Boobs To The Left Of Me, Boobs To The Right

by Sally Landau

When I was growing up, I was surrounded by boobs. Maybe not more than other kids. It’s just that I was noticing.  I was obsessed….because I didn’t have any.

My mom’s were small, her mom’s too. I didn’t notice my sister’s, because mine interested me more. But Grandma Tillie, ohhh, wow, hers were big. And since she wore her dresses tightly belted and had a flat ass, her boobs looked even bigger.

And then there was my Aunt Bertha.  How can I describe her? You can picture Frieda Kahlo’s uni-brow? 

Well, Aunt Bertha had a uni-boob.

I barely remember her matronly Russian face, because it was her bodice that captured not just my attention, but my imagination.  Her boobs, really ONE boob, encased in a bra….maybe a corset….I’m not sure….began under her armpits, rounding out to form a gigantic pillow.  Cleavage began somewhere ….maybe six inches out from her  breastbone. A dent perhaps indicating there might be two breasts ...unmoving and dynamic at the same time.  

Fascinating, yes, but I didn’t want THAT much boob.

My mom gave me a discarded pair of foam falsies. Slightly dilapidated from her stuffing and withdrawing them from her bras so often. Still, fascinating and a welcome addition to my arsenal.

I wore those falsies close to my flat chest. I pushed them inside my cotton wife beater undershirt and stretched and tied the bottom so they wouldn’t escape.  Surely they sat cattywhompus, but I didn’t care. These accompanied me around the house, stuffed into many outfits, and I realized this was a guilty pleasure only to be enjoyed in the shelter of my home.

My dad was very cool about it…like he knew some day I’d have breasts, and this was somehow a compliment to my mom and a nod to my femininity.  Mom remained my silent co-conspirator, but my sister, Susan, five years my senior, pounced with pompous pride and derision about my wardrobe choice.

She asked if this foam rubber didn’t make my skin sweat?  A little, I admitted. And then her full pronged attack: she described the weight loss sweat boxes women would suffer inside (this was the early 1950s!), only heads exposed, while attendees at a spa would stand nearby patting their perspiring brows and offering beverages with a straw. 

I’m guessing these torture methods were as effective then to help people lose weight as today’s vibrating treadmills that promise smaller waistlines without effort.  

Yet, the idea that sweating could make me lose weight scared the falsies right out of my undershirt. I wondered: had the damage already been done?  As I mentioned, my mom had small breasts. Maybe that was because she wore them!

Breaking myself of the falsie-stuffing habit made me sad and cautious, and 

I didn’t tell anyone.

A girl joined our class in fourth grade. She already had bumps under her sweater, and I was certain they were real, because she also had the beginning of acne on her cheeks. She was so cool.

As I approached eighth grade, sympathetic to what I might be feeling about the other girls in my class wearing bras, my mom introduced the subject. She gave me a couple bras. Double A cup. “Beginner bras.” I remember them. White. Cotton. With a triangle of pretty lace at the top. Mine.  MAYbe hand-me-downs, but now…..MINE!

I rushed upstairs and privately tried one on. The back felt perfect. The cups wrinkled and sagged for lack of cargo, but still, I felt grown up.  I modeled it  for Mom who was chatting on the phone with a girlfriend. She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and suggested I might want to put a little Kleenex inside to fill out the cups.

No problem.  I hightailed it to a tissue box and pulled out one and tore it into pieces, stuffing each fragment into one cup. Those pieces were not getting the job done, so I added more until the cup…..wait for it….runneth over.

Racing back to Mom who was still on the phone, beaming with pleasure, posture erect, I displayed my craftsmanship.  I noticed a subtle frown cross her brow, and she asked permission to rearrange the lumpy Kleenex. As she wiggled her fingers inside and withdrew the tissue, a tiny piece emerged. Then another and another, and it quickly became clear, I had Kleenex confetti in my bra.

I bless her today, as I blessed her that day.  It cracked her up….the ridiculousness of it…..but she held her grace, stifled a grin and didn’t let her girlfriend know or embarrass me.

