Small can still be fun. Continue reading
Tag: flat-chested
Sinful Sunday: Anything more than a camera …
As a young teenager, being flat-chested bothered me a lot. Mainly because I used to get teased, by boys and girls alike, for having little to nothing up front; my boyish shape was apparently not ‘normal’ or attractive to either sex. I wasn’t a storm in a B-cup, let alone an A-cup – and I cannot even begin to describe my hysterical joy when I managed to get my hands on a Wonderbra at around age sixteen. (Excitement city as I went from flat plain to small hillock.)
It wasn’t until my early twenties that I really started to become comfortable with my lack of chest but while I would like to say that my acceptance of my body shape was largely down to my own sense of self and growing maturity, I really have to credit my change in attitude to a handful of wonderful partners, including M (despite him being a self-confessed ‘boob man’), who were unfailingly positive about my body’s landscape – to borrow a line from Bridget Jones – just as it was.
So this picture is an homage to that cliched phrase that I’m sure all of us small-chested girls have heard at one time or another, ‘Anything more than a handful’s a waste’. Or in this case, ‘anything more than a camera …’. Continue reading
Flat-chested heroines
You have fifteen seconds to name a fictional heroine who doesn’t have an amazing rack. And your time starts … now!
[Magic blog time-lapse technology]
Couldn’t do it? Eh, don’t sweat it. Seems they’re in pretty short supply.
I am flat-chested. And when I say ‘flat chested’, I don’t mean small hillock, gala apple, or half an orange. I mean like a blackboard. Little House on the Prairie flat. As a teenager, it used to bother me a lot. All the girls around me wore bras, filled out their tops and generally had the whole womanly shape thing going on. Me? Let’s just say there wasn’t (and still isn’t) much between me and an ironing board.
These days I’m perfectly fine with my flatness but there’s no denying that, as a society, we’re pretty damn obsessed with breasts. And, as far as the media is concerned, if you’re not sporting a pair of perfectly-shaped D cups then you might as well pack up and go home. Much to my dismay, however, it seems that the big-breasted ideal has set up shop and commenced trading in a lot of romantic and erotic fiction, too. Continue reading