In third grade I woke up to a perky size A: too small for most training bras, but still small enough to wear the cute little bra and panty sets in the children’s section.
I never had any real problems with my growing bust (embarrassing moments care of my family aside) until fifth or sixth grade. By that point it had become glaringly noticeable that most of the other girls had yet to get so much as a bee sting. A few accused me of stuffing my bra. Some were outright assholes. The boys in class went after the girls with no boobs to speak of. Where Ginger wanted bigger breasts, I now wanted mine to shrink. I went from being happy to have breasts to wishing they would go away. My friends thought I was lucky. I naively told them that they would catch up one day.
By ninth grade I had settled into a 42D. While I did not have the biggest bra size in either my grade or the student body, I did wear the biggest bra size in my group of friends. The guys who swore they could tell any woman’s bra size made a game out of guessing mine. The girls would ask me to share the wealth. The guys still went after the girls with smaller breasts. The guys who did talk to me spent more time looking at my chest than my eyes. The jerkoffs claimed that I had gotten implants.
By junior year, I had a full blown love-hate relationship with my breasts. It was not that I disliked them. They were (and still are) high, full, perky, and comfy. I also liked the way they filled my blouses and dresses.
I just disliked some of the attention they received.
Up next: The one where my boobs keep growing, the guy who didn’t care, and corsets.
Camile’s breasts currently live with her in Tampa, Florida. Camile can be found on Myspace, Facebook, Twitter, and here on Creative Loafing. Her breasts can be found threatening to spill out of low-cut tops.
