Tit. Talk. Tit. Talk. Tit. Talk.

I’d like to be frank.
Not a man named Frank. Just frank.
Frank about boobs.
Lots of people have them. I have two. They’re pretty cool.
It took me a long, long, long time to think they’re pretty cool.
When I was younger, I couldn’t be frank about my boobs. They shamed me.
I was thirteen and hated myself for not having the hot tits of a developed woman. I wanted to be like Alysa Milano or Uncle Jesse’s wife on Full House. I had high standards, you see. And while all my other friends were sprouting, I was a boy with a ponytail.

During that awkward junior high period, I HAD TO BE PERFECT. I can guess, but I’m not quite sure from where this controlling neurosis came. I insisted on straight A's. I needed to have popular friends. And I spent hours... HOURS... in the school bathroom with my portable curling iron perfecting the wave of my bangs. I controlled all these elements, so the fact that I could not force my own breasts to grow was utterly painful. I wanted big boobs. I wanted to attract men with cars. I knew they were somehow connected.

This was before the teenage plastic surgery craze of today, a time when silicone was still something only weird Californians knew about. I didn’t even think to beg my mom for implants. Instead I stole her bras. I think it’s pertinent to the story (sorry mom) to state that my mom’s bras were...um... very large. I filled them with anything at first. I went through shoulder pads, paper wads, and even water balloons. I settled on some skin-colored pads I got at the fancy swimsuit store. They weren’t my skin color; they were someone else’s skin color.

I was sure these pads made me look like a pin-up. With this new set of perfect breasts, I pranced around like Rudolph, sure that this new, top-heavy bod would manifest the kind of guy with a Ford Escort or maybe a Geo Storm, the kind of guy who wore overalls with one strap unsnapped. Others didn’t share my vision. You see, everyone at school knew I stuffed. Not just because I miraculously grew mom-sized knockers one day. More because I was so careless. I wore very revealing bodysuits (yes, bodysuits) with my Bongo jeans, and the pads were constantly peeking out the sides. Plus, I didn’t really have any cleavage. It was just very obvious that something was amiss. Yet, in denial I stewed. So much so, that I wore those not-my-skin-color pads until they were really not my skin color. They turned black from daily use and sweat. And years of wear. Years. When I got a lifeguarding job at sixteen, I finally moved on to another form of padded bra that I could sew into my bathing suit. SEW! I had somehow convinced myself that nobody would like me if they saw the real size of my non-existent boobs.

Finally, something clicked that set me free. I don’t remember what it was, but let’s say it was profound. Maybe I found two small pebbles in a clearing. I don’t know, but one day during my junior year I finally FINALLY finally ditched my pads (or cocoa puffs, as some of my peers called them). I embraced my small tits. And to this day, I wear them proudly like I would a polar bear skin if I were in some indigenous Eskimo tribe. I love them. They work well in tank tops. They point to people. They don’t really bounce around too much. They are rad. I’ll say it again: I fucking love my boobs.

Society, however, feels otherwise. Now, after all this work to accept my imperfectly perfect pancakes, bra makers no longer make bras in my size WITHOUT padding. They don’t exist in regular stores. I cannot buy a bra that doesn’t come with its own version of the not-my-skin-color pads. Victoria’s secret is that small boobs are not allowed out in the world.

WHAT?!

I’ve come so far and now this. I refuse to go back to my thirteen-year-old ways. I no longer strive to meet men in overalls. I cannot digress.

I’ve looked through racks and drawers and shelves for bras to find only items with cute names like ‘demi’ or ‘push-up’ or ‘Tshirt’-- all full of styrofoam. If I want an actual bra in my small size that’s just made of lace or fabric, I have to special order it from Spain. Special order! From a special store not unlike Manny’s Big & Tall Emporium. Being frank about your small tits in America is just as rare as measuring in at 7 ft tall. I’m interpreting this to mean not that I have a strange body, but that American standards are ridiculous. And that European men will appreciate my breasts. One day when I am gone, you will know that I’ve moved to Madrid. And that I did it for the boobs (and also to stalk Javier Bardem).

This may or may not be my boob shot by a fellow fan of small boobs, my fabulous photographer friend Leo Reinfeld.