A college-student contributor friend of ours, who wishes to remain anonymous, has a confession to make:
I have this dress that I bought at H&M a few months ago that I wear whenever Iâ€™m in the mood to feel sexy. Translation: I wear this dress all the time. Itâ€™s nothing particularly trashy: just a brown shirt dress, belted at the waist. But it does make my boobs look fantastic.
This is my sole criteria for buying clothes. Even if the color is terrible, even if the fitâ€™s a little iffy in other places; if my boobs look splendid in it, Iâ€™m buying it. Because Iâ€™m a little bit obsessed with the twins.
This all started in sixth grade, when they began bursting out of my chest with a rapidity usually only seen with the help of a fast-forward button. By seventh grade, they were a B cup. And, eight years later, they’ve finally stopped at a DD.
Any relationship or self-esteem self-help book will tell you to pick something you love about your body and keep it at the forefront of your mind, to think about how great that part of your body is when you want to feel great too. So every time Iâ€™m getting ready to leave the house, painting on a last-minute swath of mascara with one hand and cramming breakfast into my mouth with the other, I look at my chest and smile.
I’ve given up on buying clothes that I think should fit and look good because of the size on the tag. Instead, I’ve made dressing my boobs the number-one priority. I’ve stopped worrying about feeling fat just because I can’t fit my top half into the same size as my bottom half and instead, started focusing on how awesome I look when I buy clothes that fit my chest. And that makes me feel hot.
As Iâ€™ve come into my own sexuality, Iâ€™ve noticed that women who have decided to work with what they have and work it well — however much or little available to them, from 32A to 46DDD — have a sort of sexual energy about them. My bodyâ€™s not perfect, and my boobs donâ€™t sit atop a super-toned set of abs or balance out a Kim Kardashian-esque butt. Far from it. But the more I focus on how much I love my breasts, the less I think about needing to look supermodel perfect with the rest of my body.
I wish every woman could feel this good about her boobs. Because I truly believe loving them means loving yourself. And guys notice this too. Until recently, I was one of those girls who spent hours nitpicking my body. But when I spend less time making sure my gutâ€™s sucked in and more time thinking about how fantastic this dress makes me look up top, guys see more of the easygoing, upbeat person I actually am. I sound happier. I smile more. I actually act like myself.
Sure, there are the gross guys who focus only on my anatomy. One such gentleman actually told me that I â€śmade Jenna Jameson look like a nun,â€ť which is a lame, fatally flawed comparison. Just because I like to play up the part of my body I love with a cute belt and a tasteful v-neck doesn’t make me a porn star. My style tends more towards “cute and chic” than it does towards “Halloween-costume slutty.” And my body type doesn’t magically make me put out. Sorry. I may have boobs, but that doesn’t mean I let just any asshole touch them.
Instead, I’m a little more discerning. I hold out for those guys who see the smile, the passion for NPR, and the love of literature that make me, well, me. Sure, they like the boobs, but they see the actual person behind them, too. And theyâ€™re able to see all that because I carry myself with my head held high, my back straight, and my chest puffed.