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My name is Nora Sheldon. I've always been a big woman, especially in the breast department. Although I've spent most of my life in Los Angeles, where it's practically a crime to be as big as I am, I usually didn't have a problem with tipping the scales at two hundred pounds or wearing a 48NN bra. Most of the necessary things I do aren't athletic anyway. I work as a child-care specialist and a counselor for adolescent girls, and most of the time I enjoy being looked up to as the benevolent, nurturing "mother-figure," and not the muscular amazon warrior-princess or wafer-thin bikini-model L.A. is so famous for. And even though I was currently single, I haven't had problems going out with men who prefer a woman my size. Nevertheless, these past few days had amounted to a rather strange "gray funk," especially when I recently started taking this special health-studies class my job required me to take.
It wasn't the health class in general that was messing with my overall good self-image. Specifically, it was a bouncy, bubbly little fake blonde named Samantha Jameson. Samantha was everyone's dream-girl, five-and-a-half feet tall, one hundred and fifteen pounds, extremely petite yet curvy, loved to tan herself at the beach, etc. etc. Initially, when she kept to herself and her own little entourage of petite little flower-girls and their muscle-bound male admirers, I wasn't troubled in the least bit. Nevertheless, I should've known that my nurturing, benevolent mother-figure image would've eventually attracted her kind to me, and when Samantha latches onto a friend, it can sometimes feel like a choke-hold. (Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little.) The part that at first felt like a choke-hold was her repeated "sermons" on health and ideal body-size. Although she never directed any of her sermons towards me, I had no problem figuring out that my size was obviously too large to be ideal, especially in the breast department. At first, this was just a minor nuisance, one I could put up with from a "friend." But I don't think I'll ever forget the night the two of us went for coffee along Redondo Beach in July. We were just hanging out at a coffee shop along the coast, engaging in idle conversation about men and the class while watching the sunset, when she suddenly asked, seemingly out of the blue, "I hope I'm not getting too personal with this question, but I'm just curious as to what bra size you wear."
At first, I didn't know whether to be shy, honest about my size, or outraged at the question. I thought it wouldn't hurt to be honest. After all, I thought to myself, they are my breasts. "I wear a 48NN."
"DOUBLE-ENN" was her shocked reply. "I knew you wore a huge bra, but wow, I feel like a little girl with my 36Cs!" It was laughable at first, but then she went on. "Is it hard to exercise with breasts that big?"
I was hesitant to answer that question. It was unfamiliar and suspicious territory for me. I mentioned earlier that most of the necessary things I did weren't athletic, so exercise wasn't a major factor in my life. But now the question arose in my mind: was exercise really something that didn't deserve a whole lot of my attention, or was it something I denied myself on account of my massive breasts more than likely getting in the way? Since I had no concrete answer at the moment, I settled for saying the following: "Well, you figure out ways around the bust size. That isn't too difficult to do."
"But it must cost a fortune to buy custom-made tops and bras, let alone a 48NN athletic bra," Samantha continued. "I'm just trying to imagine what that must be like."
"It's really not that bad at all," I answered, doing my best to defend my huge breasts, although not quite knowing why I should be defending them at all. "Sometimes we just make do with however little, or however much, we wind up with in life. Besides, I've managed this long." Boy, was THAT defense paper-thin!
I'm not surprised at her "oh you poor baby" response, which included this following sermon. "I remember a friend of mine from three years back. Her name was Jolene, and she was dealing with the same things you're going through with your breasts. Her doctor called her condition 'Gigantomastia' because her huge breasts were having a really negative impact on her health. I mean, if she bent over wrong, she had back problems for weeks. If she didn't wash under the folds of skin, she got really bad rashes. She could barely exercise without her breasts hindering her or causing her some form of injury. And her clothes were always expensive because she wore a bra 46H, and so all of her tops and bras had to be custom-made. Finally, at her request, her doctor recommended her to an L.A. based plastic surgeon who has an excellent reputation for breast reductions -"
"- Well, I don't know if that's something I'd really want to go through right now," was my immediate interruption and doubtful tone. "That sounds a bit too drastic for me."
"I'm not saying you HAVE to go through with it right this very moment," she sought to reassure me. "Give it some time. Go get some counseling. But most of all, while you're giving it some thought, think of all the benefits. You won't have to search in vain for clothing your size. You'll be able to exercise better, which'll give you more energy in your life. You won't even have a tenth of the hygiene problems you used to have. And with the new laser scalpels the surgeon uses nowadays, you'll barely notice the scars after a few weeks. Instead of mentioning Jolene by herself, I should've also included me." (This really got my attention. I had no idea Samantha underwent breast reduction surgery.) "I used to be a 38G, believe it or not!"
"But what about the men out here in L.A. who love full-figured, massive-breasted women," I asked, making it my last question on the matter. "Wouldn't we be depriving them of our natural beauty?"
