I started growing tits young. In second grade, the boys would come up to me on the playground and hook their grubby fingers into the neck of my shirt and pull it open to look at my naked chest. Pink nipples on a white stage. In third grade, emulating the characters in Judy Blume's novels, I started chronicling the growth of my chest in my Diary, with drawings and arrows; I couldn't wait to be all grown up and developed like those good, earnest girls.
By sixth grade, the boys were more aggressive and in addition to the shirt pulling, they started to squeeze my breasts as hard as they could with their rough hands, leaving red marks on my skin. Oh how they laughed! The more it hurt, the harder they laughed. I didn't know that I could tell my mom about these things. I didn't know that I should be wearing a bra. But the damn things were getting bigger and bigger and finally, in Junior High, during that sweltering back-to-school shopping season, Mom and I went into the lingerie department at Macy's. I was immediately drawn to the bras by designers making names for themselves in jeans and shampoo. Mom clucked at the prices and the blatant sexiness. She frowned her way through the racks, muttering to herself, completely at a loss as to size or style. I think we ended up with some generic "training" bras, though I was a true B cup by then. The bras are forgettable; though binding and uncomfortable, they did not offer "support" or "protection." But at least the titties were where they were supposed to be, and now, when the boys finger-pulled my shirt, they got a different sight. I also started kicking them in the nuts when they did that, or when they tried to squeeze me. The nuts or the shins, depending on the boy.
My mom would sometimes stare frankly at my sweater and say, "Are you wearing a bra?" because my hard little nipples were visible through the flimsy cotton. "Yes," I would whine, humiliated by her stupidity. Of course I was! But this was the late seventies, and bras were no longer made of iron. Just like when I got my period and Mom showed me her menstrual belt. I already knew I was going to be wearing the latest self-adhesive maxi pad (preferably Kotex) and then ultimately, move on to Tampax tampons. Mom sighed. She said, "When I was young, I thought you had to be married in order to use a tampon." I could tell she still thought that. Wanted me to think it. But I didn't. I couldn't. These were my times, my products, my body.
After college I moved to Manhattan and got a job as an editorial assistant. On a beautiful, warm spring evening, I made plans to meet friends from work for dinner in the Village. We were going to sit outside--at last! The winter had been oppressive and dreary and suddenly, I felt life returning to the world. The sky was purpling and I determined to walk the twenty or so blocks to the restaurant. I was dressed down, wearing a men's white Hanes undershirt and jeans. As I walked, I saw trouble coming toward me from half a block away--three lowlifes, stumbling together up the sidewalk. I maintained fierce New Yorker non-eye contact, but I could just sense, you know, that something was coming. As we passed each other, the one closest to me stared blatantly at my chest and slurred to his buddies, "She's got some big titties. Damn!" I laughed in that nervous, self-conscious way you do, and continued to my destination. On the way, I rehearsed how I would tell the story to my friends. We sat down at the table and I began. When I got to the punch line, they laughed so heartily and uproariously that I did too, for real this time. And then it became one of those running in-jokes you do in offices. Sometimes we'd mimic the drunk's slurring, lowlife accent. Other times, we'd play with tone and say it seriously, or mimic an Indian or a Puerto Rican accent.
When it came time to breastfeed my first child, I read all the books, went to La Leche, talked to other moms who'd done it successfully, and ultimately, enjoyed it very much. I remembered a Penthouse forum letter I'd read years and years ago, detailing one new mom's erotic discovery--breastfeeding turned her on! She let her baby suck away as she got more and more aroused and wet between the legs. She celebrated these sensations--no shame, no embarrassment, she just went with it. She masturbated and came explosively, all the while the little innocent suckling at her breast, innocently absorbing the nutrients he needed, oblivious to his mother's awakening. Breast feeding feels good! It's okay that it feels good! It's okay to get turned on! But I never did get turned on. It did feel good, but more in a soothing way than an arousing way, for me. The problem was, once I'd weaned everybody, I could no longer tolerate my husband sucking on my nipples. That felt weird. Too much like nursing, which was, for me, completely unsexual. Fortunately, my husband didn't take it personally, and we learned other ways he could kiss and suck on my tits that didn't remind me of milk stains and poopie diapers.
I still hide them away sometimes. Can't help it. And I push them out sometimes. Can't help it. It's a funny thing I've noticed--women who choose to surgically enhance themselves to be as big--or, gasp--bigger than me can't show them off enough! I guess if you didn't grow up with them being such a trigger for boys and men to behave like beasts, then it just isn't an issue. Big titties, damn! can actually be a compliment.
