The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs Read Free

for bazongas
    His sheer enthusiasm for areola
    Tit-allation, is his adoration.
    It can sometimes get the better of him, like when you take the first bite of a strawberry lace
    The NBB gets giddy (at occasionally an alarming pace)
    Beware of the NBB
    O just how he loves to feast
    That Nipple Biting Beast.

SARA COX
    In the middle of a neatly trimmed lawn in the north-west of England stands a small tent. Inside the tent, four eleven-year-old girls huddle closely together, mainly because it’s not a very spacious tent, but also because one of the Joannes (whose lawn they are currently sitting on) is about to unveil something magnificent: her first bra. It is a size AAA training bra in pristine white. The girls’ gasps of admiration can easily be heard through the flimsy canvas as Joanne whips up her top. The other Joanne, Lisa and the young me glance at each other enviously.
    Joanne-with-the-bra was that kind of girl. Long blonde wavy hair, almond-shaped eyes. She was a success. Unlike myself at that age, her knees weren’t wider than her thighs and her forehead wasn’t big enough to double up as a five-a-side pitch. In the great netball game of life, she was the centre to my goalkeeper. And now she’d beaten me to boobs as well, and with it, a training bra. Quite a curious name for what was essentially a crop top; what would these bras train your fledgling boobs to do? Jump through hoops? Of course as all girls eventually learn, the only tits jumping through hoops would be boys desperate to shove a hand up your Aran number for a squeeze of your jumper bumps.
    I had no such concerns as a pre-teen, as I had no jumper bumps. I didn’t even have a ripple. I was so flat-chested well into my teenage years that the boys at school composed a special remix of the theme tune to the popular sci-fi cartoon
Ulysses
, altering the lyrics to reflect my lack of boobage, resulting in ‘Vertices, vertices, floating through all the galaxies’ being sung at volume into my face.
    As my friends blossomed around me, blooming into womanly shapes, I remained twig-like. If I’d had the chance to hook up with Zoltar, like Tom Hanks in
Big
, my wish wouldn’t have been to be big, but to be booby, which I suppose would’ve made for a different kind of movie all together.
    My prayers to Norksella, the goddess of breasts, were answered abruptly around my fifteenth birthday. It’s as if Mother Nature had totally forgotten about me so gave me double helpings to compensate.
    Now, after so much yearning, I found myself with quite sizeable funbags, which over the years have been varying degrees of fun. I could suddenly get into clubs and bars as doormen were too mesmerised by my DDs to worry about my ID.
    During my illustrious modelling career I was sent to South Korea as ‘Your chest is too big for Tokyo’, like my wabs were Godzilla and could overrun the city.
    Pregnancies saw them inflate to the size of two Smart cars and breastfeeding was almost impossible.
    They’ve been pushed up, flattened down, hoisted skywards and sometimes I’ve woken up to find one under my armpit and the other over my shoulder, but they’re my boobs and I’ve grown to love them.
    I guess the moral of this tale is be careful what you wish for, ’cos if you get it, bikini shopping is a bugger.

Diary of a Boob Job
JAMES DAWSON
    1 DAY PRE-OP
    Hi everyone, my name is Becca Hayes. I’m twenty years old and I live in South London. I work in recruitment but that’s really boring, you don’t need to know about that. Basically, the thing is, I’m having a boob job – a breast enlargement – tomorrow, and I thought it’d be really good for all you ladies out there, who are thinking about having one, to blog about it. I know when I was researching the op, I had, like, a million questions, so I hope this is helpful!
    OK, here goes! Writing this is good because it’s taking my mind off