"And what about those men" was Samantha's sharp, unsympathetic reply. "Does any one of those pathetic, whining losers have to deal with several dozen back-aching pounds of breast-fat on their chest all day and night? Does any one of them have to endure the frustration of never being able to find a single thread of clothing that fits? Does any one of them have to be preoccupied with hygiene problems, or health problems, or exercise problems? I say that if a man can't accept what I choose to do with my body, then he should go to Hell!"
I have to admit, I was totally unprepared for that conversation. In the past, I used to look at my breasts with mixed feelings. Sometimes my breasts were a big, cute blessing for all the male attention and female envy I used to get. Numerous boyfriends would joyfully be reduced to "my little boys" for the night, blissfully sucking on "Mommy's big breasts" while making passionate love to "Mommy." (And believe me, "Mommy" thoroughly enjoyed the sucking!) But then sometimes my breasts were a big, difficult obstacle, earning me lust when I needed respect, scorn when I needed acceptance, objectification when I needed love, and physical hardship when I needed a simple break from being what I was, a massive-breasted woman. After the conversation with Samantha, however, they weren't just an obstacle anymore, but a cumbersome curse, gigantic, pendulous, undulating monstrosities that dominated my entire torso when I looked at their naked, hulking forms in the mirror that same night. I began to think to myself, "Why have I put up with these oversized udders for so long? And after all, Samantha's right. This is my body. And if I don't have to live with these gigantic breasts, then why should I?" While my mind was so affected (and infected) by Samantha's extremely convincing breast-reduction sermon, I was even more unprepared for what lay ahead in the following days.
I had scheduled a meeting with Dr. Lois Scheinbaum, Samantha's and Jolene's plastic surgeon, two weeks from this Tuesday. I was eager to find out more about her surgical techniques, and the medical insurance options that were available to me through my current job. After work that evening, I had to go shopping to pick up a few things for my modest apartment refrigerator. And I met him while we were waiting on the checkout line. He may not have been the Alpha-Male in the store, but he had a genuine smile that warmed up even the deepest parts of me. His eyes had a sweet glow that could turn cold stone into warm flesh, and his gorgeous hands could have massaged every inch of me right on the spot, at that very instant. I could do nothing but smile back, lovingly enraptured in his admiring gaze, at least until he politely whispered to me that two of the shirt buttons over my cleavage were open. I was flushed with embarrassment as I hurriedly buttoned my shirt, but it soon turned into a flush of infatuation when he told me, with a caressing voice, how much he admired the beautiful view on such a beautiful lady. I could only reply with a shy "Thank you for being so sweet."
"I mean every word of it," he continued. "A woman of your full beauty is so rare in a city like this. Please don't become like the others."
"What others," I asked curiously.
"The ones I call 'the incredible shrinking women,'" he answered, "women who don't feel adequate unless they whittle themselves down to a certain size, like a hundred and fifteen pounds, or a 36C bra." I had to struggle to force back the laughter on that one. I knew he was talking about something serious, but the body dimensions he came up with were practically Samantha's, and it was hilarious. "It has almost taken me forever to find a gorgeous woman like you."
"Well I'm glad it didn't take forever," I replied with a light "come-hither" tone. "My name is Nora. What's yours?"
"Joshua Brown," he replied, with a mischievous glare. "Call me Josh. But whatever you do, baby, call me." He then handed me his business card with his home phone number written on the back. His card indicated that he worked for the City as a Systems Analyst II, whatever the heck that was.
I giggled a little, then gave him my business card with my home number on the back as I replied, "Only if you call me, you gorgeous thang, you!"
Josh was what I needed, and I mean really needed, to counteract Samantha. The more Samantha tried to call me, the more I found myself on the other line with Josh. But it wasn't really because I was trying to evade Samantha. I just found Josh irresistibly interesting, and every time he spoke with me about the erotic art and poetry he creates for big, busty women like me, I really felt sexy. Every time Samantha opened her mouth, I felt like the wrong person. But every time Josh caressed my ears with his love poetry, I felt like a goddess, his goddess, even if for the infinitesimal moment of his reading.
With the weekend upon us, Josh and I went out on a dinner/movie date Friday evening. He was such the gentleman, picking me up in his Ford Explorer, opening the door for me wherever we went, and always paying for everything. I begged him to let me help with the movie tickets, but he gently refused, insisting that a beautiful goddess like me deserves to be pampered in every way. When we left the theater, I told him that a man's heart is what impresses me more than any material thing. "And that's was truly makes you a goddess," he replied, gently holding my hand, "that's why I can't help but shower you with good things."
Josh invited me to have dinner with him at his apartment Saturday evening. While he was an excellent cook when it came to Italian dishes, and his taste in Jazz music was exquisite, I still couldn't get over his paintings and sketches. Decorating every wall of the apartment, they proudly depicted full-figured, massive-breasted women, some gracefully clothed, some nude, and some depicted as having breasts two to three times as big as mine. There were women of every race, with ages ranging from nubile maidens to elderly matriarchs, but every one of them looked like a serene, sensual goddess, peacefully overflowing with her own voluptuous pleasures. I truly felt at home as we ate together, talked together, laughed together.