Ode to my cleavage

While not nearly as much fun as penis puppetry, my tits tend to enthral me.

When I finally sprouted boobies at the ripe old age of 18, I alternately despaired over their smallness or (when faced with costume fitting time in a room of prepubescent quasi-anorexics) their heretofore relatively unfamiliar largeness. My middle sister teased me mercilessly when I got my first cotton and elastic Calvin Klien training bra "Calvin Klien makes big ones" Karma is a nasty bitch, though - the training bras were passed on to her as hand me downs. Guess who now has the pair of knockers nicknamed "The Twins". (I wuv you, snookums. Please don't kill me.)



Thanks to years of wearing a leotard, I tend to go braless in the summer. One less item of clothing to sweat through. Winter it's one more layer of warmth, not to mention prevents my nipples from poking someone's eye out (ok, considering my lack of height, all the dwarves of the world are safe around my tits come winter. Whoopty-do.) Through the bra wearing years, I steadfastly refused to buy anything with padding. Though my tits were always on the small-yet-perky side, I believed in truth in advertising. The idea of getting down and nasty with some guy only to have 50% of my 'breasts' disappear when the bra gets thrown on the floor was a bit of a passion killer for me.

Finding just the right bra, as most women will attest, is like finding the holy grail of undergarments. Long ago I had settled on a nice demi-cup Victoria's Secret model. Unfortunately, they don't have Victoria's Secret in Italy. Finding a bra without padding here was like finding Waldo in a satellite photograph of North America. I've gradually adjusted to the slight amounts of padding they have here, and have even found a couple of really nice lingerie stores to splurge in. I'll even go so far as to say I've become an advocate of padding. While I'm still young enough to go braless without having my boobs look like two ziplock bags full of milk, the occasional glance downwards while I'm wearing one of these babies is enough to give me pause. They're pushed up and in, creating that "I could lose a (small) piece of silverware down there and wouldn't you like to fish it out with your tongue" look. Look Ma, I've got cleavage!

Hell, it's enough to make a girl want to fondle herself in broad daylight. Not that I've done that. Really. Um...

What do you mean you don't believe me?