I must have gotten my love of fashion from my mother. She wrote a style column for a women’s health monthly, and took home free copies of couture magazines with beguiling names like Crash, Oyster and Purple. As an idle sixteen-year-old I spent hours going through them, cutting out pictures to tape into my fashion “idea book.”

I hoped to be a runway model myself, one day, and I had every reason to think I’d have a shot at it. First, I was pretty, with strong cheekbones and wide-set eyes. Also, my mother and big sister were both tall, with broad shoulders, and the natural elegance of Siamese cats. Modeling was in my genes. Mind you, I was still the shortest girl in my class, but that was surely temporary. Soon enough, puberty would finish the job it had started; my legs be as long as my Mom’s, and I would come into my natural inheritance of lean and angular beauty. As soon as that happened, I would fly off to Paris, and spend my days feeding on brioches and fending off papparazzi.

Somehow, I overlooked the fact that there were women on my Dad’s side of the family, as well: a long line of curvy, swervy Sicilians, not one of them over five feet tall and every one of them a red-hot, sweater-bending “tettona.” Alas, it was from that gene pool that I inherited “the family ass", my version of which is as smooth and plump as a Pachino tomato; and it was from that side of the family that I received the other great blessing and curse of my adult life: “them.”  

When “they” arrived, it happened so fast I barely knew what hit me. It took me completely by surprise, because the boob fairy had already stopped by, quite a long time ago, leaving me with perky little booblets, nicely proportioned to my skinny frame. I figured they were all I’d get, and was fine with that, provided I grew eight or ten inches taller. But my body had other plans.

If you haven’t gone through something like this, you might find it hard to appreciate how fast things can change. Sometimes a woman with big boobs will tell you “they grew overnight,” which really is how it feels. It doesn’t mean that they literally reached their full size in 12 hours. You don’t just go to bed as flat as a boy, and wake up with a couple of pumpkins in your PJ’s. But as strange as it sounds, that is exactly how it feels, even if it actually takes weeks or months.The changes affect everything in your life, and your mind and emotions can't keep up.

In my case, I went from a being able to count my upper ribs to not being able to see my feet, in a matter of weeks. When something like that happens, you have a lot of new stuff to deal with.  And, if you want to get complainy, you have lots to sob about, too.

First: stretch marks. "Instatits” are really hard on your skin. As my boobs were stretching out my clothes, they were also stretching my skin, leaving a little fan of angry red lines around my armpits. The red faded away a long time ago, and I kind of like the little ridges that remain, but when it first happened I was devastated, and tearfully threw all my tank tops right in the burn barrel.

Second, it’s really expensive. In the middle of my little growth spurt, I barely had time to snip the price tag off one bra before I had to go buy a new a bigger one. At first, you can get what you need cheap, at the local mall, but as you march up through the alphabet, the cost/cup ratio shoots up exponentially, and it gets harder to find anything that fits. If, like me, you have a tiny back (28“ band size!) and absolutely insane cups (I’m not telling), you can forget about looking good at a fair price.

I had other kinds of adjusting to do, which took an emotional toll. My dream of being a model--at least the kind of model who poses in clothes--was made instantly ridiculous. My modeling career was washed away in a flood of estrogen. I pretty much stopped growing taller. I topped out at a bit over 5 feet, if I stand bolt upright with my chin in the air (“tits out,” as my fitness coach says). With my slim waist and dainty shoulders, I am an extreme example of what fashion gurus call an “hourglass body type”. In my case, there is enough sand in the glass to place haute couture well out of reach. I can pull off certain looks--Japanese street fashion is my go-to style--but, classic fashions just look strange on me. To turn Bogey’s words around, “I will never have Paris.”

I gave up ballet, the day I caught an eyeful of my distended Danskins in the studio mirror. It‘s hard to perform a perfect sissone, with a massively unbalanced upper body joggling around chaotically, and eight inches of cleavage-sweat drenching your leotard. I gave up sleeping face down, and began wearing a bra under my nightie, because I was constantly sore. I stopped running, because of “them.” Even a brisk walk can get a certain fatal rhythm started, and if you don’t pause once in a while to break up the bouncey-bounce, you will literally stop traffic.

