Why Would I Ever Wear a Bra?

My grandmother bought me my first bra when I was 14 and I hated it.

Women in my family have small breasts and big behinds. In fact, it was a standing family “joke” about our flat chests and big butts. Ha. Ha.

I hated that stupid bra and could not understand why my grandmother and mother were so insistent that I wear the awful thing. At that point, I had no breasts so there was nothing to keep the damned thing from riding up into my armpits. Every chance I had, I’d ditch it and try to sneak out without it.

My mother, may she rest in peace, wore padded bras her entire adult life because they made her “look better in clothes”. I always wondered if any men were disappointed in discovering the difference once the padded bra was off. I kept that to myself.

It was my good fortune to hit bra-wearing age around the time women were burning their bras. Yes, it was a thing. Women were burning bras and men were burning draft cards. Good times.

Once I left my parents’ home, I quit wearing a bra.

This was all fine and dandy when I was young and had cute perky breasts which I did eventually have. I’d pull on a tight tank top under whatever clingy little top I was wearing and know that I could pull it off because, as I said, perky.

And this has been my M.O. ever since even though my perky days are long past.

Women have been telling me for years that the reason I hate wearing a bra is because I never got one that fit properly. So I went down to one of the last remaining ladies’ shops on Orchard Street during my pro-domme days to get measured. A very elderly Jewish lady brought out the tape measure and called back to her hulking son in the back to bring out this bra and that bra. I wound up dropping about fifty bucks that day on two (yes, you are reading that right) padded bras. They really did make me look better in a corset.

But they still felt awful to wear. Especially in the summer. Dear God, just clip a leash to this harness and walk me down the street like a dog!

Interestingly enough, once menopause hit, my breasts began getting bigger. Not big, mind you, but bigger.

And, yes, I am more conscious of how my markedly lower-set, decidedly un-perky breasts look sans bra. Not enough to consider wearing a bra or anything drastic like that, but I do make sure I’m not wearing a top that’s clingy or reveals too much. Wouldn’t want to frighten the children.

There is a definite level of discomfort in seeing older bodies and amp that up when an older woman chooses not to hide her old-lady breasts properly in a bra. I’m not immune. I’ve had my moments of wincing at someone else’s less-than photogenic breasts hanging free but then I figure, you go sister! Hell, here I am at 62 letting mine droop all they want. About all I can promise is that I won’t wear really sheer tops that reveal the terrifying outline of my nipples.

Sorry, not sorry.

While I’m not letting them swing in the wind, I’m still not going to wear a bra. Fortunately, I’ve never been well-endowed enough to need the support so I’ll just keep using a t-shirt or a tank top in the summer under whatever else I’m wearing and not worry about it.

It’s not as if anyone’s looking anymore. ;)

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