It's not easy to shock Kateri but I managed it this morning. We were talking about our bodies, as Teh Laideez are wont to do, and I mentioned that I'd gotten some new and rather insubstantial bras.
"I actually like my pancake tits!" I exclaimed.
There was a sound on the phone like a small dog being stepped on.
"I said, I really like my pancake tits!"
That same yelp. Silence.
"Weren't you the one telling the whole internet about your gigantic Enell bra just a few months ago?" she asked dubiously.
I was, yes. A year ago I had just weaned Daphne and wore a 32F (you read that right. F as in Fuck me, them's some big ol' titties!). Anything cut lower than a turtleneck looked delectably wanton; my cleavage was porntacular. Jackets wouldn't button at the chest.
It was pretty awesome.
Well, it turns out you can't do this to the rest of your body without having to cash in some of that wonderful endowment.
I enjoyed the return to bra sizes found at Target for under fifteen bucks; the ability to look halfway decent in a bra whose engineering did not rival that of the Verrazano Bridge. It simplified matters quite a bit.
Then one day I realized that there was enough room in my foam bra cup to stash a clementine in one side and a phone in the other, and it was time to buy new bras. First I worked with the usual foam-lined coconut-half-lookin' things you can find at any Target, but...something wasn't working for me.
See, the thing about these slack, flattish breasts that I'm rocking is that I think they're great. I know the giant mountains of tittage were pretty socially acceptable in the hotness department (even my gay uncle copped a feel on one memorable visit home) -- abundant, fecund, evolutionarily sound as a measure of attractiveness, and BOY could they fill out a shirt -- but these new ones? They're understated, spare -- and raw, I guess, in their unaltered form. They're unexpected. They're not what you'd see in a magazine.
They go with my face, too: lean. Matured. They don't look like undeveloped breasts; they look like breasts that have done some serious work. (And they have -- I fed children with them for a total of four and a half years!)
The real is beautiful. The evidence of living is sexy. Sometimes the foam cup makes a better line under clothing, but I think that hint of movable flesh, of a responsive body, is breathtakingly hot. I like my pancake tits. And I aim to revel in their hotness.
Besides, the bras are amazing.