“After 50 years old, you should never have sex on top,” my girlfriend quoted her mother.

“Why not?” I cried out. “I love it on top!”

“I know, but Mom preached, ‘You don’t want your big old breasts hanging in his face,’” she said wagging her scolding finger.

I hadn’t really visualized what my “girls” might look like from HIS perspective. It occurred to me that if I hovered over his face low enough, I could probably smother him to death with my bottom-heavy, pendulous pillows.

Always looking for a solution to continue to do what feels good, I asked, “What if I wore a pretty bra?”

These days, post Covid-19-pounds, my breasts hang even lower than before. As I fight to contain them within my balconette bra, I can barely remember to when I was a young 24-year-old bride, having my size-two wedding gown fitted. While at the salon, the seamstress left the room and returned with two half-moon pads. “Thees is to feel out dis cups,” she said in her heavy Polish accent. I was only slightly offended at the time. My small boobies were acceptable to my new husband who was more of an ass-man.

After babies, my breasts grew to be more than a handful—literally. Even more weird was how my nipples enlarged to the size of those old silver dollars—you know, the ones with JFK on them. I was ashamed. I covered the girls with buttoned-up blouses and crew neck sweaters, but they just got bigger.

Years ago, my mother called me exasperated after returning from the lingerie store. “It was humiliating,” she said. “The woman manhandled my breasts to properly measure me. Then she said, ‘no wonder your bras are uncomfortable, you’re a 36 G.’ I didn’t know cups came that big!” At three inches shorter than mom, I pictured my future self as a head attached to voluminous globes. *sigh*

Over time, I got used to my melons and even liked how they filled out my clothes. They gave me an hourglass figure. They attracted some attention—positive attention from men, negative attention from their wives.

After my separation, I intentionally shopped for clothing that made me feel sexy. I purchased a cute red floral minidress with a very deep V neck. I found a complementary bra to peek out, providing a bit more coverage while harnessing my assets. Wearing it on a second date since my separation, the waitress nodded at my cleavage, saying to my date, “You’re one lucky guy.”

“I sure am,” he said, nearly licking his lips. I conscientiously pulled on the dress while consciously reviling the waitress.

Now I’m more selective when bringing out the big guns. I now know they can be a big distraction for men, even in the most innocuous times. Last year, while on vacation with a man I’d been seeing for a year, I pulled off my sweater to reveal a fitted tank top underneath. My boyfriend quietly moaned, “I love having a girlfriend with big tits.”

Yea—felt cringe-y to me, too.

After a first date where I wore a demure blouse, one man texted:

From what I saw, I’m looking forward to second base.

The cringe-y moments aside, I have to be reminded that despite what I think are low-hanging fruit, these milkshakes do bring the boys to the yard. While getting frisky more recently, I sat on top while my partner audibly sighed below me while releasing the girls from my pretty bra. I’m glad I heard him because once those big babies descended, they blocked my view of his appreciative face.

A Love/Hate Relationship with My Breasts was last modified: by

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