I’ve just spent the last five minutes thinking about breasts. Solidly. I’ve just been in the kitchen making a bowl of cereal ( 4 varieties including sadly, the last of the Kelloggs chocolate All Bran you can only get in special bits of Europe sob!)
But before that, I was going through my wardrobe sorting through clothes to sell on eBay. Gunshot Glitter hasn’t been launched on the world, and until the planet Earth recognises my sheer genius I’m pooling my resources. So I am selling things off that I’ll never realistically wear. And most of that pile is sitting there because of my breasts.
Tits popped into my head, because as much as I appreciate mine I do get this sinking feeling when I get a gorgeous item of clothing that fits everywhere else but not over them or across them.
I have this amazing, elegant dress coat from Hobbs, it’s chocolate brown velvet, full length and luxurious. I love it. You’d love it. I stroke it’s length sometimes from top to bottom, getting a thrill out of the texture, the plush pile, and the way it warms on my skin. How many times have I wore it out? Never. Not once. I can’t close the buttons above the waist! It cannot deal with my abundant chest friends. My more than a handful. My heaving bosoms. My pillows. My twin peaks. My, er, lovely lady lumps according to The Black Eyed Peas. For the record, never, ever tell a girl she has ‘lovely lady lumps’ she will not like it. Or you.
The gorgeous coat was an eBay purchase in a size 16 a few years ago. I thought about putting it back on the eBay pile for about a nanosecond and I swear I felt a chill. No way. Because one day I suspect when my boobilicious pair finally become more a pain than a pleasure and I decide to kiss the surgeon’s knife, that bloody coat will finally fit. That coat will be my reward for the surgeon’s scars. That and the rest of the clothing that is currently off bounds, that sits on the other side of the scarlet rope with a bouncer guarding it.
But it’s a long way off. And when I have a baby, I want to breast-feed. The idea of my mammary glands being compromised for the purpose they were put on my body for, is not one I’m willing to risk. I’m 5ft 2.5 (yes that half inch matters when you’re that short, ask anyone!) and I am a 36G. This as you can appreciate, if you know anything about cup sizes is pretty top-heavy and I probably look like one of those women who will topple over under the weight of her own chest at any second.
And I didn’t ask for them and I didn’t grow them deliberately, they just took off like greyhounds from a cage when I was ten and never stopped growing. My first bra, a pretty silky white number was a 34B and literally from the time I wore it, my mum was aghast and insisted I wore jackets over my shirt whenever I went out, so pervos roaming the neighbourhood in Neasden wouldn’t clock what was going on. The battle over my breasts had commenced.
I know she had my best interests at heart and in Islam it’s a big deal to never attract the gaze of bad men, and women are meant to be modest, but none of that helps you when you’re an adolescent girl in the 1980s being roasted by a brown woolen jacket during a summer heatwave. It was grim. Very uncomfortable. I refused point blank to wear a dupatta. And I did get really self-conscious and feel slightly guilty about them.
And then I hit my twenties and thought screw that for a lark. I started to treat myself to nicer underwear but nice ones were proper pricy. And then eBay came along, result! I was like a child in a candy store. Sexy, gorgeous bras were everywhere! Floral ones, see through ones, lace ones, gossamer sheen ones, black ones, red ones, push ups, strapless, balconettes. Bring it on!! I thanked my lucky stars for Freya bras and just reveled in being a bit kinder about my breasts existence even if they do interfere with my vision below the waist and make learning guitar chords really tricky. I think for a while ‘buying lingerie’ was even on my CV as a hobby. I did a count about a month ago and was impressed and amused to discover I own about 40.
Boobs are great! The way men love and venerate their willies, I suspect I love tits.
I’ve had a mixed relationship with my own chest but I adore tits on women. I don’t know if all women feel that way or if it’s just me? They’re gorgeous in all their shapes and sizes. I prefer real ones over fake ones. I look at real ones and think about how soft, warm, comforting, all encompassing and yielding they’ll be to touch, and how sexy they look under a shirt or a top, gently undulating with every step and saunter a woman makes. Breasts are gorgeous full stop.
I’m not sure silicon bazookas will have that softness, especially when they’ve been stitched in to resemble torpedoes about to fire off. But don’t get me wrong, I am not judging women who choose to go under the knife and I know many implants do not look as ridiculous as the cartoon I just painted. There is a lot of self-esteem and femininity wrapped up in breasts and I cannot imagine how demoralising it would feel to believe yours are compromised or lacking, especially if you’ve been unfortunate enough to lose them to cancer.
It is naturally your right to deal with that whichever way works for you. It is a marvelous thing the option is there to boost your size. As long as you’re doing that for YOU and not for anyone else, it’s all good. And nowadays surgeons can probably make them look more natural then the silicon mounds of old. I just don’t find the obvious ones which look like someone attached a bicycle pump to a woman’s nipple and pumped it up appealing. And it freaks me out a bit that teenage girls want boob jobs when they’ve not even stopped growing yet. I can see why it’s on their wish list. I can see the appeal.
