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Big Boobs Aren’t All That Great

Breasts and the problems they cause

By Caroline EganPublished 2 years ago 7 min read
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Big Boobs Aren’t All That Great
Photo by Dainis Graveris on Unsplash

Sure, boobs are great. But did you ever think about all the problems that they cause?

Funbags, breasts, bewbs, boobs, bangers, tits, titties, jabs… the list of names for these meat sacks are endless. They’re fun and functional at the same time. But have you ever thought about the serious side of having breasts?

Well, I have; in more ways than one.

A few years ago, I found a massive lump in my tit when I was in the shower shaving. It was beyond me how it had gone unrecognised considering its size, so the shock I experienced was super intense. The thought that I may possibly lose one, let alone have to undergo any kind of treatment for the dreaded ‘c’ immediately scared the shit out of me. Up to this point that I thought of my funbags as nothing more than a hindrance.

Now I was faced with the fact that they might not always be there.

I have always had a weird and possibly troubled relationship with my tits. They started growing when I was about 8, very suddenly and very painfully, until by the time I was 9 that I actually could wear a bra. By the time I was 11, I was a C cup but tried ridiculously hard to hide my new shape. In an all-girl school, people frequently pointed out when I was wearing a bra or had tits, and on more than one occasion, girls pulled my top up against my will to check them out. To poke and prod and examine what they had yet to develop as if they were everybody else’s property more than even my own.

You’d think having large tits developed at an early age would be in some way beneficial. That, if nothing else, they would get you noticed. It did, but when mixed with horrible hormonal teenage boys whose ultimate goal was seeing/touching them, this was not the attention I would have liked. Even when I was young, I was already distinctly pegged sexually… simply because I had large boobs.

They were my only attribute, and when you hear back that some guy (a gross guy with a right to an opinion on my appearance) has said ‘nice tits, shame about the face,’ you can’t help but nearly wish you could remove them with a belt sander.

So I suppose it took a semi-serious situation to think about how my tits were important to me. Part of my femininity. Part of me. Possibly being taken away. And despite all the crap that goes with them and the fact that I knew that I was only a wobbling mass of cleavage to some people, the thought of having them removed or cut terrified me. Would I still be me without them? Would I still be a girl if it came to it? What the fuck else would anybody ever like about me?

I am sure that most people have some kind of preference for the aesthetic of boobs. I mean, we all have preferences. Now I like tits as much as the next person, but I’ve yet to come across any that I thought were ugly.

That’s why I find somebody saying ‘nice tits’ as if it’s a seriously high-quality compliment ridiculously stupid. Even assuming that this is based purely on the size, you might as well tell me I have eyes. Yes, I have tits. Yes, they are big (I think they are an F cup now because I lost weight). Yes, the bounce. That’s what big tits do. It’s really not a compliment. It simply shows that you think nothing more of me.

Considering that this has always come up and has made me feel like it is my only redeeming feature, I advise people to seriously think about whether it is a compliment at all.

All girls know their tits.

Most tits are nice.

This is a fact.

Your endorsement of them means nothing. In fact, it means you see nothing else.

It took me a while to realise that my tits appeared to be public property. They were a constant topic of conversations people had in front of me, both male and female. You could see people staring at them, should I decide to show them off a bit (something that I rarely do now because it makes me uncomfortable), nudge their friends to look, and then expect me to just be OK with it. I’ve been (along with probably most other girls) groped and poked because people believe they are entitled to them. Entitled to comment on them. Entitled to touch them. A guy that pursued me for a while told me that he apparently knew I was looking to hook up when he first met me (at 11 am, no less) because I had a low-cut top on (it wasn’t even low cut). Yes, obviously, I go on the pull at 11 in the morning, and a low-cut top is a guarantee of that. Seriously.

How I dress is no indication of anything like that. Just because you think ‘sex’ when I have my boobs out, don’t project your horniness onto me. In saying that, I cannot wear certain things, no matter how much I like them, because of how strangers treat me. It’s a shame. If I want to have my boobs out a bit, I should be able to.

In fairness, I don’t hate them. I hate the way they are treated. I hate the way everyone seems to feel to have a right to have an opinion on them. Realistically they are big sacks of fat. They seem more trouble than they are worth, but they have helped shape me into a bit of a badass.

I have attracted plenty of people who are overtly interested in tits. In my experience, the majority of these people are assholes.

It took a while to get through this, but I was so upset with my breasts that I started saving to get a breast reduction by my early twenties. It was only when I realised that they remove the nipple and move it, reducing if not permanently destroying sensitivity, that I decided against it. This may have changed since then, but I haven’t at getting the procedure done since.

I was terrified if the lump was the worst-case scenario that I wouldn’t be me anymore. That I wouldn’t be able to cuddle my child in a super comforting way, rest my arms between them to get warm, or try on a corset. That my shape would be all wrong. That I wouldn’t be able to keep as much money in my bra anymore or let anyone see me naked ever again. That I’d be less symmetrical than ever and that I wouldn’t be a woman.

I have never been so happy to hear the words ‘It’s just a big cyst.’

See, the problem with my tits was never my tits. It was the way people reacted to them. The way people think that your appearance, particularly when it makes them think of sex, is the easiest and/or only way to define you. I am more than my tits. I don’t sit around discussing penises, walk up to people and grab their crotches (well, this one time….), or judge a guy on the merit of his penis.

I might think about them, but I think people are more than their bits. We are all more than that.

If you like what you read you can support my writing and become a reader by clicking here, or you can buy my book Fahckmylife 2: The Devil’s Doorbell here. OR if you’re feeling very fancy you can buy me a coffee here.

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About the Creator

Caroline Egan

Hailing from Dublin, Ireland, Caroline has a variety of published fiction and non-fiction, written in a wry style on all things nerdy and neurotic. Her collection of essays Fahckmylife: The Little Book of Fahck, is available on Amazon.

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