This is a question for the girls. Do you ever feel strangely aware of your ta-tas? I am writing this to commiserate, not to er… titillate. There will be no pictures posted for public ogling. Eyes uptop sailor, that’s all I have to say to the masculine readers…

But they are a damn nuisance, aren’t they? Breasts: In constant need of support and encouragement, mucking up the works when you want to take a jog or serve coffee without an awkward close encounter. Yet for all their irritating aspects, they do make you feel sort of feminine and special.

In these ways, a good rack is similar to a man.

When I was 14, I was tiny and flat-chested. I had itty bitty buds, which I took pains not to accentuate, because that would have welcomed more derision than attraction. You know that part in ‘Bend it Like Beckham’ when the ample, indian relative is dressing up the younger girl? And she goes, “This will make those mosquito bites look like juicy, juicy mangoes!”  

I could so relate to her humiliation.

I used to put balled up socks in my bra to admire the effects in the mirror. And then, rather suddenly, my gazangas came in.


What a mixed blessing. What a pain in the rear. Gone the care-free days when I could just throw on an extra layer and be respectable in public. Certain sort of men who never looked at me before started to look: Namely, people I would dub ‘old dudes’ in my high school lexicon.

(My brother and I had a rather awkward moment at Universal Studios when an aged hottie started hitting on me aggressively in the hotel pool, that is until Bryan screamed at him, loud enough to rouse the lifeguards, “Hey, are you still hitting on my FIFTEEN YEAR OLD SISTER ?!?” I coulda killed him at the time, but now the memory makes me smile.)

Along with these changes came an abrupt end to recreational jumping jacks, and a sort of instinctive horror of jokes that featured mammograms.

One of the worst parts about generous jugs is that the value of masterful bazooms depreciates, rather like a mercedes. The minute you drive those babies off the lot, you begin a struggle with gravity that you will, ultimately, completely and totally lose. What’s the shelf- life on natural buoyancy? How long can a woman reasonably invest in v-necks without fearing spill over?  Is it absolutely inevitable that old age will see you rolling these things up, or tying them back like an old bugs- bunny-with-the-unwieldy-ears cartoon?

“Do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?”

Please, please, God, no.

I’m almost 32 now, and my billibongs are holding their own, but I’m anxious about the future. My consolation is that men have dangly bits, too, and I’m betting the flesh-flute must get kinda goofy looking as well, when old age sets in. Maybe the true meaning of love is finding someone you can flop your bits with, contentedly.

Meanwhile, though… *squeezes elbows in a bit as I type* I do sorta revel in my bumpies. I have classic cleavage: Old West cleavage… “Well hello Miss Kitty, ma’am…” cleavage. This here is a portable money-clip, and a pretty easy way to win money at a co-ed poker match. 

They’re womanly-ish, y’know? Sort of the last remnant of our primordial feminine divinity, as attested by those fertility goddess figurines that have triple breasts, or a torso covered in mammaries. Serene and mysterious, those statues betray no dangling worry about the future, but rather a strange, enchanting confidence best wrought with nipples and granite.

Anyhow, I’m off to dazzle my own Old West gun-slinger, with a little bit of decolletage. If he’s very, very good, I might even pretend I’m Miss Kitty.

Ta ta for now.

16 thoughts on “Bazooms

  1. Stop it you making me drool. And yes men do have a dangly part that end up drooping over time. But it’s not the tool, its the bag. I’d say more but that would be telling.

  2. This one is destined for all-time status. The voice is so *you*, and I love the injections of humor interspaced throughout. Still, I must insist that you re-write it, bringing to print blinkers, bijongas, chumbawumbas, flapdoodles and squachies. Ha! This is great!

    Oh… and I can personally attest to gravity’s cruel tendency to pull everything south of the Mason-Dixon Line to reside in a position roughly approximating the latitude of the southern Andes.

  3. “Maybe the true meaning of love is finding someone you can flop your bits with, contentedly.”

