A few years ago, I started a project writing short fiction pieces about what people see in the mirror, called, imaginatively, “Mirror, Mirror”. I found this piece about living with big boobs and thought it made sense to share it now. So I hope you’ll humour me with this slightly different post.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who has the most enormous bosoms of them all? Well…we all know the answer to that one…Busty Becca the Blonde Bar Maid from Birmingham. Yes. That is me, and yes, that is what I am commonly referred to as by various people.
My ‘assets’ appeared when I was 11, as if overnight. Its like I woke up one morning and God had strapped a pair of enormous knockers onto my previously pre-pubescent chest. I stood up, and I’m not even kidding, I could no longer see my feet. Beautiful shoes are no fun when you can’t see your feet. I always wondered if that was the most cruel thing about my wealthy chest region. I could have cried that morning. My back was killing me already and I’d only been stood up 10 minutes.
At first, I tried polar necks to hide them. That quite obviously just made things worse. It was like trying to hide Mount Everest under a napkin – looking all the more stupid because there was a sodding napkin blowing in the wind on the top of the Earth’s largest bloody mountain.
I tried to be proud of them – but that got me into trouble from a lot of men who saw a sizeable cleavage and presumed that meant I was up for anything. I am not up for anything. And how can you be proud of breasts? There’s nothing to be proud of – every second person has them. Some men even have them. As Hugh Grant says in Notting Hill “Meatloaf has a very nice pair”.
My school years were terrible. Especially getting ready for PE in the later years of primary school with all the still flat chested girls, most of them still in crop tops. They all looked at me as if I were an alien, like I didn’t belong with them due to my early development. The boys seemed to think that I was the best thing since sliced bread, particularly because it took my mum a few weeks to get round to getting me a sports bra; can you imagine cross country with oversized breasts and no sports bra? Firstly, ow, secondly, seriously un-aerodynamic and thirdly…well…lets just say I nearly gave myself a black eye.
I particularly hate it when builders whose arses hang out of the back of their trousers and who’s bellies sag over the front shout “Show us yer baps love!” like I’m going to casually say “OK!” and wap ‘em out there and then in the middle of the high street and let the rest of the world and the aforementioned builders have an oggle. I’d love to see what they did if I did that. Actually. No. On second thoughts, I really wouldn’t.
As I’ve mentioned I’m a bar maid called Rebecca, or Busty Bex to the locals, and as you can imagine in a pub filled with a load of perfectly friendly yet terribly pervy old men, I’m quite a hit. That did say hit…not tit.
I’m so fed up of being objectified by men, especially those who do not know me, those who stare constantly at the breast area when engaging in conversation, and, perhaps the worst of all my male friends who think its ok to talk about my boobs like they like them more than me. I just want someone to see me, and consider that I may want to have an intelligent conversation, about politics perhaps, or current affairs, as opposed to those who see me from a distance and shout ‘cor love, great chebs!’ I’m a real person you know! Not just a pair of squidgy funny looking lumps which have the main purpose of feeding. Your mother has them! It’s just wrong!
AND! Speaking of my mother – where in Gods Holy name did these beasts come from because she sure as hell doesn’t have them! Do oversized baps skip a generation like twins? Did my grandma have humongous boobies? Or does it skip two generations and is this burden one my great Grandma carried? I suppose I can’t really know.
I really cannot understand the obsession with boobs. I just wish mine were a few sizes smaller. More than a handful is definitely a waste. And I tell you, bra shopping? It is by far the most distressing part of my life. I dread it. I wait till the underwiring on my once white now grey bra is poking out and drawing blood before I even dare to consider buying a new bra. Have you ever noticed how the small sizes are at the front of the rack? Probably not. But I have. And I can tell you – bras in Becca size do NOT look the way the bras on the front of the rack look. They look ugly and obscenely large and like they should be having footballs shot in them, or like they should be strapped on the end of a stick and played lacrosse with or like they would be an oversized hat on a man with an extremely big head. I’m telling you its false advertising putting them miniscule egg cups on the front of the rack. IT’S NOT FUNNY!
Do you know what else isn’t funny? Trying to order your stupendously large size from a woman who quite plainly does not understand your pain with her perfectly proportioned breasts and her bra which must have come from the front of the rack. Even more gut wrenching is when she states in a calm matter of fact manner with a slight smile on her face, “Oh. Sorry madam, it seems we don’t go up to that size, you’ll have to visit a specialist,” like I have some kind of disease which needs treating by someone with expert knowledge.
Having big boobs is not a disease, girls. It is an affliction, though admittedly one that can be used to ones advantage on carefully selected and terribly rare occasions. I am sure that mine once saved me from a speeding ticket. PC Pervy caught sight of “the twins” whiles I was wearing a rather flattering blouse and let me off with a mere wrist slapping. Some would say it’s double standards for me to use my bosoms to my advantage in cases like this. I would say it’s just utilising what I’ve been given.
So I suppose despite the discomfort they cause me both mentally and physically having massive knockers isn’t all bad. I mean, I am 22 now, and surely this means the end of growth? Surely from now on…things can only get…smaller? Or at least, stay the same. Right?