Here’s What No One Tells You About Having Huge Boobs

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I recently saw aviral tweet that read simply, “I think huge boobs are ‘back.’” I’m pretty sure it was a joke — possibly, commentary on the way changing trends are applied to women’s body parts like we can take them on and off depending on the season. I could be overthinking it.

But either way, I jokingly replied with “Oh thank God,” because thanks to Him and my mama, I’ve been carrying around my own pair of huge boobs since I was a young teen.

They were always big ― DD-cup territory at least, which seems to be our cultural shorthand for bigguns, as though there isn’t a vast alphabet of larger bra sizes. But when Igained weight during COVID, a lot of it went straight to my boobs, resulting in what I’ve referred to as an expanding set of “quarentitties.” These days, they’ve settled somewhere around a 46F, and while I know there are larger breasts in the world, for me, this is really uncharted territory in Big Booblandia, and it’s been an enlightening experience.

Let me say, first of all, that I’m not denigrating my smalI-chested sisters. I think all boobs are marvelous in their own ways, and I wish we actually got more exposure to the vast variety of boob beauty I see in the gym locker room but not reflected in the media. Real, fake, small, large, heavy, perky, big nipples or small ― I love and support the vast array of mammary diversity.

And I know that for many, the grass looks greener on the other side. I’ve often wished there was some kind of titty exchange system where gals who want a little more up top could trade with gals who are tired of lugging around their super-sized sweater puppies.

After all, you hear a lot about the downsides of having big boobs ― the construction-quality taupe bras with 6-inch shoulder straps because Victoria’s Secret is that she doesn’t carry your size; the fact that jogging as an activity simply isn’t for us; we’ve all heard a set of juicy naturals can be hell on the back; and the other day, I took my bra off and a heap of trapped crumbs fell out of my cleavage onto my cat.

And then, there are the bigger issues.

Like the way I have to brace myself to be ogled and catcalled all day if I dare to show a sliver of cleavage. A low-cut dress is a choice with big boobs, and I have to really consider if I’m feeling up to the barrage of sexual attention I’m sure to receive if I wear one.

AND I LOVE ATTENTION. In the right setting, from the right person, I even love sexual attention. But this specific kind of big-boob attention can be annoying because you can’t control its flow, and during my public transpo commute, for instance, is not the time I want to receive it. Sometimes I want to feel sexy, but that doesn’t mean I want to be sexualized by every stranger I happen to pass on the street that day.

And look, when I’m really showcasing the goods, I expect people to want to look. I also can’t help but look appreciatively when I see a buxom babe rocking some bodacious cleavage. You may have a glance! But discreetly, not leering or ogling, and without unsolicited comments, please.

The author on a night she decided to weather the attention.
The author on a night she decided to weather the attention.

Big-breasted women are oversexualized in general. I can still remember the first girl in grade school to get them and how her name immediately became synonymous with “sluttiness” despite no evidence that she’d done anything but develop a body we define as sexual.

In general, developing early is no picnic. It’s like waking up one day and discovering you’re the owner of a car you’re not yet licensed to drive, but that doesn’t stop grown men from hanging around the dealership speculating about the ride. You’re still mentally and emotionally a child, and being sexualized like an adult feels creepy and confusing.

Even as a grown woman, when I’ve used dating sites, I’ve struggled with how much, if any, of my top half I can show in pictures without all my messages devolving into attention that is immediately sexualizing/fetishizing. For the record, “You have big boobs” is not a good opener, mostly because YES, I AM FULLY AWARE OF THAT. (Like all women, I get the sexualizing messages no matter what, but a smaller percentage when I use photos with no visible boobage.)

Then there’s fashion. Trying to dress for work is a particular challenge ― a scoop-neck sweater that looks professional on a more modestly chested woman would have me called in to HR. High fashion that looks chic on a boyish model figure looks positively pornographic on me. Just once I’d like to wear a jumpsuit with a deep V and look like Phoebe Waller-Bridge.

