Major Boobage By Ann-Marie Ayibotele
I have huge boobs. Tig ol bitties, big ol titties. Enormous knockers, 4litre sized jugs. Pendulous beasts that must be tamed.
I got them in 2007, 13 years ago. Not in the buying sense, since I will never be that glamorous and considering the negligible fact that I was 8 it probably wouldn't have been advised. I soon found myself in Matalan's finest training bras. 2 years later, I was in full-on lady bras as I found myself pouring them into a 32E. As the years went on, I found my 2 perpetual burdens swelling into the realms of online only bra shopping. I’m a student now so I’m dirt poor and the best I can manage is the brastop.com clearance.
I should probably be kinder to them but since I am still young, dumb and trying to cum: the cheaper, more comfortable, more supportive, albeit less sexy homes for my bounce houses are the easiest thing for me to find just aren’t ideal. I try my best to dress them in the most beautiful pieces possible but boy is it hard! Every year I try to add at least 3 to collection, this is a tumultuous process of scouring the internet for pretty, pretty cheap, pretty big brassieres. Sometimes it feels like breasts are the forgotten battle of the body positivity movement: brands seem to be more than happy to make clothes for fats but have no interest in expanding their lingerie selections for us or making allowances in their clothes for larger busts. I can’t count the number of times I have ordered tops that fit everywhere else but leave the girls hanging out. Even ASOS Curve are guilty of this, making clothes with smaller boob space and favouring plus size models with smaller breasts.
I can't remember a time where the #saggyboobsmatter movement wasn't for me. The girls have always been soft and swung low. They have never not known the feeling of my stomach on their undersides. In fact, the sweet aroma of my underboob sweat is something I have come to enjoy. After a long day, there is nothing I enjoy more than whipping off my mammary prisons and luxuriating in the delicious fragrance of my own body odour. When I find myself in need of comfort, I stick a finger down there and inhale its sweet, comforting aroma. I hope this strange is met with "yes sis mee too[s]" rather than "what the fuck is wrong with this girl[s]".
Over the years my relationship with my breasts has seesawed between love and hate. Of course, I love the way they look but do I like the fact that one of my former bosses looked at them more than my face? Most definitely not. I hope this resonates with you: I always feel that in my journey from body hate to neutrality to love, my efforts were always thwarted by other peoples reactions to my body. No matter how deeply my love for my breasts or bum runs, the attention they get will always unsettle me. I have no qualms about showing them off but because my breasts own so much real estate, even the tiniest slither of cleavage gets mammoth reactions. As much as I love attention, feeling like a sex object or "Big Tit Betty" the freakshow act will never not leave a bad taste in my mouth.
I have realized that I need to stop letting society's gaze affect the relationship I have with my body. I need to make a conscious effort to stop allowing other people to affect my experience of womanhood. I need to start pushing my pendulous breasts on a swinging pedestal.
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