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Thursday, April 26, 2012

It's about boobs so I know you will read it

Ok, this is ridiculous... you guys are going to get so spoiled with all these great guest posts that you aren't going to want me to come back. At the risk of that horrible outcome, I'm going to let you have another party while I'm gone with one of the coolest girls I've had the pleasure of splitting a bucket of beer in a casino lounge in Vegas with so you know she rocks!

If you don't follow the lovely and wickedly talented Lazidaisical already, get off your asses and go check her out when you are done reading her post here. She is totally stalkable! (trust me, I've seen her naked. Ok, not really but you can imagine if I had...)

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It is pretty much summer here in Vegas already - this weekend it's gonna reach 99 degrees - and I was reminded today of something I wrote around this time last year that deals with summertime nostalgia. And titties. You know, since we're all thinking about 'em because of RG's Masque tank top pic, right? Right. So I hope this does her blog justice cuz I adore her, and I hope it will entertain her dear readers cuz y'all seem pretty cool. And here we go. 



When you’re a teenager, summer vacation is a time for seeking out experiences that will make you wiser, that will make you feel as old as the grade you’re about to enter. It's a time to experience something you can brag about next year.

When you’re a teenager, summer vacations become a time for transformation.

And when you’re me, your lazy ass sits around with your best friend on her front porch all summer long waiting for that transformation to hit you in the chest. You hope that these three months provide enough time for you to transform into THAT girl – the one who used to be scrawny and awkward, but shows up on the first day of school with suddenly round hips, an ass so juicy that every guy does a double take and makes an inappropriate comment, and tits so over-developed that they can make a baggy gym shirt look painfully sexy.

It’s not that I was eager to be an adult. I wasn’t. I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up, nor where I wanted to be; I didn’t understand the concept of BEING at all and didn’t like being forced to participate in shit I didn’t understand. But I totally understood that girls with big boobs had more opportunities available to them than girls with little boobs; and if I had big boobs maybe everything else would fall into place?

During these languid summers in central Texas, my best friend and I used to wake up, create outrageous hair-dos, apply copious amounts of make-up, put on short shorts with revealing tank tops, and perch ourselves on her porch by nine a.m. every morning. We’d get excited when older guys drove by and honked – she’d get excited because she was a whore; I’d get excited because it meant they found me attractive despite my lack of boobs. We’d wait patiently for her parents to leave for work so we could go into the garage and take some of the weed her dad “secretly” sold on the side. On the porch, we’d smoke out and munch out and I’d close my eyes and concentrate on trying to hold the food at my chest when I swallowed it down, that way all the saturated fat could accumulate in my breasts. Back then, we didn’t have cell phones or internet, so when we were bored nearly to tears and ready to throw each other down the porch steps, we had no choice but to entertain ourselves by engaging in meaningless conversations that, on my end, included questions, like, “was there any kind of sign that your boobs were about to grow? Like, was your period heavier than usual that month?” 

During the summer vacation between seventh and eighth grade, my best friend’s tits had blossomed from nothing but little nipple buds into mature C-cups. At least once a week, we’d take a chair, some towels, and three or four vials of hair dye with us outside and attempt to paint purple, gold, and orange streaks in each other’s frizzy hair out on the humid porch. And the dye would end up everywhere, including the section of my chest where my cleavage should’ve been, making me wonder if there was any kind of chemical junk I could smother over my breasts, or ingest, that would make my A-cups sprout into something more substantial. (Yo, Masque, hit my ass up if you goes some shit like that!)

Teenage summer vacations are times for transformations, but I never transformed. I often say I’m exactly the same today as I was at any other point in my life; and the same goes for my boobs. They didn’t even get a tiny bit bigger while I was a teenager. All those summer vacations full of hope just passed on by, leaving me nothing to show from them.

But something strange happened in the summer of 2009, six years after I’d ceased being a teenager: my tits began to look very full and delicious, seemingly overnight. Even my hips gave off a little extra kick when I stepped. I thought, finally, my body was starting to look like a woman’s and not a young teenager’s. I still wasn’t eager to be an adult; and though I had become comfortable with my small breasts over the years, big ones were not unwelcome. Feeling like a teenager again, I put my newly developed tits to work right away: wore slutty dresses (slutty, but tasteful, mind you) to bars with my husband’s colleagues, hoping one of my big breasts would accidentally pop out and give their mundane wives even more reasons to shoot envious looks at me; when getting lap dances, I held my chest up high - debating whether or not I should take MY shirt off, too – and gave the strippers bored looks to indicate that my boobs were better than theirs; the bikini I bought that summer was ridiculously skimpy because I wanted to always be in danger of having a nip slip; I even convinced a friend that we should celebrate her birthday at one of the topless beaches here in Vegas.

Her party was slated for September 17th (this is still very much summer time in Nevada) and, though my husband was outraged by my excitement over showing strangers my voluptuous breasts, I was ready to go – I really only wanted to show them to my friends anyway; we’d be in a private cabana and I promised him I'd only be topless in there. I felt like that knowledge should have been soothing to him, but he didn’t trust me to remember to put my top back on when leaving the cabana for more drinks or a restroom break.

On September 11th, six days before the topless party, I found out the recent enormity of my boobs was a result of being pregnant.

I didn’t go to the topless party and felt stupid for ever wanting to. I also felt ashamed of the debauchery I’d unknowingly made my child tag along for during the prior months. I stayed in at night, stopped drinking, stopped smoking pot, started dressing more sensibly… Bigger boobs made me a better person, which wasn’t what I’d anticipated during all those summer vacations on my best friend’s porch. And, I guess, they did indeed signify that I’d become an adult.

In the summer of 2010, my breasts grew bigger than ever. But instead of dreaming up senseless ways to employ their magnificence, I had to figure out how to use them to feed my newborn daughter; this was somehow even more exciting than, say, looking through crowds and picking out who’d be using my tits for impractical purposes if I wasn’t married.

It’s now the summer of 2012 and my breasts have long since deflated back down to an A-cup, but I’m okay with that. If my boobs had been bigger from the get-go, they’d have had much farther to fall. But since gravity didn’t have a lot of mass to pull down, they still look rather perky. I’ve realized that whoever decided I wasn’t meant have big tits knew what they were doing. As my brief brush with voluptuousness back in the summer of 2009 proved, I would’ve lead a terribly reckless existence as a big-tittied girl. My life would’ve probably panned out much differently if I’d been a D-cup.

But if I’d known as a teenager that A-cups are sexy, too, I would’ve spent those summer vacations sitting on my best friend’s porch topless. 

5 comments:

  1. This is a great "wisdom with age" post. A's are sexy too!! Mine have always been average. When I got fat, 45 lbs ago, I grew to a 38DD. I'm back down to a 38C and I'm perfectly ok with that. Just think, you can wear slinky tank tops without a bra. For that, I am jealous!

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  2. I always heard that more than a mouthful is a waste. Unfortunately for me, I got a lot of waste!!!

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  3. Am I the only person I know with little breasts?! :) Good for you girls. I hope y'all have had a lot of fun with your big ones. Keepin It Real, "more than a mouthful is a waste" - I like that! Mind if I use it?

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  4. I'm so ridiculously envious of ANYONE who can go braless. Including men.

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  5. When I was at the heaviest I'd ever been, my boobs went up a cup size. I've long since lost the weight but my breasts have not returned to normal size. :-\

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