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Thursday, June 17, 2004
What a Boob
One would surmise, that with all my lactating experience, that I would not be stranger to finding myself at least somewhat identified by my breasts. After all, a breastfeeding mother is not much more than a giant nipple with hair and legs to her nursling for at least the first few months. And even then, the hair and legs may get nary a glance or notice.
Lest we forget the attention that full, supple, gigantic lacatating breasts command from the opposite sex. Within days of giving birth I had breasts that could be described as nothing but porn star tits. These babies were hot. Smoking, I tell you. High, round, firm, perky, give just the right amount of bounce when you screw kinda tits. Not that I felt much like screwing four days postpartum, but if I did, I would have looked hot. Anyhow, I digress....
Here I am, the first time in four and a half years that I haven't been pregnant, nursing, or a combination thereof, and my breasts are mine, all mine. What the heck do I do with them? It isn't nearly as fascinating or as fulfilling to re-own my breasts again as I had imagined that it would be when I was up for the seventh time in as many hours nursing a little back to sleep. I mean, c'mon, a twiddle here, a teasing caress there, maybe a stray tweak or a tickle and that pretty much concludes the repossession of the girls. And of course, being a mother, I multi-tasked and finished it in about 42 seconds.
Last night I went shopping with my mom and sister. Victoria Secrets was having one of their seemingly five or six 'semi-annual' sales where bras and panties were the booty to be had by everyone who was anyone who wanted to get some booty that night. Women of all shapes, sizes, and ages were digging and rumaging through the shiny black bins covering VS-fuschia covered tables in search of the perfect bra. You know the one...it lifts and seperates, divides and conquers, shelves and displays. Me, I'm just tickled pink, VS-pink of course, to just be looking for bras without flaps.
Elbow to elbow, hip to hip, ladies aboundm and suddenly, the music stops, the lights focus, and scantily clad posters of Tyra Banks and her gang begin rejoicing with an angelic hymn.....I had found the bra. Not just any bra...The Bra. It was beautiful. It was a black lace over satin demi cup bra, with the lace continuing about an inch further than the satin, designed to gorgeously highlight the pale fullness of my breasts. Eagerly, I snatched the bra and matching lacey black panties and scurried to the dressing room to worship what I knew would be nothing other than pure perfection. After all, if I'm paying $40 for a bra and panty set it better be perfection.
I barely had the door closed and secured before I was pulling my shirt off over my head and inching my jeans down over my hips(with my panties still on of course...because that would just be nasty otherwise). On goes the lacey black panties....excellent. I unhook my unworthy, ordinary, Wal-Mart bra, and lovingly fasten The Bra around my middle, and twist it around. The satin covered lace enticingly cupped my breasts as I slid the straps over my shoulders. And....my cup runneth over. Well, crap. I had a 38DD wrapped around my torso and still to small. After all the years of nursing I was told that I would definately experience some shrinkage after I was finished. This. Was. Not. The. Case. I was so mad. Try as I may, I just could not tuck enough breast tissue inside the cups of that bra to make it fit. So off with The Bra, and on with my Wal-Mart lavendar, kinda cute, but so not a do-me bra. *sigh*
This whole reclaming of my breasts is just not going how I imagined it would. I wanted the ridulously high receipt to verify the proper enhancing and display of my decollette. I wanted the little tag at the back, that no one sees but me, to read Victoria Secret, or Fredricks of Hollywood when I'm feeling a little on the slutty side. I wanted The Bra and The Panties. I wanted the macthing set, damnit! I did get the panties though. ;)
Note to Self: Having one's cup runneth over is generally a good thing, unless it precludes you from buying a kick-ass bra.
One would surmise, that with all my lactating experience, that I would not be stranger to finding myself at least somewhat identified by my breasts. After all, a breastfeeding mother is not much more than a giant nipple with hair and legs to her nursling for at least the first few months. And even then, the hair and legs may get nary a glance or notice.
Lest we forget the attention that full, supple, gigantic lacatating breasts command from the opposite sex. Within days of giving birth I had breasts that could be described as nothing but porn star tits. These babies were hot. Smoking, I tell you. High, round, firm, perky, give just the right amount of bounce when you screw kinda tits. Not that I felt much like screwing four days postpartum, but if I did, I would have looked hot. Anyhow, I digress....
Here I am, the first time in four and a half years that I haven't been pregnant, nursing, or a combination thereof, and my breasts are mine, all mine. What the heck do I do with them? It isn't nearly as fascinating or as fulfilling to re-own my breasts again as I had imagined that it would be when I was up for the seventh time in as many hours nursing a little back to sleep. I mean, c'mon, a twiddle here, a teasing caress there, maybe a stray tweak or a tickle and that pretty much concludes the repossession of the girls. And of course, being a mother, I multi-tasked and finished it in about 42 seconds.
Last night I went shopping with my mom and sister. Victoria Secrets was having one of their seemingly five or six 'semi-annual' sales where bras and panties were the booty to be had by everyone who was anyone who wanted to get some booty that night. Women of all shapes, sizes, and ages were digging and rumaging through the shiny black bins covering VS-fuschia covered tables in search of the perfect bra. You know the one...it lifts and seperates, divides and conquers, shelves and displays. Me, I'm just tickled pink, VS-pink of course, to just be looking for bras without flaps.
Elbow to elbow, hip to hip, ladies aboundm and suddenly, the music stops, the lights focus, and scantily clad posters of Tyra Banks and her gang begin rejoicing with an angelic hymn.....I had found the bra. Not just any bra...The Bra. It was beautiful. It was a black lace over satin demi cup bra, with the lace continuing about an inch further than the satin, designed to gorgeously highlight the pale fullness of my breasts. Eagerly, I snatched the bra and matching lacey black panties and scurried to the dressing room to worship what I knew would be nothing other than pure perfection. After all, if I'm paying $40 for a bra and panty set it better be perfection.
I barely had the door closed and secured before I was pulling my shirt off over my head and inching my jeans down over my hips(with my panties still on of course...because that would just be nasty otherwise). On goes the lacey black panties....excellent. I unhook my unworthy, ordinary, Wal-Mart bra, and lovingly fasten The Bra around my middle, and twist it around. The satin covered lace enticingly cupped my breasts as I slid the straps over my shoulders. And....my cup runneth over. Well, crap. I had a 38DD wrapped around my torso and still to small. After all the years of nursing I was told that I would definately experience some shrinkage after I was finished. This. Was. Not. The. Case. I was so mad. Try as I may, I just could not tuck enough breast tissue inside the cups of that bra to make it fit. So off with The Bra, and on with my Wal-Mart lavendar, kinda cute, but so not a do-me bra. *sigh*
This whole reclaming of my breasts is just not going how I imagined it would. I wanted the ridulously high receipt to verify the proper enhancing and display of my decollette. I wanted the little tag at the back, that no one sees but me, to read Victoria Secret, or Fredricks of Hollywood when I'm feeling a little on the slutty side. I wanted The Bra and The Panties. I wanted the macthing set, damnit! I did get the panties though. ;)
Note to Self: Having one's cup runneth over is generally a good thing, unless it precludes you from buying a kick-ass bra.