This week was the 21st anniversary of my breast reduction surgery. The Frankenboobies are officially old enough to (legally) drink.
There’s a misconception around twenty-one year old boobs. They’re not as young as you think.
Stay with me here because I know you’re thinking of twenty-one year old girls and their generally young breasts, all perky and firm, and you should probably stop before you end up on some kind of list. But here’s the thing -the person might be twenty-one, but the boobs aren’t. Think about it. They weren’t born with those boobs. Those boobs didn’t even think about becoming boobs until the person was eleven or twelve or thirteen -if not earlier or later. In my case later. My boobs didn’t start boobing until I was nearly fourteen and once they started, they didn’t stop. By my own logic, by the time I went under the knife, my boobs weren’t even ten years old yet.
So, twenty-one year olds don’t have twenty-one year old tits. Thirty-something year olds (on average) have twenty-one year old tits. My own restart pushed that back into my forties.
Breasts that have been around for a couple of decades have seen some shit. I know mine have. My weight has fluctuated by a good sixty or seventy pounds since my surgery. Weight gain, weight loss, weight gain, weight loss. That takes a toll. Whatever fullness and firmness I had after my surgery has been yo-yoed into the ether. The twins got a little more flapjack going on now. They’re also not twins anymore. Not that they’d ever pass for identical, thanks to the surgery complications, but I could have called them fraternal. Not the case now. So long symmetry. After years of the weight roller coaster, Bela is now bigger than Boris, and noticeably so. This isn’t uncommon with boob havers, In fact, it’s so common that when it comes to uneven boobs, most folks find their left one to be larger (that’s the case with me and Bela here). It’s an actual thing.
And whatever the weight changes didn’t do, gravity did. It does more harm than making your toast land butter side down when you drop it. The force it exerts to keep us all stuck to this planet does some really unforgiving things to the meat sacks we inhabit, and not just when they’re dropped from a great height. What perkiness was installed when these bad boys were remade is long gone. You might enjoy the effect produced by my push-up bra, but baby, it’s exactly that. Special effects. The behind-the-scenes will steal your awe and wonder.
The best part about all of this (if there can be a best part) is that there is a very good chance that nearly every titty title holder reading this post is nodding at most, if not all, of it. These are universal symptoms of a continued existence when you have fat sacks hanging from your chest. Maybe the realistic light I’m shining on older tatas isn’t entirely flattering in a world obsessed with youth and symmetry, but to obsess about the appearance of anyone’s breasts -yours, mine, and/or ours- ignores another universal truth.
No matter the size, shape, perkiness, or symmetry…they’re still fun to play with.
In a legal, consenting way, of course.
Kiki Writes About... 