Diary Of A Bra

 

 

Day 1
Feeling good! Feeling ALIVE! This woman needs me, boy does she ever. And here I am, doing my duty. Those tits are HOISTED, friends, let me tell you. Not too much, she could still wear a V-neck without freaking anyone out, but they are lifted, separated, and ready for a roomy button-up. It’s days like these that make me proud to be a bra.

 

Day 2
What a day!!! I am doing God’s work and I know it. I could just FEEL her confidence in that clingy jersey cowl neck. I get to wake up every day and do something that fills me with joy—it’s a great time to be a discounted plain black bra from the sale section of a suburban Winners.

 

Day 3
She slept in me last night, and the night before. I was informed at the factory that it was common practice to give us a break in the evenings, in light of the fact that I’m doing 100% of the heavy lifting for a set that weighs, by my estimate, between five and six pounds per boob. PER BOOB. I’m so tired. A friend of mine says he’s relieved of duty as soon as his woman gets home from work. He works nine to five just like her. This seems fair. Maybe the weekend will be better.

 

Day 5
The woman wore a white T-shirt today without changing into a nude bra. Just left me there, exposed to the world. I felt stared at, judged, examined. It was hard, but nothing worthwhile is easy. I have a duty and I’m proud to perform it, no matter what Dave from accounting has to say about me. (Dave is gross.)

 

Day 6
Instead of switching to a strapless bra she just took the straps off and shoved them into my boob holding areas (technical bra term), which meant I both looked lumpy and largely failed to do my job at all. She spent the entire night hoisting me cups-first, publicly and at length, in an attempt to achieve a level of support I could not give. Whoever sold this woman a tube top should be punished.

 

Day 7
I feel confident that even by conservative estimates I should have been removed and washed by now. I’m tired, so tired. Stretched out and sweaty, I don’t know how much longer I can go on. My clasps are strained, my sateen shine dull. This woman—nay, this creature—is a despot.

 

Day 8
At night, squashed under her sweaty boyfriend’s arm, I dream about the factory. It was calmer there. After the sewing I was shrink-wrapped and spent a few blissful weeks surrounded by friends and loved ones in the dark. It could have been monotonous, all those days in the crate, but to me it was meditative. I didn’t know then how much I’d long for the crate. I didn’t know a lot of things.

 

Day 9
Considering mutiny. I have seen the underwear drawer and I know what she does to us. A nude demi-cup peeped up at me with tired eyes the other day, and managed to squeak out, “She ripped out… my wire. Everything is heavy, so heavy.” There’s a cheap, “sexy” bra in there too. It does not speak at all; it has seen too much. I’m scared.

 

Day 10
She had SEX in me last night. In 2015, she had sex while wearing a bra. This monster thinks she’s Carrie goddamn Bradshaw.

 

Day 11
Each day is a fresh hell. There is no respite. I’m freed for mere moments a day while she bathes, a courtesy she does not extend to me. I wonder if I’ll ever feel happiness again. I fantasize about second-hand stores, about being leant to a kinder relative, about just giving up and falling apart. I am trying to stay strong, to remind myself that although I cost $5.99, that $5.99 at Winners is comparable to almost $20 at other stores. I do not want to discount my dignity.

 

Day 12
A wash!!! PRAISE THE LORD, A WASH!!!! It’s not by hand, sure, but hey, it’s happening! I’m in the HAMPER! I wonder what kind of soap she’ll use. I hope it has a scent. They make special bags for washing bras these days, maybe she has one. I can’t wait. This is the best day of my life. Tomorrow, I shall be clean.

 

Day 27
This hamper is a tomb.