In lue of recent events, I think it’s time to take advantage of the fact that my network problems are solved, and bring a little bit of sanity back into the internet world. Lies, lies, lies
What is the facination with breasts, fubar readers? I can’t make a similar connection with breasts to heart, compared to eyes being the windows to the soul. Maybe I’m female, well-endowed, having owned my ladies for a good 8 years now, and the novelty has long ago worn off.
In the past, there were requests for me to write about breasts. Sorry to burst your bubbles (no pun intended, har har har) but there won’t be any pictures. It will be a cold day in Hades, when I’m tanning next to Mr. Red and sucking on a blue popsicle until you see snaps of my swingers – that, or a very sweet check able to fund my new “I want to weave baskets” phase.
There have only been a few occassions in life that I wished I were born male and without the extra chest. I was fortunate to bypass the wet dream horrors and sporadic erections in class, but having breasts comes at a price, too. Take for instance, when you’re 10, budding like the flowers you still wear on your pink shirts, and your grandmother has the audacity to take her finger, poke you in your left tit and nearly squeal with glee apon the realization that yes, I WAS GROWING REAL LIFE BOOBERS JUST LIKE HER. No, grams, I never stuffed – we hip and au natural chicks left that up to Charmagne, the tall African American butt shaker of the class. She always had a boyfriend, we still had our barbies.
My ladies came into life without too much impact. I remember admiring these new formations in front of the mirror after locking my door, and often comparing with my flat-as-the Grand Canyon cousin. (Hers popped out around the age of 15, compared to my 10.) She was hopeless, no amount of chest puffing could make the real thing happen before it’s time. Happily, at that age, boys were still more concerned about destroying the neighborhood peace and being the little bastards that they were, than chasing after the little women. We were not women, we were yelling, crying, cradle-playing on the swings, pink wearing, cheap makeup purchasing little girls. I got asked out on my first “date” by Terrance, an African American ADD pimp. I secretly called him at night when my mom was grocery shopping. My mom found out. He wanted my tits, even in 5th grade. Momma ended that one.
Two years after my ladies made their first appearances, and long after I had stopped playing in my mom’s lingerie drawers, I caught up with my mom. She’s not dramatically small, but relatively speaking, she’s not stacked. The first bra I bought, I slipped under a shirt, in it’s pink box, and snuck into a dressing room. I didn’t want my mom buying me those ridiculous lace and triangle things anymore. I was growing up. (Oh memory lane, *gag*)
M’kay, middle school rolls around, and I outshone my class mates in my grades/writing/art skills and in my cleavage. This insued some friend rivalry. I didn’t flaunt, but I was satisfied carrying my 34B babies through the halls, comfortable in the fact that I would never be one of those girls who felt like she was lacking in her feminity due to the lack of frontal protrusion. There were the assholes as well, that would ridicule me and ask if I had implants. Apparently, it was inconceivable for a 14 year old to have perfectly round, full breasts. A “boy” saw them for the first time on his bedroom floor for about 4 minutes before his brother walked in. The school was then informed that, yes, Eve’s breasts were 100% genuine. Too bad that ‘boy’s’ girlfriend had to find out the hard way the real deal. It’s middle school, life’s not fair, get over it. 😉
Time went on, upon entering HS, girls were finally hitting their own growth spurts. The attention was averted from my chest and onto the others’ chests. Men, do you know degrading it is, for male and female, to talk to your chest and not your face? *shakes head* Seriously. Well, girls caught up, but didn’t exceed. The girls that could out-bounce my 16 year-old firmies were the ones that outweighed me by double digits. That was what made them more obvious, I was thin. Even with my inherited child-bearing curvy hips, my breasts were unhidable. By the grace of God, I was at least proportioned well. (At least that’s what my mother claims. Angsty body-conscious teens never -ever- agree with that.)
So, the story doesn’t have an end really. When I was 16 I went through a big growth spurt, and my 36C Victoria’s Secret purchases weren’t really holding it all in anymore. I had to go a step farther and put myself into the 36D class. At that point, I swore if they didn’t get ahold of themselves, I would be on a list for a reduction by the time I was 18. But all is good and well now, they’ve settled down, and it’s stil hard to find shirts that fit well. Try buying a bikini. Pffffttt. To match the top size, I end up with a grocery bag hanging off my ass. Stores long ago stopped selling decent separates or turning a blind eye to mismatched size pieces on bikini sets. That problem probably won’t go away any time soon.
The thing I focus on though, is that I don’t have any complaints. No, no back pains, though sometimes I get indents from where my bra sits. I’ve never felt bad because I thought I was small chested, one guy did make me feel a little defeminite by declaring he didn’t like “big boobs.” Like I have control over it, right? Well, the future is looking bright. When I’m 50, and youth has fled my body, I will happily be sporting my super-strength-elastic boulder carriers and letting them rest on my tummy.
Hey, at last those eventual grandkids will get a couple cracks out of it, and that’s not so bad.
 
