The Stitch

My whole life I have never had boobies. I'm not kidding when I say that before I got "knocked up" (as Brian likes to call it), I wore 31 AAA bras - and even they were kinda big on me.

In high school, my well-endowed sisters with their fancy-schmancy C-cup bras would pick on me.

Sisters: "Hey, BOY! Nice NUBBINS!"

Stick girl Heather would respond, ever-so eloquently, "Yeah, well at least I can run out to get the mail without them slapping me in the face . . . " And I would offer them a visual demonstration by slapping myself in the face: thwackthwackthwackthwackthwackthwack.

Then I would continue, "and I can do it WITHOUT a bra on" and I would run in place with my breasts not moving an inch. Mostly because I didn't have breasts. Then my lack of balance and gravity would kick in and I'd fall and smack my nose on a chair on the way down - sending my sisters into hysterical fits of laughter.

In my late twenties, this fabulous miracle was devloped: THE W-UNDER BRA. (altered the name to avoid any trouble)

I bought one in a big fat hurry - a nice thick super-luxury padded one. And it had no straps, which meant I could wear it and people would think I wasn't even wearing a bra - they would just know that I was naturally curvy, busty and oh-so GIRLY.

I was working as the editor for a local newspaper at the time, and I was all suited up - professional as could be. I had appointments all day, with politicians, school administrators, corporate entities - and I was feeling good.

I had W-UNDER BRA on my side.

Halfway through the day, I started noticing that people were actually looking at my chest. No, they were STARING at my chest. And I thought to myself, "Damn! This thing really works," and I stuck my chest out proudly for the world to see.

Toward the end of the day, I ran into the Gas n Go to buy myself a cool, refreshing beverage, and the counterboy, no surprise, was staring at my chest. But he was looking at it kinda funny. Like he was confused about world economics, or the state of the environment - or something really important. . . . .

I thought, "Huh. Must be he doesn't see very many busty women during the day." I thrust my magnificent chest out, and sauntered back to my car.

As I reached to shift the car into "D" (for "Dumbass"), I caught a quick glimpse of my chest.

My W-UNDER BRA had shifted. My strapless, magnificent, miracle-working W-UNDER bra had completely betrayed me, and one enormous padded breast was now located directly below my left armpit. The other massivley padded faux breast was located directly in the center of my rib cage. I had become a one-tit W-UNDER: A complete, absolute freak of nature.

I was horrified. I suddenly realized that the whole world had not been ogling my glorious, magnificent chest with any amount of breast envy, they were gawking at my deformed W-UNDER BOOBIES, W-UNDER-ing "what the hell is up with this chick's breasts?"

That was the day I gave up on ever having a lovely rack. Once I accepted my fate, I started to appreciate them. . . . .

Until now. Now that I have boobies.

As I slip on my UNpadded bras, I often catch Brian staring at me.

"What are you lookin' at?" I ask him.

"Honey, you - you - you've got CLEAVAGE!" he sputters with awed W-UNDER.

I grin manically. He's right. I *do* have cleavage. Unfortunately my hundred-pound Elizabelly overshadows any magnificent breast-taking views I might be able to offer him.

Lucky for me, he doesn't even seem to notice the belly. Nor does he notice the puffiness, bloating, blotchy skin, leaks, swelling, crankiness, miserable rotten acne-ridden me. He just smiles and tells me how beautiful I am.

And that makes it so.

Peace, till next