Swipe deodorant under my left arm, swipe deodorant under my right arm, a look to the right, a look to the left; the coast is clear. Swipe a streak of deodorant straight down my cleavage.
“I’m sweating balls out here.”
“I got some serious ball-sweat going on in here.” Great… thanks for sharing, dudes. Ball-sweat, great. That’s a really attractive image you’ve given me of what’s in your pants dripping salt sweat. That’s just fantastic. Well you know what guys? Your balls don’t make you special and unique snowflakes gifted with the art of talking about sweat in places I don’t want to know about. I don’t talk about my perspiration issues, right? Well… actually I do. Or at any rate, I’m going to.
That’s because there’s this stupid image that women with large breasts have it all. I guess in a sense we do have “it all”. We have the back pain that goes with carrying around two honeydew melons. Then we have to find a stylish way of containing these wayward wards of our chest. Built-in bras? HAH! You can try friend; you can try. All built-in bras mean is that I’ve got to cut that shit out without actually damaging the garment. Halter-tops? By the end of the day I know how Atlas feels because I’ve been sporting the weight of two worlds on my neck all day. Aerobics? It didn’t matter which sports bra I bought, my t-shirt would always end up tucked into my shorts anyhow lest anyone catch a glimpse of two cannonballs struggling for emancipation. Buy anything that hugs the girls involve the “test”. You slip on that super adorable bra with embroidered red roses. You jump up and down a little bit. Yes, that worked. You pull off some sort of mambo move that shakes them back and forth. Still secured, excellent. Now the final question, touch your toes. If I can make it all the way down to my toes and back up without my boobs popping out of this decorative restraint I know I’ve got me a winner.
“Are you ok in there?” the petite sales girl in her all-black outfit asks. OK? I’ve never been better!
That’s just the obvious stuff too. We busty girls, we have a secret that we’re just not as vocal as our testicle-laden men friends are. Maybe we should be though. Why do they get to have all the gross-out fun when we’re simply stuck with back pain and shirts that need to be tailored? Hell, try buying a button up shirt that doesn’t straddle the line between professionalism and strip tease.
Guess what? Boobs sweat. Those bras that push the sisters together in some unnatural pose that nearly reaches my chin and they have no room to breathe? Those are for special occasions, like sitting on the couch and not moving all day. The slightest bit of activity – making dinner, opening a door, scratching your nose – will make those girls break out in perspiration that Olympic athletes and health fanatics envy.
“You need some pit-stick,” my husband will say to me. No sweetheart, what I need is tit-stick. That smell isn’t my armpits – it’s my boobs. Yeah, I went there. That big-ass chest you love or envy so much? Well, it comes with a sticky situation that no one wants to talk about because big breasts are supposed to be perfect and desirable. No thanks. I’ll skip on the silk shirt. I don’t need the girls to stain silk and then try to explain to the elderly lady with the cotton ball hair who works at the dry cleaner that the stain she’s eyeing comes from my tits.
So you want these babies? You want my big boobs? They’re yours. Enjoy the boob-sweat.