A Bustier Changed my Big, Saggy, Mom-Boobed Life

The luxe lace forms exquisitely around the molded cups, and sucks in my mid-section.  There is built in boning in between the lace. I hook the 10 tiny clasps on my back.  I let out some air, and take a look at myself in the mirror.

My breasts are high.  They’re spilling out of the cups- in a sexy, not sloppy way.  My stomach is perfectly slimmed by the bustier.

I run my hands down both sides of my rib cage, and turn 30 degrees in the mirror.

I look at my body, for once, approvingly.

I turn 30 degrees the other way to examine the other side.

BAM. This thing is worth every penny. Dollar. Hundred. 
Feelin' mah self. Ya hurd me?

Lingerie transforms my post-baby lumps and bumps, into a smooth and sexy silhouette.
The black lace makes me feel bodacious, sensuous, spicy.
I’m a bad, sexy, mutha-bout to get fuckered in this mesh.

The corset makes me feel in control of my body.  I own the sex I’ll have in this get-up.
I rule this raunch.

A romantic rendousvous with my ravenous Romeo. Okay fine, sorry for the spoiler - the only sex in the champagne room is with my huusssssbbbaannddd. Booorrrriingggggggg.

But, before my corset, I wasn’t so confident.
I’ve wanted a breast reduction since college.  I’ve longed for a smaller rack.

I’m a size 6 (8 if I eat pasta that day) around my waist – with a size “F” rack.   That’s right, 32 inches around my rib cage – F boobs.  Ohhhh, boo hoo over my bodacious boobs. Right?

Not so much.  Because my boobs protrude out from my belly at such a long length, I do indeed, look pregnant.

Some shirts, 3 months, others I look 6-months pregnant.  I can’t buy a shirt that accommodate my boobs without looking pregnant, or utterly slutty.  It’s homely, or whorely.

I’ve hated every outfit on me because of my boobs.
I’ve been unable to buy cheap bikinis because of these boobs.
I’ve been banned to the ugly bra section in the department store.
I’ve gone through humiliating plastic surgery consultations – where the doctor requests you to put your arms up like air plane arms– while they draw on your breasts with black marker – and take pictures.
I’ve endured endless back pain, several chiropractor appointments, and X-rays and MRI’s and physical therapy.
I’ve begged insurance companies to consider covering the costs of a breast reduction.  Of course, they wouldn’t.  Unless, I was morbidly obese.
How insurance companies figure out the financial formula for a breast reduction is beyond my F-cup comprehension.

All of that changed when I found a bra boutique.  Every combination of cups and underwire and straps, and hooks.  Every possible mixture of fabrics and colors.  All pretty. FOR MY SIZE.

Over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders aren’t always the prettiest product in sight. Especially the ginormous ones.
They’re mostly beige, black or white.  They’re mostly designed with the most hideous, granny fabric alive. And yet, they hold my out-control breasts in place.

How am I supposed to feel bone-able in those bras?

Back in the changing room, I shimmy, shake, pull and tuck myself into these tit-tumblers.
It’s instant satisfaction.
My bosom is beautiful.  I am beautiful.

Breast-feeding my babies didn’t ruin my boobs.  They filled them to a beyond “F” cup size, then deflated them to a new “F”….fucking flabby. "Sloppy" as my 6-year old daughter tells me.

Two years after breastfeeding my boobs are feeble-filled pockets with a most motherly, meniscus.
My kids transformed my ta-tas.

My teats were torturous.

Now,  in this contraption of a corset - they’re are terrific. It's all about silver-linings folks....er I mean underwire and boning in bra.

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