It can start innocently. A tap on the shoulder, a crooked smile. Maybe an invitation to buy me a drink. and then, we get down to business: “So, how big are your boobs?”
Look, I’m used to getting unsolicited comments about my body. My waist should be this small. My hair should be that color. I should have a thigh gap.
Generally, I can and do ignore the things people say about what people say about my body and what it should be. But when a dude offers his advice, thoughts or opinions on my chest, I can’t. Past things I have heard from fellas about my boobs range from “Your boobs are so great” to “How big are they?!”
One (horrifying) time, a dude said, mid-hook up, “Wow, your tits are so much nicer than my girlfriend’s.” (A girlfriend I didn’t know existed until that moment.)
Let me give you a little piece of advice, guys: Stop. Just stop.
Here’s the thing. I like my boobs. Really, I do. They’re nice. Whatever. As with anything, there are pros and cons to having a larger-than-average bra size. Sometimes they look absolutely killer in a certain dress. Sometimes I get free drinks because of them. But sometimes I can’t buy a shirt I really want because they won’t fit. Sometimes they get in the way when I’m training for a 5k.
The thing about my boobs is, well, they’re mine. I’ve lived with them for a pretty good chunk of my life. So even though they’re new to you, I pretty much know everything there is to know about my boobs, because, after all, they’re attached to my body. My nose is attached to my body as well, but I don’t see you analyzing how it looks in certain lights or how good it feels to touch. Because that would be weird.
Thank you for letting me know, but I am very much aware that my chest is big. I became aware that my boobs were attractive to dudes in middle school when a kid on my bus offered me money to flash him. I knew they were big when I started crying in the dressing room because nothing was deemed “appropriate” by my conservative mother when we were shopping for homecoming dresses in high school. And I was really aware of my chest when I went to a bar in college and a drunk dude straight-up asked if he could ejaculate on them. So thank you, kind sir, for letting me know that my boobs fall under the general umbrella of “large and therefore attractive.”
I understand that you like my boobs, I really do. I like them, too. Boobs are fun. But please, let’s not dedicate a full five minutes discussing the merits of them.
My bra size is none of your business. If I give you some specifics, is that going to mean anything to you? No. I guarantee you will have absolutely no concept of what the difference is between 38B and 36C. So unless you’re planning on going out to Victoria Secret right now to buy me a $50 bra, it’s really none of your goddamn business what size bra I’m wearing. (And I prefer the bras at Aerie, anyway.)
When you ask about the size of my bra, you are fetishizing my body in a way that makes me extremely uncomfortable. My body is more than the size of my breasts. I am more than the size of my body. So please don’t reduce me to a series of numbers and letters that you can file away in your mind. It’s pretty offensive, and frankly, it’s boring being objectified in such a baseless way.
If you’re going to fixate on a single aspect of my physical anatomy, at least do so in a more creative way than my neighborhood cat-caller.
There are so many other avenues you could choose to go down, in terms of compliments. I understand that you want to talk about my boobs because you want to say something sexy and it’s not really the right mood to flatter me by telling me you think my Twitter presence is amusing (though I would be really stoked if you did.) You want to say something that matches the mood.
But I would really prefer a “I really like the way you do this,” or “It’s sexy when you let me do that,” rather than the very pedestrian “I like the way your tits are big.”
After all, I didn’t ask for them. The only thing I did to get these was have a certain set of genetics. What I did put effort into is: the cool way I ordered a brandy-old fashioned on our date, the spotless apartment I cleaned before you came over, and the impressive cat-eye makeup I watched several YouTube tutorials to master.
Pick one of those things, tell me I did them well and you might just have another chance to see me sans shirt again.