Small Titties

A fairytale.

When I was twelve years old, I prayed for a flat chest.

Big breasts scared me. Even at my young age, I knew women weren’t supposed to have too big of anything, and that if we did, we’d be looked at. So, I frequently got on my knees, and prayed to God: “Please, please God, do not give me big boobs.”

And He did deliver.

As I got older and hit puberty, I forgot about my childhood prayers. By then, most of my friends had at least B-Cups, and I figured that was an okay size to have. I had started to crave male attention, and had begun to appreciate the power of having C’s, or D’s. What would mine turn into? I waited.

Age 14. Size A32. Year 1800.

Not growing boobs is sort of like waiting for a text from a crush. You never assume they just won’t text at all. That would be crazy. They’ll show up. They’ll show up. Just give them time. They’ll call anyyyy day now.

I turned fifteen, but still didn’t worry. I’m still growing! We’re all still growing. Isn’t that beautiful…

Then one night, when I was sixteen, my flat chest suddenly… Ached. I woke up the next morning, looked down at my chest, and saw the tiniest stretch marks I’d ever seen. My boobs had grown, maybe half an inch. I knew in that moment, it was over.

I’m gonna pause right here and spoil the ending of this essay. This isn’t an essay covering the long arduous arc from insecurity to acceptance. This is a love story. A love so pure, so made up of peaks and lacking in valleys, it may as well be a commercialized fairytale.

When I say I don’t have boobs, I don’t mean I’m missing cleavage. I don’t mean I only have A-Cups. I mean, I don’t have boobs. I mean, I can still fit into the first bra my mom every bought me, when I was twelve. I mean, I wore that bra into my twenties.

Here’s the thing, I never learned to accept my flat chest. I never had to. I have simply, always loved having a flat chest. Sure, sometimes I felt less womanly, but, I loved that too. In fact, the only part of my body I was insecure about were my womanly curves, my child bearing hips. That being said, I still identify as a heteronormative woman. I love feeling feminine. I love wearing floral dresses, getting gussied up and being courted. It’s just that I happen to feel most attractive with my boyish, flat chest. I happen to feel my most comfortable, exuding androgyny.

I asked a boyfriend once if he liked my small breasts. “I don’t mind them,” He said. Bitch… I thought. “I don’t want you not to ‘mind them’,” I said, “I want you to like them.”

I recently heard someone describe gender as an experience between two people; that we’re all our own, unique person, until we have to present ourselves to society. When I present myself to men, I know that for the most part, they think of me as lacking an important physical attribute. This is frustrating because, sometimes, I want to have sex with them. I want to be desirable. Yet, I resent even the notion, that my tits might not be considered perfect.

I’ve had guys attempt to buoy my self-esteem, by saying my boobs aren’t “that small”. I promise you, they are! I’ve also had men tell me that they’re “more of an ass-man.” Cool, I don’t really have one of those either! I’m sure these well-meaning comments are intended to be flattering, but they’re unbelievably annoying. They imply that I need help feeling good about a personal shortcoming. When in fact, I like my flat chest.

A painting I had commissioned by the artist Grace Steele.

For a long time, I felt guilt around enjoying my small boobs. It felt wrong. Like I was ignoring the mandate on what the female body should look like. I’ve spoken to other flat chested women who feel the same. Are we allowed to feel good about ourselves, with bodies that break the rules? We’re stepping out of society with a star-crossed love, shedding what we’ve been sold, what we’ve been told about ourselves. Won’t everyone get mad?

See, I understand people being angry at me, for disobeying our culture’s implicit orders. I once was laughing with a co-worker, while I showed him some wildly unattractive pictures of myself. Another co-worker looked bothered, “Why would you purposefully look ugly?” He asked. “I think it’s funny” I replied. He mumbled something to himself about not understanding why it’d be funny. Oh, I thought to myself, he resents my disregard for his approval.