    Yes, I think that’s true. And I could tell you which parts of men droop as they get older, but where’s the fun in that? You should discover these things on your own. ;)

    Imagine that chest development in someone named Robin who has red hair. Imagine her horror and embarrassment at being called “Robin red breast.”

    Ugh. I suppose it could have been worse, and it doesn’t seem so bad now, but I did hate it at the time. Add to that my ability to blush for no reason and blush twice as much for good reason, and you have a confirmation of the nickname so speak. That may be why I used to wish I could be flat chested. (The fashion world seems to prefer the flat chested, too, if the way tops are made are any indication.)

    It’s taken me a long time, but I’m finally starting to appreciate my body, including my bazooms. Lots of yoga has helped. It doesn’t stop gravity. Just helps you appreciate being where you are with what you’ve got.

    Entertaining read. Wonder how this post will play out in your search engine terms?

  4. Wow, and again wow…ehem…just love it when someone writes in a manner that is this honest. For truth be known, I think we all worry more than a bit about our bits…

    And your post also brought Bob out, and for that I am grateful…


  5. I stumbled across a newspaper article recently that claimed staring at women’s breasts for 30 minutes was equivalent to a 30-minute workout at the gym, according to one medical study. If true, I’m giving up my membership at the gym!

  6. You had me rolling in the floor with these lines:

    One of the worst parts about generous jugs is that the value of masterful bazooms depreciates, rather like a mercedes. The minute you drive those babies off the lot, you begin a struggle with gravity that you will, ultimately, completely and totally lose.

    I hate to tell you what you obviously already know, but at age 71 your Dolly Partons become Aunt Beas. I was compared to Dolly at earlier ages and I’m ready for first person who mentions Aunt Bea in describing these bazooms gone south. Actually they don’t so much go south as spread all over the map. but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

    I’ll give you my secret to uplift at any age if you keep it to yourself. Never stop standing on your head. It works for me.

  7. One of your best, Miss Kitty.

    Breasts can be so annoying, I have to agree. Mine aren’t knockers, although I think they’re cute. So does my companion, and I do have to say I’m relieved we’ll grow into knockerdom (of a different sort) together.

  8. >>Along with these changes came an abrupt end to recreational jumping jacks

    This had me laughing out loud.

    Mrs. Stevo often wishes for larger nai nai. I tell her to be thankful for pertness that will stand the test of time.

  9. Rao- I’m afraid I worked it out from your few choice words.

    thanks, jo ;)

    Bob- where on earth did you get all those? I rather like chumbawumbas, but flapdoodles… oh god. lolol.

    David- Odd how romance is so often derived from the utterly un-romantic, eh?

    Robin- Rao let that cat out of the bag, naturally. Ach! Robin Redbreast… there’s always at least one child per class who won’t let an evil nickname opportunity slip away.

    Not sure how the searches will play out, but I’m going to post last week’s doozies in a moment here. Heh.

  10. 1poet4man- hey, ltns! worry a bit about our bits…

    how poetic. :)

    lea- lol! Well, you’ll have the last laugh, you will… the last *perky* laugh.

    mad- are you serious, you really read that? you’re not, right? are you? Woah. There’s gotta be some kinda equivalent for the female gender. Maybe staring at a chocolate eclair…

    anhinga- So glad to see you. :) That’s right! You’re the great head-stander. I guess if you can’t beat gravity,… as they say, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

    mercury- *laughs* so glad to entertain you

    ybonesy- well, as they say in french- “Votre grenouille a mangé mon dejeuner.”

    That’s the important thing! …actually, I’m not certain that’s what I said, but it’s probably pretty close.

    Stevo- nai nai! What an enchanting word(s) for it Add that to your list, Bob!

    Henry Miller would have liked that one.

  11. You know what’s sad? During my first Iraq Deployment you didn’t dare leave your disposable camera laying around. If you did someone was likely to take a junk shot. Now we usually sent these home. the soldiers mom or wife or a girlfriend would develop these and there would be 5 or 6 pics of manly bits. I don’t know who it was but one dude’s glad bag dangled to his knees. To this day I have no idea how he kept it in his pt shorts.

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