Never a mother, and therefore never needing them for their primary evolutionary purpose of feeding young, my breasts are primarily for show. They are two great, big teeming D-cups of conventional femininity. They are unsubtle, my boobs. You’d never accuse them of being shrinking violets, of hiding their lights under a bushel, of pretending toward false modesty.
My rack is out, loud, proud, and fake.
I am for myself a fan of the big breasts. However, that preference is merely for my own; I find other women’s breasts beautiful in all sizes and shapes. I have found myself equally attracted to women who burgeoned with double-scooped sundaes of breasts and to whose who were flat as a grey-glass sea. I am an equal-opportunity bisexual when it comes to other women’s breasts. But for myself, I’ve always liked myself best as a big-breasted chick.
Always. Even when I was somewhere in between an A and a B cup, the size that my genetics gave me. My breasts grew suddenly, one night when I was twelve. It felt as if one day I had those telltale puffy areolas of nascent pubescence and the next morning I had a gently cupped palm full of breast. Which would have been fine, except that in addition to growing my fresh spanky shiny boobs, I had also grown blighted bright red stretch marks that emanated out from my mallowmar areolas like ugly stringy weedy flowers.
That night when I was twelve and finally grew my boobs, when I woke that morning to find them, like stingy treats from a cranky titfairy, I felt severely cheated. From having grown up with fresh-air loving, naked-in-the-rain-dancing hippie parents and grown up around my mother’s brothers and their 60s and 70s-era Playboy and Penthouse magazines, I knew full fucking well what boobs were supposed to look like, and I knew these striped things on my chest weren’t it.
Moreover, I had, from the time I was very young, known that great big American breasts were my birthright. When I played grown up with my little friends, and we all shoved socks into our tanktops or bathing suits, I always stuck three or four pairs against each flat brown nipple, stretching my top out to tent-strained excess, and then I would stand back and admire my body. Growing up, I thought Raquel Welch, Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield owned the body that I myself would grow to inhabit.
My own breasts, the ones my DNA gave me, were a mystifying disappointment.
When I was thirty, I was stripping, and I finally had the money and the reason and the support to buy myself the birthright that my genetics had denied me. Like the practice of the eighteenth-century gentry who bought titles of nobility, I could purchase that thing, or those things, that stood between me and my idea of myself. I could, and I did.
I went to Maitland, Florida and I got a pair of 430cc saline implants. (I’ve documented the experience here, and you can read it if you like.) It took me about two weeks to find out that I was head over heels in love with my new big-ass fake tits. I loved them when they were still high and shiny and vaguely pointed as missiles, as John Paul Gauthier bras, as ConeHeads. And when they dropped and fell into their relaxed and natural position, I only loved them more.
My body has been an embattled site for as long as I remember. I always felt inadequate in one way and superfluous in another. I always doubted that I was pretty. I never felt thin enough. And it all feels like a tedious kind of emo melodrama, what with all of the attention that the media is giving female body image at the moment, to rehash those long sieges against my thighs, those prolonged blockades of food, that decades-long war I have had had with the woman in the mirror. Suffice to say, my body: embattled.
However, once I got my breasts, my body anxiety lessened. I never, for one thing, felt badly about my boobs. And I certainly never hated my body as much as I had when it just…felt…not…quite…right. My big augmented breasts gave me some small piece of mind.
Some people have found it paradoxical, if not downright hypocritical, that I am an implanted feminist. But I am. I wish I could just say “My body and my choice,” but the issue is much more tangled and complex than that pat retort, though even I myself find difficulty in explaining my choice without finding holes in my own argument, trained rhetorician that I am.
But let me put it this way: while I enjoy the patriarchal perks of the large breasted—I have never gotten a traffic ticket, for example, in my D-cup state; I never wait in line at appliance stores; I get help with my computer faster than most people, even in the very alt-snotty part of Gotham where I live—I didn’t get my breasts because I wanted to please men. And even though I got them while I was stripping, and even though I knew the augmentation was a wise business move, and it was, I also knew that I’d have to live with the big boobs long after I quit stripping, so I didn’t get them just to put money in my garter.
Without intending to forge an analogy too hyperbolic, I got them for the gut-inarticulate reason that transgender people choose to endure what they endure in order to change themselves: because I felt I was in the wrong body. Inside my B- cup body was a big-titted woman waiting to come out. I simply—and inexplicably—feel more genuinely me with a 38” chest.
I recognize that in this piece of writing I’m sidestepping many cultural landmines of power, femininity, sexuality, and politics, but this piece can’t possibly do justice to that whole fecund jungle so ripe for analysis. Yet I have been motivated to write because it feels as if boob jobs have been beleaguered of late. Between the British study averring Brit men’s dislike of fake breasts and Tara Reid’s public disowning of her plastic surgery choices, boob jobs have been taking it on their metaphoric chins.
I want, therefore, to stand up and declare proudly, I love my big artificial tits.
They’re fake and they are spectacular.
And, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, they make me feel like a natural(ized) woman.