Teenage Boys and Breasts Through Open Windows

Summer heat and boob talk

Do you ever wonder what you would say to your boobs if they were listening? Do you ever wonder what you would say to other people’s boobs if they were listening? Have you ever considered writing your breasts a letter? I have. We all should. Here’s mine.

Dear Breasts,

I cannot remember when you arrived. I have a terrible memory. I think they showed up around Middle School with most of the others. It was like a party almost everybody was invited to, but nobody got to choose what to wear.

I walked down the school hallways tracking the various shapes of my female classmates' breasts inside their Izod t-shirts. You could feel the electricity of their sudden appearance in the hallways. It made everyone loopy. I remember the sudden arrival of other people's breasts more than my own.

My own breast memories are vague. I remember one early breast memory, seen through the lens of a swimsuit I bought for the first summer after high school. It was a stretched cloth suit, the kind that doesn’t hold its shape over time like lycra. It was the first suit I owned that wasn’t a Speedo.

The suit was subtle, not low cut. You could see my breasts' general size but not with clarity. The suit was primarily periwinkle other than the stripes. They were pink and yellow, thin and spaced out.

I loved the feel of the cotton touching my skin. When it was wet, it looked like a wet t-shirt and the shape and definition of my breasts revealed themselves. My breasts were more than bumps, less than squishy mounds.

I cannot say exactly how my breasts have changed through the years. They feel like they are someone I lost, whose face has become faded. They may look different but I cannot say how exactly.

I wonder if I should I have looked at them more closely through the years. Taken annual photos? Should I have held them and considered their appearance and texture? Should I have memorized their transformation over time? All I remember about them, from when I was young, was boys stopped looking at my eyes.

As I write this letter to my breasts, I am texting with one of my best friends from high school. I am tempted to ask her about my boobs. Do you remember them? I want to ask her. Do you remember how I felt about them? She has a deep rich laugh. I’d get to hear it if I asked her those questions.

I had two best friends in high school. We were inseparable. One had big beautiful woman breasts — the one I am texting with right now. The other one had perky upturned breasts. She is traveling the world, saving it, as I type.

We used to walk around the bigger boobed one's apartment in our bras all summer. The one with the perky small boobs could have gone braless but she had elegant lacey bras that we envied.

It didn't occur to us we could have bras like that. I’m not sure why. Maybe because she was British, we thought everything she owned came from Europe — like her chocolate which was more delicious than ours. I can see the absurdity in that logic now since we all shopped at the same stores. Maybe she had a bigger budget. Maybe her mom thought her breasts should be decorative.

My big-breasted friend wore more utilitarian bras — duty-bound bras, not for decor, but for carrying the weight of the boobs in their fabric. My bras were somewhere in between. I needed them but they weren’t harnesses or doilies.

Summer was brutal in the Midwest, all humidity no breeze. We slothed around my big-breasted friend’s apartment which only had one window air conditioner in her mother’s bedroom. We dragged our melting bodies down the long many-windowed hallways, stripped down to our boxer shorts and bras.

We found out later we had witnesses, some teenage boys from our high school who benefitted from the first-floor apartment view. We provided quite a slice for their teenage boys' fantasies — half-naked teenage girls walking past open windows.

We’d eventually sprawl out on chairs at her mother’s kitchen table, smoking in our bras, clinking ice in our frosty water glasses. Her mom was a smoker and let us smoke. We loved her mom because she wasn’t like our parents. She was gritty, sharp-witted, a master chef who fed us snacks from Gourmet Magazine. She had wild boyfriends and strong drinks. She talked to us like her were women.

The scene felt right out of A Streetcar Named Desire, vibe-wise. I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of my big-breasted friend’s boyfriends appeared outside her window and gutturally screamed her name. I could see her languidly dragging her heat weary body to the window in her bra, holding her Marlboro Light, and saying, “Beat it, Brando. This is girl time.”

Letters don’t have to say everything we know, not all at once, and this letter is done for now. Maybe if my breasts write me back, we can be pen pals, boob pals, or breasts pals. But that is unlikely.

I would love to hear what letter you’d write to your breasts. Or maybe even a postcard. Try it, send it to me. Let’s hear what we have to say.

Breastgards,

Amy Sea

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