![]() But as my breasts developed, through my teenage years, into D, E, F, and-in the last couple of years-G to H territory, they’ve become too big for dainty bras ones with barely-there lace and spaghetti-thin straps, or scalloped balconettes and delicate bows. Like most preteen girls, I was desperate for big boobs. Because a black lace bra is not the sort your mother buys you. Alas, my first bra-a white, sensible under-thing that landed flatly against my flatter chest-didn’t live up to my expectations. I had dreams of pretty black lace, something sheer and sultry. When I asked my mother-from whom I’ve inherited my now 32G chest-to take me shopping for my first bra, her response was ambivalent she’d be happy to buy me a bra, but did I need one just yet? Well, I wanted a bra and breasts sumptuous enough to fill it, so mum took me to John Lewis, a British department store, to get fitted. For me, and many other women “blessed” with big breasts, bra shopping is a stressful, even shameful, experience wrought with self-delusion, loathing, and disenchantment. ![]() I’m in big boob heaven.īut I’m not used to glamorous bra shopping experiences. It’s a candy shop of bras, and I’m the fat kid. Peach, crimson, black, cream, dark blue, magenta full cups, demi cups, balconettes with wires and without. Through an open door, I glimpse a stockroom filled with gleaming racks of bras in every size, style, and color imaginable. They aren’t the breakable, thigh-gapped girls you see on Victoria’s Secret posters they’re plus-sized models with voluptuous bodies, their breasts bigger than DDs. ![]() Purple-draped changing rooms loop around a plump, cream chaise longue, and on the walls hang sepia-toned photos of exceptionally sexy-and well-endowed-women. I’M STANDING in the fitting area of Linda’s, an extravagant lingerie store in Murray Hill, New York. This article originally appeared on The Weeklings.
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