Tits part two

14 Dec

My first bra looked like this

My breasts officially left the building earlier this week, a whole eight days after I’d given up breastfeeding. Unfortunately, they forgot to take me too, so I’m now the owner of some very large bras with nothing to fill them.

On Monday, I knew that whatever was left in my chest – and if you’d felt it at its fullest you would have guessed a ton of pebbles from the beach– had decided to make a hasty and gushing exit. I woke to find my sheets sodden. Had I needed to provide King’s Hospital with enough milk for its premature baby ward I probably could have done so, but unfortunately there were no bottles at the ready.

Today my tits are spent; they are sad; they look like they could be used as extra dough and swung high into the air by the chefs at the local Pizza Express. I expected a smaller pair, but these are verging on invisible.

At 15, a time when Kate Moss was prancing about in her Adidas Gazelles and spaghetti strap vests, I was wearing matronly E cups and an M&S secret support vest. Desperate to get a boyfriend my own age, I was disappointed to discover that they preferred small chested girls.

I had been led to believe – by my father’s Marilyn Monroe books and my enthusiastic mother (small chested, sadly delusional) – that boys liked breasts. I didn’t really differentiate the boys from the men, and if I’d had more guts I’d have told those who couldn’t locate a clitoris if it glowed in the dark, that if they judged a girl on the size of her chest then they were too young to get laid. But I didn’t because I was plump, insecure and desperate to sleep with anyone.

I did manage my fair share of sleeping around for a while, but I had slim pickings as my only takers were Italian men, men over thirty or some strange silent types who had a bizarre love of curves, despite them being skinny and short enough to be crushed by the sheer weight of me on top of them. Big tits, for most of my life, were just not cool.

As the years went by and I re-directed my despair at my unmanageable frizzy mane and the inheritance of my dad’s short legs, I learnt not to give a fuck. If anyone were to love me then they had to love my tits.

Looking back, big tits, you are but a distant fond memory now. I can only say I’m sorry for slagging you off all those years ago. I’d love you to return, but I feel you’ve endured enough abuse and have finally packed your bags and left. I have some pictures of you, so at least I won’t forget how you looked.

Others may continue to talk about you, like my best friend who recently remembered the day we whipped you out on the back seat of the school coach and showed you to the car behind. The passengers, obviously not ‘Carry On’ fans, flashed their lights until the coach pulled over.

The female passenger told our teacher that girls like me were a disgrace. Her partner stood beside her, skinny, silent and strange. I remember looking at him and thinking, you’re a traitor because you’re exactly like the men I’ve had the misfortune of sleeping with in the past. Men like you have fondled my tits in adoration before, and yet your wife’s got blinis for breasts. Does she know your secret? Of course, my best friend and I denied the flashing incident and our teacher believed us, saying a pupil of hers would never do a thing like that.

I promise, for the sake of my husband who says I’m becoming obsessed, that I’ll stop talking about you for a while now. Adieu, big tits. You’ll be missed.

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2 Responses to “Tits part two”

  1. leanne December 15, 2011 at 1:47 pm #

    Get yourself down to Myla…………….xx

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