want bigger boobs
It’s hard to put into words how much I used to hate my boobs. Bugs, calculus, digging graves–they all ran a distant second to shopping for a bra or even looking at my own flat chest.
By age 15, the breast fairy had happily visited every single one of my friends, sometimes seemingly two or three times. But there I sat, in my pathetic excuse for a bra (really just two sadly hopeful triangles stitched together in the center) and waited in vain for that b*tch to visit my bony chest too.
“When you picture big boobs, you envision the perfect set—ones you see in the movies or something,” she explained in hushed tones as I wept in the Maidenform section. “But that’s not how big breasts usually look. They can sag, get stretch marks, be different sizes—you don’t have those problems!”
I wasn’t buying it. I had skinny legs and a Kim Kardashian booty—a C or D cup would make my figure perfect and I made up my mind to get implants. Did I still want bigger boobs? YES.
So, my mom staged a tits intervention—a titstervention, if you will. She had my Aunt Sophia, who had breast implants, show me hers and encouraged me to cop a feel.
“Um…is one supposed to be hard?”
Spoiler alert: no. One sack had become encased in scar tissue leaving it hard and lumpy. The other sagged at an awkward angle and there was a huge gap between them, with angry red scars under each breast.
“Plus, I always have to wear an underwire bra, but never any blousy shirts make me look pregnant because my boobs make it stick out,” she sighed. “I think I looked thinner before them, honestly.”
That night Mama put me in one of her C-cup bras so I could see what I’d look like with implants. Again, she was right. These things on my chest, making me look thick and sausage-like, overshadowed my long arms and legs. I realized that fake boobs were like hipster glasses—they look great on some other people, but not me.
But I wasn’t about to admit that. Instead I gritted my teeth and vowed to one day stuff my chest cavity full of silicone or saline. And I was equally hellbent on finding a man who would support this decision.
Then, the strangest thing happened: I couldn’t. I’ve dated my fair share of jerks (enough to write a book about) but every single one of them have downright gushed over my B-cups.
“I’d much rather have perky, firm boobs than big saggy ones,” said Brooks.
“Fake breasts feel like rubbing the back of my lacrosse helmet,” admitted Steve.
“You have the perfect boob-to-nipple ratio, it’s amazing,” marveled Jason.
“Boobs are whatever; I’m more about butt and legs,” shrugged Sid.
I had no idea that boys felt this way, and they didn’t seem to be lying. Sure, I wouldn’t hate to wake up with Scarlett Johansson’s curves, but when I think of my poor aunt’s Frankentits I grab my ladies and feel how nice they are—firm, perky, pleasantly squishy—and realize that maybe being happy with what you have is truly Victoria’s secret!
How do you feel about your boobs? Wish they were bigger? Smaller? Tell me in the comments!