Life with Big Boobs
Growing up with big boobs? Yeah, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Like, I love my girls, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it feels like I’m carrying around two extra personalities that have a mind of their own. Running? Forget about it. I’ve got this whole duct tape situation going on just to keep them from bouncing like they’re auditioning for a trampoline show. And don’t even get me started on the double-bra situation. It’s like a whole production just to go for a jog without feeling like I’m in a low-budget music video.
And the stares? Ugh. I mean, I get it, people are gonna look, but when I’m out there just trying to live my best life, it’s like, can y’all not? I’m not out here trying to be a spectacle, okay?
I’m just trying to get my steps in. So yeah, I layer up — two bras, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. It’s my armour against the world. Now, let’s rewind to when I was like, ten. Yeah, ten. While my friends were out here living their best lives in little tied-up tops and unbuttoned shirts, I was over here looking like I just walked out of Victoria’s Secret catalogue. My boobs were already doing the most, and it was… a lot.
Like, I didn’t even understand why people were making such a big deal about them, but it was like I couldn’t escape it. It was everywhere.
One time, I was at the park just minding my business, swinging on the swings like a normal kid, and this old dude started following me around yelling, “Lolita, come here!” Like, sir, what? My mom, bless her, went full mama bear on him and shut it down real quick. But still, it was wild. I was ten. TEN. And this guy dared to say, “If she’s ten, I’m thirty.” Like, bro, what kind of math are you doing?
And then there were my friends. Oh, my friends. They were obsessed with my boobs. Like, they’d beg to touch them, and one of them even wanted to, uh, suckle? Yeah, it was a whole thing. Kids are weird, man.
They’re just out here exploring and experimenting, and I guess my boobs were like the main attraction. I remember one time my classmates were like, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” and I was like, “Uh, mine are already out here stealing the show, so…” By the time I was ten, I was already rocking a B-cup, and let me tell you, my parents were not here for it. The dads would glance at me like I was some kind of walking scandal, and the moms would side-eye me like I was out here trying to steal their man. Like, hello, I’m just trying to exist over here.
My parents were super protective, and honestly, I don’t blame them. I couldn’t even go babysitting because my dad was convinced some random husband was gonna try to cop a feel on the ride home. Like, sir, I’m just trying to make some extra cash for Robux, not start a whole Lifetime movie.
Meanwhile, my older sisters were out here living their best flat-chested lives, wearing tank tops without a care in the world. Meanwhile, I’m over here looking like I’m ready to nurse a whole village. My mom would look at me and be like, “Please, for the love of God, keep your legs closed until you’re at least eighteen.” And I’m sitting there like, “Ma’am, I don’t even know what that means.”
Playground politics were a whole other level of weirdness. One day, these four boys called me over to the corner of the playground and were like, “Hey, we pooled all our money and we have seven dollars. We’ll give it to you if you show us your… you know.” Like, what?
Y’all want to see my boobs for seven bucks? Nah, fam. I told them, “Seven dollars? That’s not enough.” They were like, “How much do you want?” And I said, “Twenty.” So these little dudes spent the next two weeks saving up their lunch money, eating peanut butter sandwiches out of their coat pockets like they were on some kind of mission. Finally, they came back with their twenty bucks — mostly in crumpled one-dollar bills — and were like, “Meet us after school in the corner of the playground.”
I said okay, but only if I could bring my best friend, Jessica. I wasn’t about to be out there alone with four boys trying to grab at me.
So Jessica and I showed up, and she took the money from them. It was like some kind of weird kid strip club, and honestly, I felt a little dirty, but hey, they wanted to see, and they were willing to pay. So I lifted my shirt and bra, and there they were — my perfect little boobies. Round, firm, with these cute little pink nipples. The boys were staring like they’d just won the lottery, and one of them was like, “Can I feel them?” And I was like, “Nope, that’s not part of the deal.”
I let them look for a minute, and then Jessica and I bounced. Was it wrong to take their money? I don’t think so. Like, I didn’t do anything with them. It was just their eyes.
And honestly, I’m sure I gave them enough material for their imaginations to run wild for a long, long time. So yeah, that’s my life with big boobs. It’s been a journey, to say the least. But hey, I’ve learned to own it. They’re a part of me, and I’m not gonna let anyone make me feel weird about it.
So to anyone out there dealing with something similar, just remember: you’re not alone, and you’re not defined by anyone else’s gaze. Keep doing you.
The Bottom Line
So, here we are — years of stares, struggles, and straight-up absurdity later. But you know what? I wouldn’t trade my journey for anything. My boobs have been a source of drama, laughter, and unexpected life lessons, but they’ve also taught me confidence, resilience, and the power of owning who I am. At the end of the day, they’re just a part of me — not the whole story.
So whether they bounce, jiggle, or defy gravity in ways that make physics question itself, I’ll keep rocking them on my terms. To everyone navigating their wild ride — big boobs, small boobs, or no boobs at all — just remember: your body is yours, and that’s always worth celebrating.
Read, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice