A boob roundup? What the heck is a boob roundup? I giggled to myself as I imagined a bunch of us in a rodeo corral, riding on horses, topless and flaunting it. We were attempting to lasso each other’s beauties to win a double-D loving cup in the shape of a bra, for having the most sensational set of knockers.
Knockers? Who have I become? I’m like a teenage boy. And I'm mortified.
Boobs are beautiful. But why are they beautiful? They’re globes of flesh that are attached to our chests, they vary in shape, size, and color. Their primary function is to feed newborn babies.
When did two biologically-functional sacks of mammary glands become sexual objects?
I did a tiny bit of research, and read that the sexualization of breasts began in the 15th century and involved British kings, their mistresses, and of course, the church. That was enough for me, end of research. Methinks this is not a fact that needs much backup.
We all know the truth.
Women learned shame and fear because oh no, some man or teenage boy might assault us, taking what isn’t theirs to take. And goddess forbid a woman nurses her baby in public places. Women are still shamed for that. I’ve heard stories of men making passes at nursing mothers while they were feeding their children.
Maybe our fascination with them is a simple emotional longing to nurse at our mama’s bosom. That first relationship, the bond formed to fill our most basic needs, sustenance and safety; physical and emotional. Who doesn’t want that?
I felt sad when I found out I was a formula baby. Nursing fell out of fashion in the 1950s and 60s as women began to free themselves from the need to be latched to their children by the nipple. The culture was shifting, women wanted options. Presto! Thanks to the food industry’s move towards “convenience” (aka fast food), the miracle of nature’s perfect food was being erased. I felt like I missed out on something important, but I also understood women wanted to be released from that obligation that trapped them in a role they might not have wanted. But I was still curious to know what breast milk tasted like. I used to milk a cow at camp and got to taste the real thing whenever I wanted. It tastes nothing like the milk you’d buy at a supermarket, it’s so much better. But we were never meant to drink cow’s milk.
I did get to sample breast milk when I was in my thirties. I was dating a woman who was nursing her children. She offered me a sip directly from the source. How could I refuse? I couldn’t believe how sweet it was. When I tasted it, something essential in me was restored; I even cried a little. My curiosity was satisfied. I must admit, that on some level, the experience did feel sexual, but it was because it felt like I was doing something taboo. I wasn’t greedy even though there was a part of me that yearned to stay for more.
I think women’s breasts are lovely, and because of the way our society views them I guess they became sexual objects for me as I matured and pursued romantic partners. They’re soft and luscious. Delicious to cuddle into. A simple snuggle feels like coming home.
Women’s breasts aren’t just objectified by men; women objectify one another, too. Our mothers taught us to hide ourselves but also to use them as assets to attract mates. Men have taught us to be ashamed of our bodies but also expect us to flaunt them. They expect us to yield to their desire, however heavy-handed it may be. Some men think we’re property they can play with, whistle at, they yell slur at us, and seem to get off on making us feel uncomfortable and fearful, their actions can make us feel terrified for our safety.
I was taught about body shame at seven by some neighborhood kids on a hot summer day when I dared to leave my house in search of a sprinkler, wearing just my bikini bottom, no top. I was new in town, and I didn’t know the rules yet.
At seven, no one referred to my breasts as breasts. My chest was as flat as any boys’. Mine looked just like my brother’s. Up until that day, I was accustomed to wearing only the bottoms of my suits at the beach where we vacationed, before we moved to our new house in the suburbs.
The boys and even some of the girls laughed at me, and Keith, the kid down the block, who I thought was so cute, came up with a spontaneous ditty entitled “Tit Girl” set to the music of the 1960s Batman theme song and all the kids joined their voices and sang at me, mocking my choice of swimwear and my attempt to be myself. Keith thought he was so clever, and I guess he was, in a way. I still haven’t forgotten the lyrics or the music. I retreated to my bedroom, angry, confused, and yes, ashamed. Why couldn’t I do what the boys did? It didn’t make sense. And the worst part?
Even after Keith made fun of me, I still thought he was cute.
Which slang words for breasts did I miss? Put ‘em in the comments!
When I was in sixth grade, my nipples blossomed into little tender buds. And they remained little buds for a couple of years as I waited impatiently for my elusive period to begin. I didn’t need a bra, but wanted one anyway, partly because I wanted to fit in, but mostly, I wanted to hide my embarrassment. My little buds ached, and made me feel self-conscious and disconnected from my body. The body I used to feel okay about living in.
My mother gave in after much begging and took me to Ohrbach’s, the local department store. We rode up the escalator to lady’s lingerie, where I was assaulted by an eyeful of rows and rows of bras and girdles (yes, girdles) in beige, black, and white in a vast selection of sizes. I saw cup sizes that could hold breasts the size of oranges, some that were good for lemon-sized sweeties, and ones that could accommodate a cantaloupe… or two. For anything larger, it was special order all the way.
The ancient saleslady hobbled over, cat-eye glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, that bobbed against her huge boobs as she approached; she had a tissue tucked up her right sleeve, just like my Great Aunt Paulie. She stared directly at my chest and letting a derisive cackle escape her lips, declared, “She’s got nothing, she’s flat as a board.” Wow. Thanks. And to add emphasis to her statement, she reached out, tweaked my sore right nipple and said, over her shoulder, as she led us to the training bra display, “we have a training bra that will work, I’ll be right back.” She chose a garment that looked like my bikini tops, made from white cotton thermal underwear material. No little pink bows or flowers adorning it, like the ones some of the other girls had.
She said, “the fabric will stretch as you get bigger. If you get bigger.” That woman couldn’t resist one last dig. I was 11 years old. Why would Ohrbach’s hire a sadist to torment little girls on this momentous occasion?
On my 33rd birthday, I went to NYC to visit my mother and her husband to celebrate my day. I walked through the door wearing a somewhat clingy black cotton turtleneck and jeans. My mother greeted me and extended her arms in what I thought would be a welcoming hug. But instead, she said, “Let me get a look at you.” She placed her hands on my shoulders, holding me away from her at arms-length as she appraised me. Then she let her hands drop to my chest and took each of my breasts into her hands and squeezed them, hard. Shocked, I backed up against the closet door behind me, and lashed out, “Don’t you ever touch me like that again.” Her reply, “Why not? They’re mine.” I tried to shake it off, and sat down next to her on the couch, eating my anger. When she laughed at my reaction I realized that I wouldn’t be able to handle the visit with her, grabbed my jacket, and slammed the apartment door behind me.
I slammed it because I was angry at myself for sitting down at all. I tried to stay because I wanted my birthday present.
I don’t think about my breasts that much. I should think about them more often. I’ve been lucky, I still have both of mine. I delay mammograms longer than I should––please no lectures. I convince myself that it’s okay because there’s very little breast cancer in my family. I know that’s not an automatic pass. I made an appointment today.
Oh, before I forget. This is a note to my future lover, should I ever have one again. My breasts have never been very sensitive to sexual play. I’d much rather you tickle the nape of my neck and run your fingers through the hair on the back of my head. Or, you might nibble my ears with careful teeth and playful flicks of your tongue. Goosebumps are guaranteed.
That old saleslady was partly mistaken. They did grow, but not very large. I like them just the way they are. I gave up wearing bras a long time ago. They're uncomfortable, expensive, too much trouble, and I’ve decided that for me, they’re unnecessary. People might disagree, especially if they notice my girls swinging in the breeze. But that’s really none of my business.
And my mother? She was completely mistaken. The breasts I’ve carried around with me all my life?
They’re mine.
My friend, Leslie Senevy who writes Distracted By Pretty Things, reached out to me a month ago because she was planning a Boob Roundup for October after the success of an earlier post she’d written on the subject of her own. She asked me to participate and I said,
“Leslie, that sounds boobalicious, I’m in!”
I’ll post a link to the roundup once it comes out on October 14, 2025.
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