The great bewb betrayal of 2015

One of the perks of my being a fattie with flair is that I have mega cute DD breasts. Apart from my eyes and fabulous sense of humour, my breasts are one of my best features. I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve admired their weight and shape more than once, buying dresses with swooping necklines to show off their perfect swell and pretending I didn’t notice when my dinner partner couldn’t stop looking at them. And, to be honest, the inner naughty kid in me enjoyed that my cup size matched my initials. Like, if that isn’t fate, what is?

Today, however, for the first time, I bought a bra that was smaller that the bra before it.

The thing is, when you think about losing mass, you never think that that mass might come from a body part you actually love. I’m not setting out to lose weight- the way I look is just fine with me- but I do believe in health at every size. My post on October 21 spoke about some of the things I’d quit this year, like alcohol and soft drink, which naturally meant a decrease in sugars and unhealthiness, but that was really all I was doing. My food intake didn’t change, and I certainly didn’t start *shudder* exercising. But things happen and a combination of dietary shifts, being a stingy fuck who doesn’t want to pay for lunch as much anymore and being sick recently, has meant that I’ve lost some mass this year. Unfortunately, in a case of abject betrayal, that mass has come off my boobs.

What. Even.

When I first noticed that the double handful had become a bit less than, I was honestly confused. Um, excuse me, ladies? What is this? Why have you betrayed me? My DD curves had softened and I was outraged.

Then, my bras no longer fit. I had a hot date last night, and the hour I spent going through my wardrobe, looking for a bra that turned my boobs into babes was an exercise in futility. As any breast-toting person is aware, those things are expensive. All of a sudden, my $60 splurges were wasted cash and I was flopping all over the place. Boobs, you skanks, don’t get all soft on me! I need this, ladies! What’s a fattie to do, when all of a sudden her main meat bags were turning on her??

I experimented in socks and tissues, those asset enhancing main stays of the poor less-than-Ds that I’d met before. I’d always kind of pitied the girls that needed them. My DDs were bra-stuffers enough, I didn’t need to lug around laundry, not with these puppies. But, now, the tissues were flying, and my constant battle with the sock thief reached epic proportions. I considered just rushing to the shops for a new bra before the date, but I wasn’t that crazy yet. This mass reduction may not last, after all, and buying a too-small breast bundler was just so much wasted cash, you know?

I went to the date in an old bra, and just resigned myself to a sad night of deflated lady lumps. The dress looked great, anyway, even if it was loose in the top. And, I mean, I didn’t even know if I wanted my gals to shine for this date yet. How much did I want to impress her?

But, the horror, the date went well! I liked her! It was a disaster! My girls had let me down, right in front a hot girl that I actually wanted to like me.

I could not be more disappointed in my boobs. I wished I could give them a time out, but standing in the corner for an hour just to punish the lifeless flesh on my torso seemed a bit extreme. Lifeless flesh generally doesn’t notice that sort of thing, anyway. Maybe I could kill them with kindness? I don’t know, it seemed worth a try.

I took them off to the two-for-one sales and set about buying a new brazier.

Imagine my reaction when I learned that my perky DDs had become Cs overnight. That’s an AVERAGE size. It’s a 60% grade. A “C” is practically a FAIL, damn it! I was horrified. And, even worse, the shops with the cheaper bras stubbornly refused to stock my size in any section I explored. I resigned myself to my fate and walked into the expensive section.

And, wonder of wonder, the bras fit. The girls were plump and luscious in their new digs, and I was a bit rueful. My new size C breasts were hot damn it. I was an idiot.

Maybe C didn’t stand for average after all, but instead were Cute-As-Fuck, or Curvaceously Sexy, or just Commodities-Worth-Advertising? Whatever it was, it was working.

Armed with my new arsenal and a reason to deploy it, I bought my small bra and silently apologised to the smaller breasted women of the world. Maybe DDs weren’t the be-all, but for a long time I’d thought they were one of the few things I’d had to work with. So they were gone, but that’s not such a big thing. (…Literally.)

I’m still a fattie with flair. I’m still perky as fuck. I have great eyes, and of course I’m hilarious.

I also have C boobs, and a C bra, and maybe they won’t last. But in the mean time, I’m going to experiment with my Can’t-Stop-Looking-at-Thems, and enjoy them while I can.



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