The history of my tits

I don’t remember having a flat chest. I know I had one. I’ve seen pictures. I also remember writing about my first bra in my diary. I had no real secrets to speak of at the time, but still my diary had a lock on it and only I possessed the key.

“Dear diary, I can’t believe it! Today my mother handed me the Sears catalog and told me to pick out a bra!” Apparently at the ripe old age of eleven I needed one. I’m not sure why. I found the thing years later in a box of old clothes. It was two pink triangles side by side with a tiny flower in the center. Harmless to look at, but to me it signaled the beginning of a very long and trying adolescence.

The summer after the Sears catalog experience, I went to YMCA camp and had my very first admirer. It was the eighties and he looked a little like Scott Baio (Foxes era right down to the denim jacket) so that was cool. But he quickly became unbearable and annoying to me and seemed to know facts about my life that I hadn’t even told him yet. Was he talking to my bunkmates? Creepy. I finally had enough and told him I didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore. (Even though we hadn’t even kissed) His friends got really angry with me. It was the first time I ever got called a slut.

By that fall I had already moved up a cup size, gotten dragged into a closet and felt up by a friend’s older brother, and I was full on distrustful when Mr. Piedmont, my sixth grade teacher, tried to give me a hug.

By ninth grade I had achieved C cup status and had to hold onto my boobs when taking the stairs. I was a virgin, yet there was still a rumor that I had tag teamed three seniors at once. That’s right, three…at once.

It’s been almost thirty years now that I have been part of the booby monster club. I’ve had men stare, touch, pinch, and beg to fuck them. I’ve had bra after bra squeeze tickle and scratch them before eventually giving into to their heft. I’ve developed a healthy sense of humor about them. I wish the same for my petite tittied sisters.

Still I see women who cry and hate themselves because of their involuntary membership into the itty bitty titty committee. Everyday women pay thousands of dollars and risk their lives to have tits my size. Is life really that horrible for them? Personally I have always loved small tits. I long for little circus tent shaped boobies. So small, you can fit them into a martini glass. Oh to have boobs that don’t require a bra. How freeing, how low maintenance, how economical!

But maybe it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation. Have small tits and be left alone, or giant gazongas with too much attention. I don’t know…..I blame men.