixteen.  My breasts, which had been my friends up to
  this time, unhappily betrayed me.   They
  wouldn’t stop growing.   My mother
  grimly marched me to the department store to buy 32 C’s, only to come back a
  few months later to buy 32 DD’s.   The
  unfortunate thing about 32 DD is that they no longer come in happy colors and
  styles.  It was as if girlhood had been
  rudely slammed shut in my face.  I now
  faced the grim life of a woman.  With
  horrific bras that come with frightening descriptions attached like, “3 section
  cup”, “Minimizer”  “Triple support”,
  “Rigid Structure”, along with a painfully modest mother who had never made it
  past an A-cup…I simply sat in the dressing room and cried. 

        There are few things worse in this world, than to be
  seventeen years old with huge knockers…in ATI. 
  And thus anchoring my rack had become deadly serious business.   Good-bye leopard print…hello 4-hook, wide
  strapped, tan monsters.  Despite my
  severe, utterly modest bras, Mothers glared suspiciously if I happened to dare
  talk …I mean tempt…  their sons.  I
  became the slut without a home; not allowed to actually enjoy the benefits of a
  perky, firm, porn-star rack, not even permitted to ignore them.  I was instead punished.  It was as if conservative mothers everywhere
  were taking out their long, ill-concealed hatred of “defrauding” girls, on
  me.  I was a nice girl with big breasts,
  but all mothers know that nice girls don’t come with big breasts. 

        It was either the disheartening lectures of a twenty-something
  year-old, flirty, cute, blonde haired Barbie, (a modest 32 A of course) who
  consistently sent me back to my room to find a looser shirt, or the fact that
  despite my massive, womanly bras, I seemed to be leaking out the bottom of my
  heavily engineered and underwired cups, like overrisen bread dough. On top, my
  cleavage was breathtaking. On bottom, half my breast was making a break for
  it.    This was not good.  Wearily I dragged myself to the department
  store only to find they didn’t sell anything remotely big enough to support my
  awesome shelf.  After trying on every
  size they carried, I asked the saleslady if they could special order anything
  bigger “…No” she replied in awed wonder (in a tone I didn’t particularly care
  for).   It was obvious my 32 DD would no
  longer suffice, so I madly threw constraint to the wind and bought what was
  available. Rather flimsy looking 34 DD. 
  Granted, they wouldn’t stay around my ribcage, but I precariously
  marched around in them anyway’s.

        Thankfully time brought a wonderful boyfriend into my life
  and the discovery of a custom bra shop. 
  He generously dished out the money required to buy a few cute, well-made
  32 F’s (comparable to a down payment on a house) (seeing that it was either
  that or listen to me complain about the misfortunes of large boobs for the rest
  of his life).  For the last few years
  I’ve held steady, after acquiring a voracious appetite for expensive bras.  They come in colors, and have cute patterns,
  but they cost the earth.  On any given
  day, my bra costs more than the rest of my outfit put together, but it’s a
  small price to pay for faultless support and a pleasing shape.

        My troubles have revisited as I again find myself on a
  desperate search for bras…cute nursing bras. 
  Not even my beloved custom bra shop sells anything less than monstrous,
  tan, support systems, that look like the equivalent of Auschwitz for breasts,
  instead of the comfortable stylish Ritz Carlton they’re used to.
   

  In other words, I am truly and completely screwed.

   

  
  

  • 1:56 pm
  • 4 Comments