Later we designed two folded squares of tissue for each empty/deflated cup and safety pinned them in place. This got me through the first two years of high school….all the while gaping at some girlfriends’ cleavage and round, proud breasts and also feeling just a little sisterhood with another girl named LouAnn who wore a big padded bra. Her secret was safe with me, and who knows? I may have been the only witness to her flat chest as she bent over to put on athletic shoes before gym class and her stiff cups, pressed together, popped forward, revealing her flatness hidden inside.

Sophomores in my high school got to put on a children’s play. Not only was this a privilege, but unlike all the other plays other grades produced, THIS one had two matinees for the local elementary schools plus the evening event. Three performances! A big deal opportunity.

Simple Simon was our play, and I auditioned thinking I might be considered for the Queen role, but no.  Because I wore a pixie haircut, still had a flat chest  (despite the attempts at my Kleenex ruse) and probably because not enough boys tried out, I got the lead. I got to be Simple Simon! Because of my flat chest!

At 15 years old and still suffering a boy’s profile, I decided my sister may have been right. Those falsies sweated away my future boobs.

I stopped paying attention. Stopped obsessing. Sought some surrender.

Very busy, very busy with my life and my active mind, I found other things to occupy me.  I bathed and dressed quickly and unconsciously…..in hopes of getting to my next activity with speed. Until one day.

While dressing in front of my dresser, the “mirror mirror on the wall,” who’s the bustiest of all? blasted a surprise reflection.  No boobs, but my areolas had spread. They were huge. WTF? This had not been anticipated.  I thought the round breasts would explode.  Not the areolas.

Eeeyoooo.  I was modest before. Now no one is ever gonna see me naked!

Mortified and confused, I did what I could to forget about it, and seemingly the next moment, the bumps began to blossom.  I was developing….boobs!  Not Grandma Tillie’s, definitely not Aunt Bertha’s….but boobs enough to fill a 34 C and bra backs that had three hooks….evidence to the boys who might be evaluating me that these were real and apparent. Everyone knew that the amount of hooks connoted the cup size:  one hook, A-cup; two hooks, B-cup and and three hooks…..C CUP!

My opportunity for revenge teasing began. I told both my mom and my sister how challenging it was to fall asleep on my tummy. “Oh, where to arrange my breasts so I can get some rest?”

You might have thought once my breasts sprouted, I would find opportunities and specific wardrobe choices to display them for any gaping pair of eyes. But no.  

Without labeling it, I think I discovered my inner introvert. I wore modest clothes that did not feature my feminine form.  Oh, I knew I had great big breasts, but it was more like wearing an expensive lacey matching bra and panties. No one else knew, but I felt sexy.  

Protecting myself from sex until…well, let’s just say later, much later, than my friends indulged and my fear that if I let a boy, or later, a young man, get too hot by letting him go too far, I’d be powerless to control him and preserve my virginity at the same time. I became deft in avoidance: friendly - no, jovial - warm, sometimes funny and quick to react to wandering hands, I managed to not get to third base very often. SOMEhow I got through college, sidestepping the norm and remained, uh, intact. 

Then, post college, feeling that sixties sorta thang and a measure of physical freedom of the times plus living in my own apartment gave me a invitation to experiment. I began trusting myself and the occasional guy. My mom’s warnings fading into my history.

Now, there are leg men, ass men, face men and breast men.  I wasn’t keeping score in my twenties until one Sunday afternoon.  Months had transpired where Mike, a co-worker, and I flirted shamelessly at work. A fever mounting between us.

This particular day, our company had an afternoon weekend event. I wore a modest dress, pantyhose and heels. Afterwards I invited him back to my apartment for dinner. Was it before or after the meal? Not sure. But I do remember where we were standing as I unzipped my dress and let it drop to the floor. Then I removed my bra….freeing my boobs to do their subtle bounce dance, and Mike, Mike, God bless him, fell to his knees, face blushing, and gushed, “Oh my GOD; I had no idea.  I’m not worthy.”