Boob size is a total anxiety-laden crapshoot. Before anything happens in this area, every girl writes in her journal, talks to her friends and prays to multiple deities. Anything to gain insight and control over what will happen to her (hopefully) growing breasts. Some girls pray for big boobs, some athletic-sized. I prayed for them to be decent-sized, round and perky with nipples that sat high and stared straight ahead. I wanted it to be clear to that higher power exactly what I wanted. After praying, it was a total wait-and-see situation for me. A long wait…..READ MORE
Age 11. Stare in bathroom mirror daily tosee if there is any change in concave chest area. Zero change for 365 days straight.
Age 12. There’s a light rain on my sixth-grade Catholic school kickball field. My kick is astounding. I run the bases all the way home. Scott Richmond, whom I am completely in love with, heads over, I think to congratulate me. Instead he smiles right at my chest then at my face and says, “I can see your brown spots because the rain made your shirt see through.” I am both mortified and turned on for maybe the first time.
Age 12 ½. All the other girls on my volleyball team have the outlines of bras under their t-shirts. They mock me for my lack thereof. My mother laughs heartily when I beg her for a bra. Wiping away tears, she looks at my little braces-studded pout and agrees to cart me
to JC Penney for a trainer.
Age 13. Family trip to Hawaii. My new tube top bathing suit has rad pink, yellow, and light green stripes. In the hotel bathroom mirror, I discover something new about my nipples. If I circle them with my forefinger they go from puffy to erect. I thought only the cold could cause this trick. Also, it feels really good to make this happen. So good in fact that later in the day, while sunning at the pool’s edge and checking out boys, I absent mindedly start circling my right nipple on top of my tube suit. I hear some girls giggling. I turn my head to see them sticking out their tongues and mock-circling their nipple region. Yeah.
Age 14. I am now a full-fledged A cup. If a sumo wrestler stood behind me and started pushing flesh forward from my spine to my armpits I might be able to sport cleavage. I am a little concerned that this chest thing is never going to happen.
Age 15. Scott rode by me on his skateboard and told me he thinks I have really sexy legs. Still. Where. Are. My. Boobs? I sneak into my parent’s room and steal one of my mother’s bras. Then I run into the bathroom. I put on her bra and there is so much space in the cup that NASA rockets are taking off in there. Then, without warning, my older brother busts in. Points at me in the pathetically droopy bra and takes a photo. He’d apparently
seen me steal the bra. Fucker.
Age 16. I’m a B cup! Now there are actual moundy protrusions to feel up. At a beach campfire, Scott takes my hand and says he wants to show me something. He walks me to a spot where there is a giant beached whale. Then, right there next to the dearly departed Shamu, Scott spins me toward him, grabs my lower back and kisses me on the lips. This, it turns out, also makes the nipple trick happen. He lowers my bathing suit top a little and places his hand on the white triangle of my un-tanned breast. (I hate the word breast, by the way — I can only think of chicken and cancer when I hear it.) Big or not, I’m really starting to appreciate these things.
Age 16 ½. My five-foot-tall uber-racky friend Rosa says she and her family are going to Disneyland for two weeks. When she comes back she looks like she dropped about 20 pounds. She confesses to me that she actually had a breast reduction and that Goofy and Sleeping Beauty were just a cover. A breast reduction? God works in mysterious and unfair ways.
Age 17. Not much change. I graduated from High School. A boy put his mouth on my boobies for the first time. I never wanted him to stop. The College Years. Late bloomer! Damn, I finally got what I prayed for. Looking in the dorm room mirror, drunk on Bailey’s and who knows what, I see them. They are now for real. I squint at them a few times and turn sideways. C cup. It truly happened overnight. Over the next four years, they are touched by several boys,tweaked and grabbed by girls at various parties. Sophomore year I experienced a somewhat naughty titty-fuck with a baseball player. I learn that I like the ice-cube-circling thing. Having milk dumped over them is pretty hot too. It wasn’t until I met one boy who really turned me on to how great my nipples were that things became truly boobtacular for me. Apparently they stick out more than your average bare-naked girls’. Somehow this information had never been made known to me before. He was able to make me full-on orgasm for the first time by just climbing around on them and making me feel unique. They also grew about a half-cup size larger under his handy tutelage.
Present Day. My lady friends and I check out other girls cleave just as much as boys. Huge knockers are astounding, especially when there is a full-on ten inches of boob crack meeting the edge of the neckline. How much more is there hidden beyond what is visible? I was served by a barista today who was wearing a T-shirt with some kind of stretched out unreadable message pulled across her amplified milkmaids. My brow was furrowed in concentration as she repeated, “Excuse me, is this your white chocolate mocha?”
When I was in New York last spring, the most popular fashion statement I noted was going commando in the chest region. It was Africa-hot and a bra is nothing if not a strappy bitch that makes my breastaculars angry, sweaty and held hostage in the humid heat. Why not be a saucy little vixen pacing the sidewalks of the big city, I thought. I left my titty sling on the bathroom doorknob one morning. Letting ‘em swing wild affected everything I did. Suddenly, walking into a corner store and buying a protein bar was a bouncy, sexually charged experience.
It was like my boobs had been locked in a dark closet. Now that they were unleashed and the lights were on, they were unstoppable. My nipples had little perky brains of their own. They told me to don a one-corner upturned sultry smile. I obeyed. They told me to lightly jog because the walk sign was about to change. I obeyed. They told me to keep my shoulders slightly thrust back. I obeyed. The experience nearly made me quake in the nethers in public. The only way to solve this issue was to walk into a Starbucks, borrow a bathroom key with a giant spatula attached, and lock myself in for some private, air-conditioned, twiddle time.
In Closing. I don’t foresee any augmentation in my future. I pretty much got what I prayed for. Maybe being specific helped. I’m happy with my boobs history so far and so is my tongue twirlin’, hand squeezin’ man.
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