I’d also love to wear a slogan T-shirt where you can actually read the slogan because it’s not stretched beyond recognition. Or to sleep in a tank top without waking up to find one of my breasts is already halfway across the room and starting work for the day.

And unless you’re one of the tiny group of women genetically designed to be swimsuit models, there’s usually a trade-off between size and perkiness. Big ones are simply heavier; they’re gonna hang lower ― it’s just science. And while I actually adore that bit of sag that signals a large natural chest, some men are not so generous.

Like the man I was once chatting with on a dating app with whom I (foolishly, obviously) shared a topless pic only to have him respond that “Those are actually really nice … Usually the big ones are all over the place.”

“ALL OVER THE PLACE?” I inquired, to which he further explained, “You know, one going this way, one going that way, covered in stretch marks.” He reiterated that mine were actually nice, though, like I was going to be flattered by the gross way he was talking about women’s bodies. I told him as much and waited for him to read it, then blocked him before he could respond, like a chicken.

So yes, big boobs come with baggage. But despite it all, there’s so much to adore about being a busty woman.

First of all, they bring me a lot of sexual pleasure ― they’re probably my No.1 erogenous zone, and breast and nipple play is the secret trick that, when added to any other sex act, is guaranteed to get me over the end zone to orgasm.

Just by a cruel trick of fate, I always seem to end up dating pure ass men or people who are otherwise indifferent to cup size, but there is a subsection of men out there who are rendered absolutely powerless by a big rack, and I can’t lie; sometimes I enjoy wielding that power.

Back in the Craigslist Casual Encounters days, I used to occasionally post an ad looking specifically for a breast-obsessed gentleman to just play with them for a good long while, maybe topping things off with a mutual masturbation sesh. It has the benefit of being fairly safe sex, and I liked feeling totally worshipped and adored for my specific assets.

As one of my favorite porn series titles straightforwardly put it, “Big boobs are cool.”

“I love the way a great set of boobs is sort of universally celebrated by people with a range of genders and sexual orientations. Boobs are like the Dolly Parton of body parts ― beloved by all.”

I love being able to create cartoon character proportions in lingerie or vintage silhouettes, love playing with an over-the-top performance of femininity. My boobs are somewhat like a dazzling statement accessory that I can bring out for special occasions or when I really want to command the room.

I love the purity of the way a true breast man can see 10,000 selfies of my same pair of boobs from essentially the same angle and be into it each and every time. I love the way they jiggle when I walk and bounce like eggs in a pan during sexytimes.

And let’s not discount the fact that they make an excellent wallet in a pinch.

My personal relationship with my breasts is one of the most uncomplicated I have with any part of my body ― even throughout the extreme insecurities of my youth, I’ve pretty much always just liked them, and that’s a blessing in a world where young women are often encouraged to dissect and dislike even our most seemingly insignificant body parts.

They’re also one of the only parts of my body I’ve enjoyed even more as I’ve gained weight; like, yeah, living in this fatphobic society is hard, but at least these huge boobs are neat!

I love the way a great set of boobs is sort of universally celebrated by people with a range of genders and sexual orientations. Boobs are like the Dolly Parton of body parts ― beloved by all. I like how mine sometimes feel like a little party on my body. I mean, hello; boobs have arrived!

It’s obviously not nuanced, but if you want to wield it, there is titty magic to be had.

In a perfect world, we’d be able to exercise that magic on our own terms, in ways that felt empowering and comfortable to us. We’d be able to feel sexy in our bodies when we wanted, without feeling sexualized when we’re just trying to go about our days. We’d be able to draw on the feeling of power big boobs can give us without being slammed back to reality by those who want to see us vulnerable. (And maybe we’d be able to take them off at night to sleep a little more comfortably.)

But even in this imperfect world, I’m happy with the (more than a) hand(ful) I was dealt. Because I refuse to let anyone else determine how I feel about something that brings me pleasure and joy, and that ultimately belongs, quite intimately, to me.

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