Having F-cups can be an uplifting experience, declares Nicky Falkof – but they can also drag down.
I remember that day like it was only yesterday. There I was, being waltzed around the college canteen by my gorgeous gay friend Guy (like you do), when he stopped mid-spin and held me out at arm’s length. “My God, babe,” he said. “Your tits are huge.” And, I suddenly realised, they really were.
I came relatively late to the thrilling world of the Mega-Boob. One day I was a slightly underdeveloped 17-year-old who couldn’t get a boyfriend; the next I was in possession of a pair of norks no one could ignore. I went from invisible to wolf whistle-magnet in what seemed like minutes, and it was probably the speed of the transformation that made it a little, let’s say, awkward.
At first my attitude to my new breasts was, “Wahey! Let’s play!”. I quickly acquired a wardrobe of indecently tight, indecently low-cut tops – not exactly flattering considering my chest isn’t the only body part that’s generous of proportion – and I proceeded to get them out on every occasion. The free drinks flowed thick and fast, but the novelty quickly dried up. My innate feminist rage kicked back in and I got sick of men always making eye contact with my clavicles.
This spurred a period of high necklines and failed attempts to minimise my chestage. Such was my desperation for a while that I tried to fool my boobs into B-cups, leading to more than a few instances of the dreaded ‘double bust’ effect. And so it went until my early 20s; my poor bosoms were either winched up for maximum effect or strapped down in an attempt to emphasise my brains.
And then there was the question of underwear. As I got older, and inevitably larger, I self-diagnosed new bra sizes every few years, going from a 34C to a 38D in the same dull department store style. Imagine my shock when I finally found a decent lingerie shop and was informed that I’m a comfortable 32F, which sounds far sexier (and looks it too). It was a seminal experience; once I got myself into the right size I was suddenly liberated from double bubbles, pointy boobs, bras that looked like they required engineering degrees to put on and terrifying constructions that should never be foisted upon anyone unless they’re breastfeeding. Or Jordan. I entered a world of silk, lace and perfectly smooth lines, where my defensive hunch seemed unnecessary and there were ways to display my assets without looking like they had a price tag on them.
These days, halternecks still confound me and I’m never going to pull off heroin chic, but I own a strapless bra that actually works. This is nothing short of miraculous. It turns out that the trick with ginormous bosoms, like with all dangerous weapons, is knowing how to use them.
Nicky Falkof is writer and academic based in Johannesburg, South Africa.
