The Itty Bitty Titty Committee is a worldwide conglomerate- at odds with the most modern constructs of beauty, ‘titties and ass.’

titties vs ass

When I reached puberty I inadvertently joined the IBTC.

All the posters and sex-ed classes we had in primary school said that we would have to prepare for a series of life altering changes to our young female bodies. Our breasts would maximize, hips would enlarge and hair would begin to grow from our pits and down there. The boys were always ushered out of the room so that the “period” talk could begin, and would later file back into the classroom only to find us holding OB and Always samples in cute packaging. You could tell from the boys’ saucer wide eyes that they were speculating on whether we were ACTUALLY holding sanitary towels in our hands. In retrospect, I wish they’d let the boys stay for the talk, maybe we’d have public tampon dispensers everywhere by now if they had a clearer understanding of that time of the month–patriarchal governance and priorities.

Finally the changes they had waxed lyrical about began to happen. Little hairs sprouted, and it was quite odd at first. They were an unruly legion gathering at the V between my legs, pitching camp and reuniting like lost comrades. They sang songs and wrestled in the mud as they waited for more to arrive. It was unknown to me that their preparation wasn’t in vain- because as soon as I became sexually active, I would wage war on them for years to come by hook or crook, brazilian wax, razor or Nair.

Then, a little tingle started somewhere in my chest. Right behind the nipple. ‘Here we go!’ I thought. BOOBS!

This change happened shortly after I’d attended a Christian camp for pre-teens and ended up making friends with the hottest girl present. All the boys liked her. She was light skinned and tall, and didn’t say much, by way of conversation. She didn’t need to, anyway, why would she? She’d already started her period and had a boyfriend. She was a woman.

One evening after supper, she insisted that we all shower together to save time or to be ‘cool’ or whatever. We were all for it.

To date, I have still never seen a more beautiful, physically perfect body on a woman. It was sinful to stare, but I couldn’t resist. The rest of us made giggly, silly conversation: about how cold the water was, or that one of us was hogging the soap. The honest truth is that we were delirious. She silently covered herself in suds, one perfect D cup after other. Her waist plunged inwards with a violent almost centripetal force then jutted back out to very handsome hips. She stood on thick shapely legs and didn’t even flinch when the ice cold drops hit her body.

We now knew why the boys liked her, we knew what to expect when we got our puberty. Finally, we would be able to use all the tips in ‘Shout’ magazine: the lads would come over to ‘chat us up’.  This was her lesson to us, and I never forgot that evening in a dingy shower packed in with four other girls

The tingle grew to an intense pain. It was sickening. The slightest touch of the slightly puffed out tissue was excruciating. It was really a badge of honour to whisper to your best friend that your boobs hurt really bad. They were growing and you were changing. She might hardly recognize you the next day if you were perfectly frank. Sweaters filled out and training bras were purchased.

Then mine stopped.

Is that it? No way! Haha, good one hormones! You’re just taking a little breather, aren’t you? You little rascals must be all tuckered out dealing with the irregular periods and pubes. That’s OK. I’ll wait. But get back to work as soon as you can, yes? I’ll wait.

Nothing.

My boobs were small.

dad had bigger tits

In high school I met another perfectly proportioned girl in my House called Maimoona or Shahida. Can’t quite recall. She was from Mombasa and she knew about life. You could tell by the way she slung her black hijab around her shoulders like the newest scarf from Bergdorf Goodman or an exotic fur.

“Your boobs are tiny!” Maimoona/Shahida offered. She was passing me on the corridor outside our rooms.

Yeah, no kidding. Good eye.

“Yeah, I know. They are quite small.” I agreed.

“You know my boobs started growing when I was like nine. So that’s why they’re this big and full.” she explained.

Good for you,  Lucifer.

“Oh wow, everyone keeps saying that mine will-” she cut me off.

“Your boobs will never be as nice as mine. Even after you have children. You just wait and see.” She had already anticipated the lie that all mothers tell their flat chested children: breasts become bigger after childbirth.

As a matter of fact there are a few things that people tell you will get your breasts to grow bigger. One classmate suggested that I try madafu: coconut water. She drank madafu during the holidays and came back with a rack for the history books. Another proposed that I should make out with a guy during the holidays. (I had never been kissed). I should make out with him and let him get to touching my boobs. The arousal will cause my breast tissue to respawn/re-engage- shifting my cup size higher by a level. Yet another one attested to this method: during the holidays she let a boy suck on her breasts through her shirt. We are still awaiting the results of that particular experiment.

After the drudgery of my high school years, I came out to a brave wide world. The internet and cable television showed the flat chested community a few things.

  1. There are a number of us. Not many – but enough to not feel completely terrible.
  2. Silicon and Saline bags.

It’s really a matter of which option you decide to pursue in order to make peace with yourself. Leave the IBTC entirely or stay with the herd and make the crossing. Become the wildebeest and cross the Grumeti and Maras of the dating world, as you fight against the big-breasted current… Maybe one day your hooves will hit the dirt and your flat chested wildebeest butt will be in the clear. 

However, through all this, there are more than a few advantages to having small breasts.

  1. Going down the steps is a breeze.
  2. The ‘free the nipple movement’ is timely. We’ve been all about free nipples but we had to pad the bras for much needed girth and possible (slight chance) of cleavage.
  3. You never have the problem of telling a man that your face is “up here” because there’s no distractions(although I must say my decolletage is A+)
  4. There’s a silent forcefulness learned from years of ‘tiny boob’ comments. A quiet confidence.
  5. Your boyish figure isn’t so bad. You cup your little puppies from time to time- and they’re cute. Like little sparrows. From time to time you think ‘they’re actually pretty‘.

homer boobs

Boobs will always fascinate me, though. I nonchalantly poke my sisters breasts from time to time and think about what could have been.

How did the vestibules that feed our offspring become so sexualized anyway?

Image Source: Round Two 

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