my tits are the first thing to enter a room

My tits are the first thing to experience fresh air, meet new people, step inside a Metro car.

My tits are the first thing to enter a room.

It’s been that way for as long as I can remember. My tits are the first thing to experience fresh air, meet new people, step inside a Metro car. This isn’t me humble bragging, it’s simply the truth when it comes to being part of the Rocky Mountain Club. Any well-endowed person in this club knows what I’m talking about. The tits greet the world for us as if they’re their own person and we’re left trailing behind, carrying their weight.

Literally.

Typically, I don’t mind my tits. I’ve lived with them for long enough that I’m used to navigating my daily life with them. But, I can’t say the same as when I was younger. I distinctly remember trying my best to hide them throughout high school out of fear that I’d get in trouble with our dress code (I had already gotten in trouble once for wearing shorts that didn’t pass the fingertip inspection.)

I would wear long-sleeved shirts in the fall and spring months, sweating in the back of the classroom and counting down the minutes until I could escape to the air-conditioned hallway. I would change for gym in the locker room bathroom out of fear that someone would make fun of me for spilling out of my bra that was a size too small because I wanted to be petite like the rest of the girls in my grade and thought, stupidly, that I could somehow shrink them by doing that.

This fear continued to manifest in my young adulthood, causing me to be so ashamed of my boobs that I exclusively wore baggy shirts or sweatshirts. I worked at a bakery during this time, and when asked what size shirt I wanted, I would only pick L or XL to hide my body. On top of this, I began wearing sports bras so my boobs would appear flatter. But, despite my best attempts, I would catch people glancing at them while talking to me. I know the “my eyes are up here” joke is well known, but how many times must I be subjected to thinking that in a single conversation? Additionally, why do I have to pretend like it doesn’t bother me to feel hypersexualised when I’m working, all because the customer is always right?

Even now, as a full-blown adult, I refuse to go into a changing room because of a recurring nightmare that haunts me. In this nightmare, I go to try on either a shirt or dress (it changes depending on my current fashion fixation) that ends up uncomfortably stretching across my chest. It digs into my skin under my armpits, and suddenly, I’m sweating. I need to get out of this article of clothing STAT. It only takes one try for me to realise what’s happening: I’m stuck. Now, this is where it truly turns into a nightmare because my only options are:

1. Ask for help and get cut out of the clothing like the jaws of life crushing through metal to save a kid from a car, still pay for this now ruined item of clothing, and leave with my head hanging in shame because I should have known better than to try it out.

2. Ask for help and be told that they can’t do anything to help me out of this clearly too tight piece of clothing, pay for it, and walk out wearing this ridiculous outfit so that people point and laugh at me for being an idiot because, once again, I should have known better.

Nine times out of ten, I wake up in a cold sweat.

the iconic De-bimbofication (2017), by Sortmid

The big-boobed woman is, at best, nothing more than a meme. This caricature that haunts the world —and the corners of my mind, if we’re being honest— is one that isn’t kind, to say the least. It generalises the woman as nothing more than wanting sex. Regardless of whether the person wants, needs, or desires it, their big boobs simply existing in the world seem to give off the vibe that they do as if they’re some sort of echolocating bat. “Look at me,” they say, “ask me creepy, invasive questions that you would never ask someone with smaller breasts!” It’s like my very own superpower that isn’t useful for anything other than unwarranted attention from creepy dudes.

Instead of a human, I’m reduced to a fetish for porn-brained adults that see only see me as a pair of huge tits. In short, sex objects. Because of this, people believe they have a right to my body while I have no right to do anything about it because of the hypersexual culture surrounding big tits. Quickly, when was the last time someone considered a person with slightly larger breasts as intelligent? I’m serious, name one person off the top of your head right now.

Let’s take a look at the above meme. She quite literally gets a breast reduction throughout the course of the meme. Whether or not people are willing to admit it, they have this judgment that women with big tits aren’t smart. I need more than two hands to count the number of times people have been surprised to learn that not only do I have two degrees, but that I actually know what I’m talking about. It’s exhausting to explain that yes, I have an education, and yes, I know the latest statistics on the topic we’re discussing because it was the topic of my senior thesis in undergrad.

But, unfortunately, the image of an intelligent woman is never that with a larger chest.

The only explanation for this is, once again, that any person with big boobs is seen as nothing more than our boobs. We’re not even considered as remotely intelligent because why would we? We’ve got tits!

Time is a Mother (2022), by Ocean Vuong

It’s easy to write off the complaints of someone with huge honkers. Why should we complain about having something that other people want so desperately? Each day, someone walks into a doctor’s office, asks for bigger boobs, and calls it a day. Shouldn’t I be grateful for having them naturally? How dare I shake my fist at the sky and complain about unwanted comments about my chest from people that I don’t even know. But, hear me out: unless your boobs are bigger than a cup size D, shut up.

I do not want to hide my breasts away like they’re some sort of hidden treasure, only to be seen in the dead of night by someone hunting for them. It’s not fair to force myself or my tits to hide away because the idea of someone with my body shape simply existing is enough to start a culture war. (Far-right conservatives who are suddenly fixated on Sydney Sweeney and her chest, I’m looking directly at you.) Why are people unable to treat bodies—and boobs—as normal? Why must I feel varying degrees of shame and guilt when picking out an outfit to get lunch or go on an interview, or even to get the mail?

ONE LAST THOUGHT: At the age of 29, I’ve come to love my body. Despite the space it takes up in a room or the cute tank tops I can’t wear because they simply won’t stretch over these honkers, I love my body. It’s mine and mine alone. At the end of the day, I’m the only one who lives with this body 24/7, and I shouldn’t have to consider others’ opinions about it when trying to exist in my everyday life.

ONE VERY LAST THOUGHT: I love my huge tits.

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Who wrote this?

Kayla Chu is a Washington, D.C. based transplant and writer who likes to explore culture in the mundane. Caprese Martini is a goodie bag in the form of a newsletter where she writes about the things rattling around in her brain, books that she reads, and even gives advice in the column, dear caprese martini. When she isn't writing, she's usually carrying her shiba inu around the city when he gets too lazy to cross the street.