By Kate Carey
I have a strange relationship with my tits. As most women do. The weird thing is that they’re not really a sex organ but are sexualized in that way. Which makes it really confusing. For a long time whenever I went out with my skinny ass friends, I took special care to make sure my cleavage looked redonkulous. As a sort of talisman. ‘Hey look at these and let it distract you from the fact that I am obviously not comfortable in my skin next to these perfectly curved goddesses.’
Part of me loved my tits. But only when they were heaved into thick underwire, lifting these boulders much higher on my chest. As soon as I took that bra off, I cursed them. Pendulous, nipples pointed downward facing dog. Lower than they should be, elongated like unflated balloons- A Sad birthday party. Hearing the slap slap of their bouncing, swing low sweet chariot, as I ran down the stairs made me cringe with resentment.
Sometimes I hated them in the bra too. Shirts were in theory work appropriate until I sat down and it was sudden betrayal. You told me you were cool. How come half of ya’ll is up over the braline?! Get back in your cage! I read books – you know those precious made for girls in middle school books-where girls were teased into wearing bras by sisters who warned them that if they didn’t hoist into a bra, their tits would “wind up looking like those saggy ladies in National Geographic.” But what’s so wrong with saggy tits? The saggy tits in those magazines gave nourishment to stacks of babies, growing them into adulthood. Where would any of us be without our mom’s saggy tits? Okay, I was a formula baby but that’s not the point. Where was my point? I am sure I lost it a while back but let my pointed nipples get us back on track.
Sometimes I feel like the giant from the beanstalk when I am bra free. Fee Fi Fo Fum. Bitch you better not expect me to run. I was afraid of vigorous activity with my tits swinging free in the wind. I had this fear that someday I was going to run too fast bra free and demolish a hole into a building. Like some bad end of the world saga. SAG-A. get it? ‘cause they sag.
My tits have gotten me in trouble a few times. Their low gravity is deemed inappropriate to modern society. Going braless is frowned upon outside. Somehow it is okay to see nipples through a shirt if they are perky, but if your tits are mushy fatballs with cross-eyed nipples suddenly you are a “person of Walmart.”
But when wearing a bra cleavage occurs. I’ve gotten in trouble at my office setting job for my boobs leaking out. Like I can combat their “hello” without wearing a turtleneck. Yes, when I cross my fat arms , one boob pops up higher like a stalker looking to hightail it from the bushes. Get over it.
Years of having boobs, reading about boobs, looking at boobs, following fat activists on social media, therapy and most importantly, realizing I am a lesbian, have finally relieved me of the burden of pretending I need to present my body a certain way. I am a fat bitch with saggy tits. And now I kinda like ‘em that way.
Kate Carey (she/her) is a fat queer polyamorous slut who sometimes spends whole days in bed crying because feelings are hard. She has lived in Philly all her life (a blessing and a curse). Through deeply personal poetry and creative nonfiction, she touches on issues relating to trauma, fat liberation, mental illness and sexuality. You can find more about her on her homepage, Twitter, and Instagram.