Sweet, Dark and Crazy

Monday, May 10, 2010

The Poor Girl's Boob Job

My uncle had a huge porn collection. I mean huge. Stacks and stacks of magazines: Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, plus a lot of ‘off-brand’ stuff. My cousins and I would spend hours flipping through them. He also had films, actual films, and as soon as we figured out how to work the projector, we were watching those too. It was a lot easier when he got a Betamax machine because then we could just pop in a video. Anyway, by the time I was a teenager I’d seen more porn than most teenage boys.

Anyway, I never thought it was a big deal. From my young perspective, these were adults doing what adults did. The thrill came not from watching the sex but from doing something (watching porn) that we weren’t supposed to be doing. About the only thing that ever really bothered me was the pictorial with Santa and a couple of buxom elves. First of all, Santa would never do those things. Secondly, where was Mrs. Claus? Thirdly, those women clearly weren’t elves as elves were little happy people with pointed ears who made toys. They never did stuff like that and certainly not with Santa!

I digress, yet again. My point is, when I looked at the women in the pictorials, they were busty. My mom was not. I wondered, if, when I grew up, I’d have nice boobs or if I would look like my mom, who was a great mom but a little on the flat side.

As I hit puberty, the curves came. Like my mom, I definitely got the hips and the booty, but I was still lacking in the boob department. In fact, I would see my Aunt Lindsey every couple of years. And every time, my fabulous aunt with the accent straight out of Designing Women complete who never left home, hell, never left the bedroom without perfectly crafted big hair, flawless make-up, long painted nails and designer outfit, she would look at me and say, all sugary sweet, “Why I never noticed you were flat-chested!” This happened every time I would see her from my teens through my early thirties.

Of course, every bra I purchased was padded. I had water bras, push up bras and any other bras that would push the ‘girls’ up and out. Now, I had nice breasts, they were just on the small side.

Then, it happened.

Slowly, I started putting on weight. While most of it went south of my waist, adding to the already ample booty, some of it did stop at the chest, making the girls, more … robust.

So here I am now, fatter than I’ve ever been. And, I hate it. I hate being a ‘plus size.’ I hate not being able to shop at Ann Taylor. I hate being referred to as ‘full-figured.’ But I do like the rack. I have cleavage now. I have actual cleavage without any help from a brassiere. I can rock a low-cut top. Men stare at my chest. It’s strangely empowering.

And I didn’t need to go under the knife, all I had to do was get fat.

Who knew?

Labels: Me, Memories

posted by SDC @ 2:52 PM

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