Boob owners, it’s time to celebrate your glorious lady orbs. And for these ace broads, the bigger, the better (and whatever perfection is be damned).
I’d like to introduce you to Barbara (R) and Elaine (L), my trusted companions that have been through everything with me, grown up with me and been groped by others.
There’s not many people I trust in this world, but those too are my solid* companions. (*Not solid. At All. In the slightest. Although my nipples are sturdier than coat pegs and therein lies the problem. Who wants to hang a coat from a peg pointing to the floor?)
My girls in their quest for perfection are more like the piping bags you use to decorate cakes (with opposing nozzles), but I love them. They are my comfort, and the one asset that I actually like. I love that they are desperately trying to ‘hang’ onto to their youth when I may have slightly given up. Nuff respect to the flesh massive.
My boobs seemed to go from molehills to mini whoppers in the space of six months. As soon as the little mounds sprouted, I dragged my mum to Tammy Girl for a crop top to wear under the tight-fitting velvet dress I bought to look like Lisa Loeb in the Stay (I Missed You) video. That summer, I was playing a child in a family production of Just William at my local theatre. Even with my newfound friends stuffed painfully into the pinafore dress they made me wear, I felt like my boobs could never be denied. They were there, they were wonderful, and they were mine. I still celebrate them every day – that hasn’t changed. Neither has my love for velvet and 90s songs with title brackets.
I haven’t always had big tits. I didn’t have any at all until I left school. Nine GCSEs and a C cup. There I was, watching Thelma and Louise for the first time and stroking new ring binders ready for college when BAM! – tits. Since then they’ve always been ‘feel the weight of that’ big, regardless of what is in (fucking) fashion. Oh big nipples are in fashion now, I’ll just Sharpie some on then shall I?
Big tits are generally great. The right dress just hangs off them like an awning. I used to avoid tops with buttons down the front as they always puckered, but now I’m 41 I just accept that at some point that day I’ll be giving anyone who wants one an eyeful.
I give excellent cushiony hugs. Imagine falling slow motion into a giant marshmallow that smells of Marksies. And because I give good hugs, I get lots of hugs. As I once said on stage, I don’t worry so much that I can’t see my fanny because of my belly when I can’t see my belly because of my tits.
I balanced a kitten on my knocker once and we watched Bake Off together. Now, that’s basically how I want to die. I think sometimes I forget the size of them. Like last week when I trapped a nipple in a Tupperware box. I didn’t know it was there until I couldn’t shut the fourth side and remembering how tricky they are to close, I pressed with all of my might… It was my own fault; they shouldn’t have been resting on the bench.
“Boobs: survivors, constantly changing, a genius design aesthetic epiphany. They are to be celebrated, in whatever way you wish!”
Due to my colourful history with my body and what I do or do not put in it, my chesticles have gone from eight-year-old’s puppy fat (first girl at school to wear a bra but only due to being so very overweight) to size 4 nothingness (anorexia kind of robs you of caring about these signs of womanhood) to size 20 bulbousness (compulsive overeating puffed them up quicker and faster than a bouncy castle – I bet they make those, by the way, bouncy castles shaped like bosoms) to size noneofyourormybusinesstheyarejustfabulous nowitude.
For a while I considered accepting the doctors’ suggestions to operate on the loose skin (ever seen There’s Something About Mary? There’s some naked granny orbs in that – a source of hilarity, apparently – which I used to think my braless wonders looked remarkably, shamefully similar to. Think two tennis balls in potato sacks.)
But in more recent years I’ve practised the mantra that my body is perfectly imperfect; my so-called flaws were never flaws at all. My body is incredible: it SURVIVED all that crap I threw at it. My beautiful boobs are daily reminders of where I’ve been, what I went through, how strong a woman can be.
Last night I lay on the sofa in a faux-silk dressing gown (because I love luxury but writing is yet to pay for me to be Barbara Cartland) and caught a glimpse of my love muffins. I surprised myself in thinking, “Wow! Those are some nice breasts!” Then I went back to watching Jesse and Walter break it bad in Breaking Bad.
Boobs: survivors, constantly changing, a genius design aesthetic epiphany. They are to be celebrated, in whatever way you wish!
Ah, my boobs. Let me count the ways in which I love thee.
1. You are excellent for resting things on: bowls, remote controls, the cat, loads of stuff. I’ve even noticed since taking up weight training that you’re a great little shelf to rest the barbell on before that final push.
2. Yes, loads of clothes look worse with you inside. Yes, bras can be tricky to find. But when we find the outfit for you, you look fucking cracking.
3. If I didn’t have you hanging there being heavy, I wouldn’t know how great it feels to take my bra off at the end of the day.
I have done three even though there’s loads more because I have two boobs and a third nipple* so this seemed sort of fair.
*Yup, an actual one. No, I won’t show you. OK, maybe if you buy me a drink.
Bravissimo, who offer lots of lovely lingerie in D-L cup, are offering £100 of vouchers so you can make the most of your whoppers. To be in with a chance to win, simply follow @LoveBravissimo and send them a tweet with your affectionate name for your assets. Terms and conditions apply.
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