Boobs. Breasts. Fun Bags. Titties. Tits. Boobies. Mommy’s Milk Makers.
If it pertains to breasts, I’ve heard it all.
When I started out in the world, I was the flattest girl of them all. Growing up in a house of six people with five of them being much older, well-endowed females, getting boobs was on my “to-do” list. I couldn’t wait! I thought it would be so cool. I remember the day my childhood best friend got her first training bra. I was so jealous I stood in the driveway until my mother got home so I could convince her to “bandage up my nipples” with a 28AAA training bra that was training, well, zilch. Even if I was nowhere near womanly, I felt like one with my white lace junior bra adorned with tiny flowers right in the center of the two cups. Damn right, you know I was pulling out all the exercises:
“I must, I must, I must increase my bust.”
Okay, so that never happened besides once or twice. I wasn’t stupid. I knew squawking like a chicken wasn’t going to grow me any ta-tas. It was either in the cards for me … or not. Time would tell.
It was all fun and games — until I actually got tits.
Read More: Breastfeeding My Baby Literally Saved My Boobs — And My Life
Tits Okay Now,
Laura
“I must, I must, I must increase my bust.”
Okay, so that never happened besides once or twice. I wasn’t stupid. I knew squawking like a chicken wasn’t going to grow me any ta-tas. It was either in the cards for me … or not. Time would tell.
It was all fun and games — until I actually got tits.
