Boob Tales | This Happened to Me
Budding Boobies, Baring Them, and Buying A Bra
My first bra made me feel safe, but showing the doctor did not
I’ve read a few breast stories, but one that spoke to me recently was by May More — a writer who is a body-positive, strong woman. I was moved to sadness and anger on her behalf. She describes an incident where a health professional’s bad conduct made her feel used and ashamed.
My reaction to her memory prompted me to share my own experiences, the beginning of the love-hate relationship I’ve had with my boobs over the years.
The females in my family have a generous bust, my grandmother, mother, and sister were well endowed. So I grew up expecting to own boobs the size of oranges, maybe more. What I wasn’t prepared for were the looks they drew.
I was a tomboy, riding bikes, playing army, climbing trees with the boys in my neighbourhood. They treated me like an honorary boy, even though I couldn’t spit as far or do wheelies on my bicycle.
One day I was larking about with two tennis balls. I pushed one into each top pocket of my denim jacket and said something like, look at me, I have big boobies. My playmates, the boys, looked, but they did not stop looking at me in that funny way, even after I removed those balls.
It was as if the guys suddenly saw me as a different entity, not one of them any more.
I hadn’t felt a shift, I still wanted to play the rough and tumble games, wouldn’t want to kiss any of them, but to them, I was different now.
Did those balls do something to me? Could their pressure against my breast tissue have activated something? Perhaps just a coincidence, but my bust seemed more evident after that.
In summer I just wore a T-shirt with jeans or shorts. I’ve never liked a vest. The little mounds of my breasts seemed to swell against my T-shirt. Then one day, I totally embarrassed myself by accidentally flashing one boob at a couple of the boys.
I was pulling up my top, showing off my fading chicken pox scars. Gah! What a ghastly illness. I’d been shut up in my bedroom for a hot feverish week while itchy spots broke out on my body, then scabbed up. I grew stir-crazy, this was probably my first opportunity to come out, now I wasn’t infectious.
Anyway, I pulled my T-shirt up too far, exposing the wobbly mound of my breast.
“Your tit popped out!” Clarkie cried.
He and the other boy looked scandalised and delighted at my accidental reveal.
I shoved my clothing back into place like lightning, but the boys couldn’t un-see it and I was mortified. All day I had to endure them re-telling the story, the awful moment when I flashed them a glimpse of my budding breast.
That’s when I begged mum to buy me a bra. She was skeptical, didn’t really think I had much need, but she found a pull-on bralet that my sister had long grown out of. It was no good, riding up all the time, the elastic frequently cut uncomfortably across my breasts rather than sitting under them.
After trying on several hand-me-down bras that did not fit, Mum took me to a clothes store and we pored over the packets I came home with a 30AA bra, which fitted me well. My friend warned me that at her school, boys pinged the back of girls’ bras painfully. At my all-girls’ school, that didn’t happen, but I got a few stares when I changed for PE or swimming.
I was the first to wear a bra.
The next year I started at senior school, which for me meant boarding. My clothes list included 2–3 bras, and I wasn’t the only one wearing one. In fact, the girls who still wore a vest were slightly pitied.
From now on I had to cope with every new development of my body and my well-being on my own. I had a family phone call each week, but at age 12, my independence had to kick in.
May More’s story about a doctor taking advantage of his position, and her natural deference to his medical superiority, reminded me of one instance at my boarding school.
I had slipped over on the polished floor in the dormitory. As I fell, I struck my elbow on the cast iron frame of the nearest bed. It was very bruised and painful, as that joint can be, and I wondered if I’d done something worse, when it woke me at night, so I went to the Sanitorium.
The school doctor had a reputation for being a pervert. All the girls said he’d make you take your blouse off for any ailment, chesty cough to sprained ankle. That was why the school nurse, a woman who’d worked at the school for decades, stayed with him in the consulting room, so they said.
I told the doctor about my fall and injury to my elbow. I described how much it hurt.
“Well, I’d better have a look at it,” he said with a broad grin. “Take off your blouse.”
Just what I’d been dreading, the other girls were right, so I stood my ground.
“No,” I replied, “I think you’ll be able to see it if I roll up my sleeve.”
My heart was hammering. It isn’t in my nature not to follow instructions or to disagree, but my fear was stronger than any politeness or cooperation my parents and school had drummed into me.
I unbuttoned the cuff of my blue school blouse, and pulled up the sleeve, easily exposing my whole arm for him to examine.
While the doctor gently prodded and tested the flesh above and below my elbow, I risked a look at the nurse. Her eyes were shuttered, her expression blank, neither approving nor disapproving of my boldness.
Of course my elbow was only badly bruised, and I continued with school and PE lessons. I visited the sanatorium to have the nurse treat the area with some kind of cream for the next couple of days.
But I was elated with myself. I’d dodged the doctor’s pervy request. Friends gathered around to hear the story and they crowed over his predictability and my single-mindedness. I’d stood up to a dragon, albeit with a tiny sword!
So I could easily relate to what happened with May.
There may be times when a medical professional asks us to expose our bodies in such a way that a voice in our head asks
Is that right? Do you really need to see / touch that part of me to make your diagnosis?
Our conditioned obedience, in the face of their apparent seniority of knowledge and expertise, encourages us to comply. Don’t ignore the alarm bell ringing. This shouldn’t happen, and I hope the incidents are reduced with growing education and empowerment.
Boobs, tits, bosoms, breasts — they come in all shapes and sizes. They can be our assets and they can bring problems, but they are undeniably ours. Let’s always look after them but only show them if we want to.
Posy Churchgate is based in the UK & writes |Fiction : Romantic, Erotic, Fantasy |Non fiction : sexuality, relationships |Editor for Tantalizing Tales& Teaser Tales she supports new talent. Blog: https://posychurchgate.com plus more stories on FrolicMe.com & Tickle.life | Using this link for Medium membership will support her directly, plus giving you access to all Medium’s great content. Use this link to receive an email and Posy’s latest stories will come directly to your inbox.
