Boobies, mammaries, mams, titties, tits, Bill and Ben, puppies, the Girls, whammers, knockers, breasticulars, boobage, bazookas, cleavefest. Somehow it seems our most prized possessions are always void of a moniker with class. So many silly words to describe our precious bumps! Yet the truth is, as much as we moan about them, they are our most treasured assets.
The story of the life of my ‘Girls’ starts quite late. I was thirteen and the only girl left in my class with a pink vest complete with ribbon at the chest, just where my cleavage should have been. But alas, cleavage would have to wait. I was flatter than a pancake.
Being the only girl in my year without a training bra was fast becoming an issue for my thirteen-year-old self, especially in the changing room after P.E. class, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. I snuck into my big sister’s underwear drawer and – gasp – stole a bra. I wore this little sucker 24/7 for a year, only undoing the back clasp when I went to kiss my parents goodnight, so they wouldn’t feel it when they hugged me. I was a bra ninja. Stealth and cunning.
Post-ninja years, I became a model. I had outgrown my feeble training bra with gusto and blossomed a great big handful of boobage. I was commonly known as ‘Boobs Byram: the Best in the Biz’ (true story).
Then unfortunately, like with most young girls, along came dieting. Diets ‘boob-napped’ my precious puppies in one fell cup of lettuce leaves. Much to my disappointment I never regained full possession of those bouncy eager breasts ever again.
And now, with age they have settled. Settled for a life of comfort, just hanging around. ‘The Mams’ and I have been through quite a lot together. They are always there for me, and with me, every day. They are neither big nor small now, but I love them unconditionally. And they will always be mine.