If you know me, then you know that I have big boobs. If you don’t know me, then I have something to tell you…..I have big boobs.
They began to sprout sometime in the fourth grade and by the sixth grade I had myself a set of 34C’s. If you need a frame of reference for what 34C’s are exactly, just ask any flat chested woman and she’ll tell you she’s been asking Santa for them for most of her life.
And I, was “graced” with a pair at age eleven.
Hooray for me!
Except for the part where no one warned me about the attention one gets walking around with a rack like that.
One day the boys are laughing at you, calling you names, picking you last for the dodge ball team and the next they’re chasing you around the schoolyard trying to cop a feel.
Today the thought of schoolboys assaulting me is thrilling. Back then I was mortified. ALL sorts of mortified. So mortified in fact that I went into hiding. Not under a bed, or in a closet – but beneath the biggest clothes I could find.
Everyone assumed I was chubby, not stacked and all was good. Being a shapeless, sexless, frump was comfortable and safe. Not much fun, but better than being a sex object.
As the ta-ta’s grew (yes, they got bigger) so did my duds. At seventeen, me and my vagabond wardrobe longed to stray. Against my mother’s wishes I chose to rebel in a big way and go to college.(yes,that is correct I have the only mother on the planet who wished her child NOT go to college). I attended San Francisco State University, which you might have guessed is in San Francisco….and you know what they have a lot of in the S.F.? Victorian architecture, Chinese Laundries and GAY MEN. Lots and lots of gay men, so it was inevitable that I meet one or two. And I did…
Before you could say: Bay Area Rapid Transit l was shacked up with a couple of them. My mother was none too pleased. She was convinced I would get AIDS from the mere proximity to homosexuals. I, however was content, but finding it harder and harder to hide the “girls” from my roommates.
Inevitably the day arrived when my assets became apparent to the boys and to my horror they insisted I show them off. “GUUULRRL, those are fabulous, you need to get those out in public”
Be proud of myself? What a novel concept.
Slowly but surely they indoctrinated me into the world of accentuating the positive. My XXL t-shirts were traded for deep plunge v-necks, my minimizing bras swapped for the hardest working push-up bras in the western hemisphere and my big shapeless frocks replaced by sassy low cut dresses. In a few months they accomplished what my mother couldn’t or wouldn’t do in 17 years: teach me how to be a woman. And for that, I will be forever grateful.
But it’s not just gratitude that’s kept me in the “Iife”. Once I took a dip in the freaky deeky pool I realized it’s A LOT more entertaining. Although being a tried and true fag hag is definitely not for the meek OR the weak and there are many times when I question my choices and wonder what life would be like without the constant doses of drama and all the irksome Madonna dance hits. Then I hang out with some hetero’s. The boys talk about football, the girls talk about each other and I inevitably get invited to a baby shower…… YAWN. Back to the homo’s I go.
Out on the town the other night an admirer approached me and said “You are SURROUNDED by gay men.” to which I replied “They’re not just gay men hot stuff, they’re my family.” And that ladies and gentleman is why I am a fag hag ,…….a very proud, boobylicious fag hag.