Breasts, boobs, fun pillows, tits. I’ve barely scratched the surface of names given to the flesh that graces chests and causes so much joy and/or angst, depending on the relationship a person has with their body. But this is a post about the love of breasts. Or more, my rocky relationship with them.
My appreciation of my itty-bitty-titties only flourishing in the last few years. I started to like them when I realised that Sir liked them. This positive stance improved when we discovered that the nipple pain he would treat me to was more delicious than anything I’d experienced through my breasts previously. I also enjoyed that others (consenting adults) found it challenging to see this pain exchange between us. This caused me to feel proud of them for the first tie in my (then) thirty two years.
Over the years that have passed my love of breasts has grown.
I appreciate them more often than not. The biggest turning point for me was a task from Sir. One that was initially self-set, before being adopted by him, and it is still brought into play sometimes. Recreating a topless picture with willing friends for Sir helped me to see that if I thought everyone’s breasts were beautiful then mine could be no exception.
Then I moved on to buying bras.
Actual grown up, matching sets of womanly lingerie. No more of the shame around not being big enough to buy them. There are actually shops that sell size 38AAA in anything other than flimsy white cotton. Whoop whoop! I was definitely levelling up in my femininity around this time. Reclaiming a part of myself which had been lost along the way somewhere.
And so it continued. Tasks, the Scavenger Hunt, sharing pictures on here which showed my external change the accompanying words documenting the important internal shift.
Feeling bright and shiny in my own skin, I stumbled across a tweet.
A woman who also sported smaller cups had discovered a bra that gave her the most phenomenal cleavage. Stunning, I thought, before DMing her for details. A few days later the postman delivered my new underwear.
I tried it on, got comfortable, took a picture and tweeted it. My breasts transformed into mountainous swellings, the valley between lay deep in shadows.
I may be an exhibitionist but I’m not a fan of attention, go figure! And I was completely unprepared for the influx of praise and validation that my seemingly vast boobs brought in. But, of course, they weren’t my boobs.
My love of breasts was about to be challenged.
The next day I felt low. The day after I was really wobbly. The next I started to loathe my body. The mean voice that has so often rattled around inside my head was having a field day.
- “See, your boobs are rubbish. They only get likes when they look like normal sized breasts.”
- “Your inferior chest make you less of a woman.”
- “Ha, stupid woman. You thought your breasts were worth being loved?”
- “Your tiny tits are so ugly you need special apparatus to make them desirable”
Each time I’d put on this bra the voice would quieten down.
Then when I went without the chatter would pipe up again. And so it went on until I noticed a correlation between the volume of self torture and my wardrobe. It was so bizarre. I don’t need positive external feedback to like myself, and ignore negative comments from strangers. But this cheering about my seemingly voluptuous chest caught me off guard.
And so this bra has lain at the back of my underwear drawer since. Until we had a shift around of furniture in the house. Rediscovering the bra after two years I wondered if I should put it back on, try it once more. Having lost more weight my breasts have shrunk further, but I’m happier in my skin. The energy that I have at my healthy (for me) size is exciting, and my body can do all sorts of amazing things. Add to that the fact my internal chatter is more easily challenged and set straight. So I popped it on.
And then I went for a walk.
I had some pussy pump pictures to take, and wondered if I could also snap some of my own rolling vista against a beautiful backdrop of fields and forests.
I’ve sat with this image for a while… Longer than intended, I meant to share this for Kink Of The Week! And in that time I’ve weighed up what it means to me. I finally understand what caused the distress previously. I am, after all, a woman who works incredibly hard to show up authentically in every area of my world. When I put this bra on I’m not doing that, I am faking bigger boobs. And so, when I am praised for something that is make believe I feel like a fraud.
Worse, people liked me more for showing up as something I’m not.
I did enjoy, and am grateful for, the attention the tweet brought, but it wasn’t me in the tweet, more an adapted version. And so when I returned to normal, I crashed and burned, just as my breasts had when I removed the bra. Self confidence crumbling in an instant.
Fortunately, Sir and FWBs (friends with breasts) have been on hand to help me set aside the self doubt. Loving the skin I’m in, whatever my size or shape, is coming easier again.
After all, EVERY body is beautiful.
And that includes YOU!
Have you had any experiences where you’ve attempted to bolster your self confidence and it’s had the opposite effect? I’d love to hear them in the comments below if you do.
For The Love Of Breasts explores some of the discomfort I feel around showing up inauthentically. You might enjoy this post, celebrating my authentic self? I am… Sinfully Me.
From the story of how the barefoot sub became the woman she is today, to toy reviews, with a hefty dose of contemplation, a sprinkling of erotica and a LOT of nudity in between, you can be sure to find something to tickle your fancy at A Leap Of Faith.