Which brings me to the main fact of life any girl with huge boobs has to face. Wherever you go, no matter how you dress, “they” will attract attention. In fact, they’ll attract all the attention. You will have to get used to living in their shadow, eclipsed by your own tits. They will be more popular than you, more interesting than anything you say and more entertaining than anything you do.You might feel, as I sometimes do, as if you are tagging along with two really cool, outgoing friends that everybody wants to meet. If the conversation isn’t literally about them, it is often directed to them. People (and not just guys) literally talk to your boobs, as if they were not just unusually big, but also sentient. You become this sort of quiet, distant person, watching the party from the far side of the tits.

It’s nobody’s fault, it’s just how we’re wired. When you have boobs like mine, your whole body shape implies “sex,” whether you mean it to or not. You can try to have an ordinary conversation about sport or the weather, but “they” will interrupt you with their favorite topic, sex. You will be talking to a guy, and all of a sudden he will blush, and look past you, and you know that he is trying, and failing, not to think about sex, because that is what your boobs are saying to him, over and over again. Sex. Sex. Sex.

Nobody is immune. Respected elders--teachers and coaches and ministers--will make the mistake of glancing, ever so briefly, at your chest, and become flustered and start talking too fast. Girlfriends can’t help making bawdy jokes about them, which I suppose is their way of working out whatever “boob issues” they have (and what girl doesn’t have those?). Strangers snap pictures of them from car windows. Female lovers will envy them, and male lovers will keep finding new and creative ways to splatter them with cum.

And, as long as I’m being honest, I am as interested in them as anyone else.

The truth is, they turn me on. They did right from the start. The bigger they grew, the sexier they made me feel, and I was not shy about showing them off. Even as I had to give up doing things I loved, I was proud of what my mother called my “womanly figure.” I wasn’t one of those girls who slumped forward to conceal them, or tried to hide them under baggy clothes. I took to wearing tight knits and close-buttoned blouses, and plunge bras that served up my chest like a big bowl of delicious fruit. I was incredibly vain about them. As I joggled and jounced along the city streets, I would sneak sidelong looks at myself in the store windows, and I liked what I saw. I’m ashamed to admit it, now, but I would even check out other women, sizing them up as I went along, thinking, “I’m bigger than her...and her...and her.”

It sounds absurd, I know, and I would have died of embarrassment if anyone had known what I was thinking.

So, as long as I’m laying it all on the table, I won’t deny that being “big" also gave me a bit of a kinky thrill, which hastened my growth as a sexual person. I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror, and lift them up to feel their weight; I’d push them together with my hands, release them suddenly to watch them fall, swaying heavily from side to side. I’d caress them until the nipples stood out, and I would pinch them a bit, which would make me feel sexy as hell. Soon, one hand would wander down to check out the curve of my hips, the ripe contours of my ass, and then it would find its way under my panty-elastic to the wetness below, and one thing would lead to another. It was during one of those “self-appreciation sessions” that I surprised myself with my very first orgasm. So, I can thank my big boobs (with due credit to the pulse setting on our flexible shower head) for helping me discover the pleasure of self-pleasure.

In a way, then, having tits “too big to ignore” kind of woke up the idea of sex in me. Wherever I went, there they were, being sexy, turning other people on. I could see for myself how my body could be arousing to other people. When I fondled myself in the mirror--or ran my hands over myself--I was sort of picturing myself through the eyes of an imaginary lover, if that makes sense.  As self-centered as it must sound, my own tits were the most sexually stimulating thing in the whole world.

It was around this time that my cousin Josh showed me his stash of porno magazines. We still had dialup internet, then, so these were not the kind of pictures I would have run across on my own. I remember looking at these very made-up girls, with their shaved cunts and exotic poses, and finding them incredibly exciting. I was so drawn to them that I had to wonder if perhaps I might even be a lesbian (half true, as it turned out). And, leafing through his pinups, I realized something else, which amazed me: I was bigger than any of them. These so-called “big tit” models--girls who were so special that people actually paid to take pictures of them, pictures that made boys like Josh jerk themselves off--had smaller boobs than me!

And being desired by boys, making them want to jerk off, well that seemed like the best possible thing.