I love a big sexy, cleavage too. Christina Hendricks has a gorgeous, slightly mesmerising pair as does Scarlett Johansson, but there is a lot to be said in honour of little ones like fried eggs and the freedom of going bra-less and fitting in everything!! I can’t imagine what that must feel like. Pretty damn good I reckon. And with the advent of padded bras you can still get that great shape thing going. And you will totally rock the androgynous look, something I will never have a hope in hell of doing regardless of how much strappage is employed. I will never rock the Marlene Dietrich look or look as trim and chic as Charlize Therzon. I will always be Jessica Rabbit and look a bit dumpy thanks to them. But the point is all bangers are good. Little ones, big ones, the ones in between and don’t get me started on the wondrousness of nipples and all that delicious sensitivity wrapped up in the nerve endings. I’m sure men must know what I’m talking about there, because come on, we both possess those. I’m going to write an ode to nipples one day.
Breasts make a welcome appearance in Gunshot Glitter. Rebecca Jordan (more on her in future blogs) has ‘tits like cushions,’ And I bestowed Sera Logan with a pair of almost delicate teardrop shaped peaks. I believe in celebrating the female body. All bodies in fact. Men’s bodies rock too. But I love how soft and pliant breasts are. You look at them and just want to snuggle. Breasts equal love and pleasure in my head.
I would miss my pair if I woke up one morning and they weren’t there. But the thing I wouldn’t miss is the reaction they get. They are mine and I do try to enjoy them. I have no problem with them being noted and admired, I admire beauty and handsomeness when I clock it too, it’s only natural, and breasts are glorious. Beautiful. But outright perving? That is out of order. Not cool.
I’ve had a chav teen who couldn’t have been more than 15 come up to tell me what he’d like to do to them here in Hayes, a man try and stroke my nipple in a gift shop, an utter twat on the London Underground film my chest for prosperity ( only a few weeks back that lovely incident) and a solicitor address them the entire time when I was buying my flat. I thought he had a squint or something wrong with his neck that his head was unable to lift beyond a certain point maybe? Insane. And no I wasn’t topless or ‘scantily clad’. Just normal everyday attire going about my business, cracking on with my day.
I am well aware certain clothes on me will always look pornographic if I wear them. Or to be honest ridiculous, you can just scan an outfit and know there is no point trying it on because it will just look silly and that if I am honest, sartorially, for me is genuinely depressing. I love wearing dresses but most of them are not cut for my proportions, it is very, very hard to buy ‘off the peg’ just picking up a 16 or even an 18. Stuff that stretches a bit is always a relief as there’s a chance it’ll skim the bust but then show of your waist. Brilliant when you find it. I don’t know if other women ever have that same problem?
And because of the wrong kind of attention I’ve been compelled to dress carefully where I live, because when I am out alone that can honestly be scary. Yes my bangers need their own bodyguard! And all that caution in truth, that drives me nuts. Loose clothes make me look a stone heavier than I am but it means you can just get on with the day. And forget about going for a spontaneous run. Going for a run is a carefully planned military operation when you have big tits! Unless you want a black eye or want the whole street watching you. One of my best friends is a 32G and she wears two sports bras to restrain her pair.
My ex was fascinated at the reaction my breasts got when we were out together. He said the thing that got him was the filthy, annoyed looks some women cast them. They seemed really cheesed off or disapproving I had them. He said men didn’t stare as much as the women did. I told him I wasn’t surprised. The men were probably afraid of getting their heads kicked in by him, he looks like a combo of Audley Harrison and Samuel L Jackson and stands at a looming 6ft 3. My breasts were in pretty safe hands when I was out with him.
The heart of London is a much more tolerant place of boobage in all their sizes, shapes and glory. London has seen everything so tis no hassle. I have this thing were I cover up my puppies and unveil them a bit more openly when I hit the city centre. After all they need ventilation too. And it’s my body, I should be allowed to enjoy it! I should be allowed to think ‘aren’t tits great? Look at them? How can I be standing upright and not flat on my face with a pair like that?’ And marvel at them. So from henceforth, I refuse to apologise for my melons and feel guilty about them. There are bigger more serious issues in the world to be dwelling on.
Do men feel guilty if they have a huge willy? Do they pack it away and say ‘sorry guys’ to their friends who are endowed like a cocktail sausage? I think not! The only big breasted women I’ve seen overtly proud and revelling in their knockers seem to be ones of who’ve paid for them. They can’t resist gleefully getting them out and showing them off.
I’m not about to trip out of a taxi into some cheesy night club in porno heels with my bosoms hanging out. It’s not me. But I’m going to reclaim my chest back from prying, invasive eyes. They are not perfect breasts. I wish they were more pert. Gravity is not going to be my friend. I once had a lover confess they were the biggest pair he’d ever seen in ‘real life’ which had me in fits of laughter and all my boyfriends have found them beautiful. About four years ago I was the muse for a photoshoot for a friend who wanted to explore his ideas. Some of the photographs were genuinely beautiful and I was really happy I did it. I’d recommend it to anyone who’s ever had body issues like I have.
So there’s enough validation to assure me my body is okay. But ultimately, clichéd as it is, none of that should matter, you’re your own best friend and you’ve got to cherish yourself as much as you love those you hold dear. Of course you should. So while I have my generous handfuls looking up at me from below my chin, I’ll just have to buy up a dress size, look for clothes with lycra and squeeze them in and enjoy them while I have them. Because these bad boys are here to stay for now, all 36G of them and I guess I’d better get used to it… ; )
Yasmin x x
And the last word goes to Jim Carrey? Guys is this honestly what you’re thinking? : ) x