I have had large breasts for about 20 years. I’m 32, so let’s say, roughly, that my breasts were on their path to greatness halfway through the Carter administration. By the time Reagan was sworn in, I was officially stacked.
I first realized I had big breasts when I was about 12, in, of all places, a fish market on Cape Cod. For years, the fishmonger had been showing my buxom aunt marked favoritism. “This is for you,” he would say, measuring out what she’d asked for, then, with a wink and a glimpse at her bustline, tossing on a few more shrimp or an extra fillet.
On this particular day, he threw a handful of extra shrimp onto the pile and, ignoring my aunt, turned his gaze on me. “A little extra nutrition for the growing girl,” he said. Holy hell, I said to myself, I have big boobs, too!
By the time I was 13, I had a C-cup, and by the time I was 15, a D. Today, I hover between a 34 and a 36D, depending on whether I’m on the Pill, and, disgustingly, how much beer I’ve been drinking. Either way, they garner their share of attention—wanted or otherwise.
There are times when it all seems quite silly to me, when I look at mine in the mirror and think, what a lot of excitement over two little—okay, enormous—mounds of fat! Then again, there’s the occasional moment when I’ll pull an old cotton T-shirt out of the dryer and slip it, still warm and quite tight, over my head, the name of my old university straining across my front.
And as I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I can’t help but think of Teri Hatcher’s line from that old Seinfeld episode: “They’re real, and they’re spectacular.”
I know men like to think that women lie around all day touching and staring at their breasts. Well, every once in a while, in fact, we do. But aside from the odd afternoon interlude, most women don’t find their own breasts especially sexual. Our breasts kind of have two—well, four—personalities. There is How We See Them. And then there is How Men See Them… (cont. next slide)
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