I had helped my cousin do it, once, and it gave me a thrill that has never left me. It is hard to explain why this was such a big deal, but I think it had to do with the realization that my body could have such dramatic, physiologically conspicuous, effects on a man. My tits had this weird power, the ability to stiffen a guy’s cock just by being themselves. It worked from a distance: simply looking at me from five feet away had given cousin Josh a skinny boner you could see right through his pants. At closer quarters their power was greater still. We fooled around for a while, and I let him reach under my shirt, while I explored the contents of his cargo shorts. As soon as he had slipped one hand under the wires of my bra, I felt his hard little stick twitching and jumping in my hand. Suddenly, a few drops of fluid sputtered out of it, and then a thin line of the stuff shot right up my sleeve, and he sort of groaned helplessly and shuddered like he had the flu. I knew all about sperm, but what was news to me was that just touching my tits could make little strings of it come flying out of a guy’s penis, My boobs were magic!

In the years since, I’ve had lots of chances to use that power. One night, on a long-distance bus, I made my boyfriend cum in his jeans simply by opening the top buttons of my shirt and sort of pressing myself against him. I did lightly stroke the hard place in his crotch, but not very hard, and not for very long. “They” did most of the work, and it was magic.

Another time, I was with a man whose penis was just too big for comfortable intercourse. I am a small woman, with a correspondingly short vagina, and being jabbed in the cervix by a gnarly nine-inch cock is no fun at all. It feels about as good as menstrual cramps. I wasn’t even sure I could get my mouth around that gruesome thing. So, I lay “Mr. Big” down on the bed, with his overgrown cock sticking out over his abdomen, and I sort of draped myself over him on all fours, with my tits swinging beneath me. I brushed one of my stiff nipples over the shaft of his cock, repeatedly pulling the weight of my boob across the soft upper surface of his dick. It took about two minutes. When he climaxed, it was with such force that he shot a blob of semen right into his own face, before drenching his chest hair in white goo.

That was a one-off, but a memorable one.

My “magic boobs" work with some women, too, especially those who have some kind of “breast dominance” kink (more common than you might think: some girls just want to be fucked by “Mom”, I reckon). For a few years, I was in a relationship with a college classmate who couldn’t keep her hands and lips off them, to the point where I actually kind of envied her. Sukie was skinny and super-cute, with a wide mouth and a broad forehead. She looked just like a little elf. I adored her, and her clever tongue knew everything there was to know about my clit. She had no boobs of her own, but she was mighty fond of mine. She would bury her face in my bosom and wrap her lean, muscled thighs around my soft womanly ones, and thrust against me until she came, with all sorts of extravagant vocalizations.  It was like being humped by a monkey.

In the end, though, it just made me wish I too had a big pair to bury my face in. In the end, a boy-chested pixie was not what I was looking for. When I think about it, what I really crave in a partner might not exist outside of manga. The perfect match for me would have a body exactly like mine, but also a penis: a sleek one, not too hairy and not too long. Yup, I’d like to hook up with someone who has it all: big soft tits on top, and a dapper little cock below. The best of both worlds. Is that too much to ask?

Luckily, nice penises are easy to find, provided you’re not too fussy about who is attached to them; and wherever I go, I will always have my own boobs to fondle and share.  Despite all the heartache and inconvenience they have caused me, I love them madly. I’m not jokey about them, as many women are. I don’t slap them affectionately and call them “the girls,” or “the twins,” or give them cutesy names. I’m kind of in awe of them, still. In fact, my attitude toward my whole body is essentially reverent.  

If that sounds like narcissism, fine. I prefer to see it as a deeply human thing. Boob worship has been with us as long as we’ve on this sweet planet. That’s why you see women with bodies identical to mine in ancient cult objects, like the slim-waisted “snake goddess” figurines of ancient Crete, or the sculptures of my Babylonian soul-sister, the sex and fertility goddess Ishtar. Look closely at some Hindu temples, and you’ll find girls who look exactly like me carved into the walls: slim, compactly built round-cheeked chicks, with flaring hips and breasts like kharbooza melons.

My tits are not only magic, they’re timeless!

So, yes: I grope my own boobs, I do. I’m not ashamed of that. If other people love them, why shouldn’t I? When I step out of the shower in the morning, and wipe the steam from the mirror, admiring the way my long brown hair splays out over the tops my breasts, I run my small hands over them, testing their weight, probing the little stretch marks around the armpits, letting the nipples harden under my fingers.  One thing leads to another.

Writing this is making me moist. So, if you will excuse me...