What should I do with my new boobs? I admit, at first, I was not pleased with the prospect of big boobs. I have always said that if I was offered free top surgery with no psych strings attached, I’d do it. All of my favorite boy clothes would fit twenty times better if I had no boobs. And I am a stomach sleeper. Huge, painful knockers meant I couldn’t sleep on my belly even before it was the size of an autumnal gourd. But now that I am rocking elastic pants, I find myself admitting that the grass is always greener on the other side, and that I should take advantage of this. There are people who would kill for these knockers, so maybe I better try to enjoy them, functionally and fashionably. I could push these boy boobs into some seriously awesome drag.
I love the idea of bikini tops – something glittery or with a busy print. Perhaps a pattern that would be innocent if my melons weren’t so immense – multi-colored hearts with ruffles and kittens. But where would I wear such a thing? I’d be very willing to take beach vacation just to justify the slathering of my belly with creamy sunscreen. It would be nice to float in an infinity pool instead of sinking – as I bet these puppies are buoyant – but then I’d also have to face the fact that those pretty drinks that come with umbrellas are alcoholic and off limits. And I am now discovering what drag queens and badass fat girls have always known – they don’t always make sexy clothes in the sizes of the folks that could actually rock them. Most bikini tops are really quite padded and I bet that a size “large” is a C cup.
My double DDs and nerdy liberal arts degrees have already swaggered in some sweater vests. All of the un-lacy black hand-me-down clothes from friends and family been life-savers with my everyday styles and perversions. I can turn any ill-fitting button down shirt into dork chic by putting a little bit of argyle over it and letting the collar stick out. But I think I could pull of some sequins right now. I wonder if I can find some hot, cheaper-than-maternity fat chick holiday gown. Surely, there must be a hubba hubba low-cut cleavage shirt that I could wear around the house with some lipstick. I don’t think I am ready to wear it out of the house yet, but indoors, it could go nicely with my elastic pants and some of Partner’s special party mascara.
It’s likely that I will poke myself in the eye with the make-up applicator or drop the applicator down between the chi chis and lose it forever. I guess, if it’s a good enough place to lose cookies crumbs and drips of melting ice cream, it’s good enough for feminine frills as well. In fact, better than dressing up the DDs might be putting things between them. I could hold pencils there instead of the always likely-to-fall ear. I could tuck recipes in there. I could be the recipe holder for Martha Stewart. I could actually be the sultry leading lady of an adventure movie and tuck something inside that pillowy cavern to pull out at the key moment to save my romantic interest’s little subplot. “Oh, you think you lost the treasure map? Nope! It’s right here in my bra, and my boobs are so big that I could hide it there without you noticing a raised and wrinkled patch under a flat shirt! X marks the spot, baby!”
And not only will I tuck practical emergency cash into my supportive underwire, but I will also take everything off and put some dirty stuff in between, too. I could now envelope entire hands or a face. Motor boating me would no longer be just like a squeaky pair of floaty wings. I’ve got two yachts over here! And don’t think that I’m above enjoying the thrill that the knockers are big enough to provide a penis with all-around, almost-to-the tip slip and slide privileges. Who cares if it’s a markedly girlie technique, my usual response to a penis is still in tact. “Yay, it likes me! Look how pleased I’ve made it with my skills.”
Until I find some clearance wrack rack-revealers (perhaps a summery sundress to do the laundry in, plenty of leaning over with that chore), I’ll settle for can-can dancing in the mirror and tempting Partner to believe that I enjoy being groped and admired in typically scoffed at ways. I should really be taking advantage of this enormous drag opportunity. I should get some wigs and false eyelashes. High heals might end badly. I’ll just stick with lip gloss and Googling the upward order of bra sizes. They both make me a little dizzy, and the ladies are still growing. As long as I don’t drown between them, I’ll dress them up in style and shake them for the neighbors who can see in the windows.