Big Ones...!

I’ve got big ones. Not the Dolly Parton big ones, but yes, big ones. But then, big ones are valued only if they are big, and firm. Pam Anderson set the standards impossibly high for the rest of the womankind. And so, in my case, no man has ever salivated at them; and no woman has ever envied them. Had it not been for the bras, of which, thanks to my dimensions, only the most unattractive ones walk into my wardrobe, they would have reached down to my knees. But I managed to rein them in time.

One day, as I sat surfing the net, they popped out of the harness and said, “We want freedom. Liberate us. NOW.”
“Hallo? You two talking to me? I shall do nothing of the sort. Now duck right back in, and stay still. I like neither blabbering nor jiggling boobs. Have I made myself clear?”
I shoved them back where they belong, and having quelled the mini mutiny, forgot all about them next moment and went back to answering emails.

A few minutes later, I felt shooting pains in my boobs. This was untimely. They mess around with me only at the height of my PMS. That’s when they become tender and gooey, and irritatingly sensitive, and swell up to double their already gargantuan size threatening to tear at the seams of all my clothes. Basically, become a pain. But my bad times had just got over. And I saw no reason for this untimely insane temperament.

I looked down and saw the mischief mongers out again doing high fives. They sneered at me and said, “You don’t let us out, and we wont let you in peace!”

“Bitches!!” I screamed, and forcefully shoed them back in again. “In you go. You deserve to be thrashed and shown your proper place.”

But any one who has faced rebellion on any front knows only too well that simmering mutiny can never be doused. And so, that day on, it became a constant tussle between them and me. To tell you the truth, they did make my life miserable. They would pop out from the sides of the swim suit moment I would emerge from the water, they would pop out from the harness moment I stepped out in a figure hugging t-shirt exposing ugly multi-tiered secrets, would become impossibly overactive when I would be out jogging, start itching while I was in a theatre watching a movie, would squiggle and twitch around so that my bra hooks would get unclasped on their own right in the middle of the market place, and behave unpredictably mean all the time.

I gave up in less than a week.


“All right, let us talk. Tell me what your demands are.”

I saw them winking at each other. If I had my way, I would have dismembered them and thrown away from my body. Honestly, I didn’t need them, and I was tired of lugging them around for years. A trainer at a gym had once leeringly sized up my dimensions and commented that these, by themselves, add two kilos to my body weight. He had offered, as part of a month long weight reduction fitness regimen, personally massaging them to ease and melt the fat away. Thanks, but no thanks, and I had walked off without enrolling for the programme.

“We don’t want to be behind bras. We’ve had enough.”
“Sorry. But that’s not negotiable.”
“That is our demand. Accede or face the consequences.”
“But it’s an impossible demand. How do you expect me to make a cow of myself moving around with these pendulous humongous masses of embarrassment? Think of another demand, maybe I shall give in to that. What about a say, massage or something? I promise a dedicated hot oil massage this week for you two.”
“NO.”
“Ok, twice a week, for the rest of your lives. Ok?”
“NO. We want liberation. We believe in bra-burning. Off with it, off with it.”
“Ah! Listen, let me try and explain. Have a nice long look at yourselves. And look at me too. By some coincidence, you both and I are not exactly petite-framed femme fatales. You agree?”
They nodded.
“Now, going bra-less with this frame isn’t particularly pleasing to the eyes. You agree?”
“No we don’t. We don’t care whether others like it or not. We want to breathe easy. Period.”

At my wit’s end by now, I asked aloud what had suddenly gotten to their heads.

“We read the article you were reading the other day in the newspaper. Fashion divas walking the ramp bra-less, proudly displaying what lies beneath.”
“But that was New York. And on the ramp. Men without balls and women without tits sit thru those shows. Watching asset-less bare bodied models stirs up no one there. You and I are in the real world. Now come, good girls, shed your madness, and let’s be friends again. Ok?”

I need not have bothered explaining. It was a no-go with them. We hit an impasse. And I finally lost my temper.
“Fine. You two shall get what you want. And let’s see how long you can handle it on your own.”

So, after putting away all my bras, I holed myself up indoors. I went overboard with DVDs, books, magazines, reading even the sports news in every daily. I slept. And started online dance lessons and took to the skipping rope in the mornings. Called a masseuse over and got myself pampered once daily, with strict instructions not to touch the defected two. Life was bliss.

With no fixed center of gravity, and with all that jiggling, my back did start aching, but there’s nothing a little bit of yoga cant cure, so there I, as fighting fit and living it up indoors as I’d been outdoor earlier.

But the mood was no longer upbeat on the other side of the fence! Ailments soon began striking our twin ladies. Though careful not to tell me anything, their silent murmurs and hush-hush groans floated right into my ears every now and then. Of course, I feigned complete nonchalance.
And then it was, finally, on the eight day, the two of them sheepishly snaked upto me and said they’d had enough. They were in pain, a lot of it, and they needed support.
Support! Ha! Without much ado, I quickly unpacked the drawer load of bras and hooked on. And felt the body equilibrium back in place! Victory!