By Ginger Millay, PQ Monthly
Pride: A feeling of self-satisfaction, a mortal sin, a grouping of lions, an exuberant acceptance and celebration of one’s identity. The final definition is a focal point for many this month, as June 1 heralded the opening of Gay Pride.
Strap in kids, we’re going to discuss a different kind of pride. Join me for a little trip through the nipple-studded history of yours truly. Today’s particular tale is very personal to me: My own pilgrimage to discovering the joy of having the itty bitty titties that stand proudly before me.
I was in awe of boobs as early as I can remember—a pint-sized perv. I used to steal my father’s Playboy magazines, stick them in my pants, and climb a tree. I carefully flipped the pages, infatuated with the buxom beauties before me. I was thrilled for the day I would finally sprout my own boobies, and so perfectly fill out a bikini. But I had to be patient. Someday my tits would come.
Fifth grade. I, and every boy in class, had a crush on Meg, the first girl to have anything to put in her training bra. I was envious, but mostly enamored, reveling in any interaction with my grade-school Aphrodite. Over the next year, more girls began to boast their own adolescent sets, but I was sadly left behind. Why, God, why?!
I deduced that between my completely flat chest, my interest in girls, and the strange hair I was sprouting downstairs, I must be a hermaphrodite. It seemed logical that I must have a penis too, maybe on the inside. I avoided touching myself for fear of getting myself pregnant. When I told my pediatrician of my discovery, he let me know in no uncertain terms that I was absolutely female-bodied, that pubic hair was normal, and that some girls just grow breasts later than others. Well fuck.
That year, I placed two cotton squares in each cup of my tiny bra, so I’d have at least a hint of shape. By eighth grade, still flat as a board, it was time to upgrade to a padded bra. By high school, I cowered in a water bra. My booblets, my dirty little secret. I’d already found my pride in my Sapphic inclinations, but anyone knowing I was flat? Quelle horreur! I was living in Florida and avoiding bathing suits like the plague, wearing bras at slumber parties, and careful to never ever hook up with anyone I went to school with, so word of my deficiency wouldn’t get out. I lived in utter shame, with the hips of a teen and the chest of a child.
My youngest sister, who I had teasingly called “Booblets” when she was first beginning to blossom, had now turned it around on me. I became “Booblets,” and she, with her enviable C+ cup, was “Tits McGee.” Oh, the cruelty of genes!
At eighteen, I lost a lot of weight and became filled with an overwhelming feminist fury. I stopped wearing a bra all together, got my nipples pierced, and wore shirts that showed off my fuck-you to the expectations forced on women. My mother bugged me about looking too disproportionate, and perhaps she was right, but being unhealthily thin due to a bout of depression, it was the first time I ever felt anything close to proportionate.
Moving to the Pacific Northwest kept me comfortable in my braless-ness, and I had almost accepted my fate until I dated a stupid boy who made me feel incredibly self-conscious about what I lacked. Budding confidence crushed by a dumb, defective dong. Women are often so much more accepting of each other’s bodies, because we know what we have to work with. The images in the Playboy magazines that had enraptured me in my youth, but I’d learned were not a reality, are still the expectation of many men. Needless to say, the bras and the shame returned in force. When the next person I was intimate with complimented my breasts, I flew into a rage and accused them of being condescending. The Wrath of Booblets.
When I relocated to New York City and immediately found my way into the fetish community, I began to feel good about my body again. I had never felt as sexy and appreciated as I did sauntering around a party in latex or a bustier. With my new-found swagger, I acquired a slave who loved to lavish me with gifts and, after hearing a stoned recitation of my boob biography, he offered to buy me a pair. Eureka! I’d never really considered this option…I could have the rack I always dreamed of, albeit a bit less fleshy.
Then Burning Man happened, and the world unhooked its bra. The yoke of society was undone, and any type of body was free and appreciated and beautiful. I joyfully ran around, rode my bike, danced and jumped on trampolines topless. My tiny titties were unleashed on the world, and it was glorious! Their shape and size allowed me to run and bounce and play without their needing to strapped down. These breasts I’d always loathed afforded me a special kind of freedom! Now every time I go to a festival or party or anywhere where I can run around in my underwear, I’m all over it.
I’m the proud owner of a perky pair of booblets. I am reclaiming this term that haunted me for so many years. My gals will never sag, I’ll never experience the back pain associated with large breasts, and I have damn cute nipples. I will happily be the president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, seventh grade boys be damned. Booblet pride!