Victoria's Dirty Little Secret

Victoria has a dirty little secret. Amidst the lace and the frills, the satin and the silk, the padding and the bigger padding, she hides it. Among the fragrances, the body washes, and the diamond-studded brassieres, she conceals it. She's a sly fox, that Victoria.

If you look closely, though, the secret is not that hard to find. Discreetly open one of the drawers all the way at the bottom of the display case and you will find it. Open a closet deep into the recesses of the storage room and you will discover her secret: it's me. Me and all the other amply-endowed women of the world whose bras are hidden like wine stains on a white carpet.



They need to bury us under tables, in drawers, and behind closet doors lest they offend the delicate sensibilities of the Itty Bitty Tittie Committee. We wouldn't want the IBTC to go on a rampage, thrashing their barren chests about in protest, would we? Oh, the horror! The absolute insanely hilarious fucking horror!

I'm sorry. I don't mean to lash out at you flat-chested small-boobed women. I tend to do that when I feel judged. I'm working on it. No, really.

My question is this: if everyone wants to look like us, shouldn't the biggest boulder-like flopper stoppers be on brilliant display? Shouldn't underwear models be shaped like me (at least on top)? Shouldn't the Victoria's Secret fashion show feature women who, through no control of their own, come bouncing happily down the runway? I feel robbed of my rightful place in bobby royalty. Women are praying at night to deities in whom they don't even believe just so they can wake up with the body of a bombshell. Women are paying doctors thousands of dollars and enduring weeks of excruciating pain just so they can complain about how men no longer look into their eyes, but rather stare at their chests. And yet they bury us under mountains of glorified training bras and tiny thongs like we have the plague...

What would happen, Victoria, if you leave us all out there, big and small boobies alike? Might we lock bra straps in peace and harmony? Might we stand side-by-side, hand-in-hand and sing our henceforth self-proclaimed national anthem: Man! I Feel Like a Woman by Shania Twain? I think that the mixing of bra sizes would serve as evidence that real women do exist, and would therefore provide no plausible reason for anyone to purchase your padded, pinching monstrosities because the world would realize that women come in all different shapes and sizes. And that all their boobies are beautiful.

Fuck Victoria!

I'll take my business to Lane Bryant. True, I'd have to hide in the bushes on delivery day so I could knock the driver out and take my pick before the general public has access to the five measly bras in my size, but I'd get a bra. A pretty one, not the white one my grandmother wore. One with lace or animal print or polka dots or stripes or any color other than black or white or a nude that looks nothing like my nude skin. In my size.

And it damned sure won't be hidden in some obscure little drawer in the back.

I apologize, loyal readers, for my absence. Well, I haven't really been absent. I've been reading your posts, but I don't feel I'm in a good position to comment on anyone's life other than mine right now. I'm going through some things and as I work through them, I will keep you posted. Know that I haven't forgotten about you and I still love you to teeny tiny pieces.