Adolescent orangutan

KHARLI MANDEVILLE

Attention: By order of the President of the Ittie Bitty Titty Committee, I hereby deem small tits … SEXY AS FUCK.

I was appointed to the esteemed position of IBTC President by the eighth grade boys of my junior high during P.E. as they sat behind me singing a song they wrote about my 32A, mid-pubescent breasts to the rest of the class.

God, I wish I could remember how that song went. I think it was actually pretty witty. Though I look back and laugh now, in truth, I spent the majority of the afternoon sobbing in the girl’s bathroom.

I sat on the floor, leaning against one of the stalls, and I kid you not, one of the janitors walked in, led me by the hand toward the full-length mirror, and told me to look myself in the eye and say, “I am beautiful.”  I felt absolutely ridiculous, but I did stop crying and walked back to join the rest of my classmates in reading The Hobbit.

In high school, my guy friends showed up outside my house one morning as my friends and I had a sleepover. They stood outside throwing rocks at my window. I woke up and leaned out to talk to them – totally trying to be flirty and cute. I wasn’t wearing a bra and flashed everything I had upstairs in their direction. They called me “Orangutan Titties” for the rest of the year, which is totally funny now but devastated my overly sensitive teenage heart.

The funny thing is that I’m the only woman (of many) in my family who boasts less than a C-cup. However, I’m also the only woman in my family who spent their entire adolescence and beyond dancing ballet – but once I realized this, I started to feel a little bit better about my body, which could twirl and jump and glide across a stage with ease.

But I still wore Victoria’s Secret push-up bras. I wanted to look older – more mature.  I wanted to be sexy in the way I thought sexy was supposed to look. I wanted cleavage. And I wanted boys to think I was sexy – because--duh--boys like boobs, so they have to be big, right? And it wasn’t until I entered my twenties that it all Just. Finally. Clicked:

I DIDN’T HAVE TO WEAR A BRA.

My flower-power grandmother, who also encouraged me never to shave, had been telling me this for years. What use do I have for a bra? I run, and it doesn’t hurt. I don’t need any lift – those suckers perk up all on their own. And, dude, nipples are sexy. Especially when it’s raining. And it doesn’t matter their shape or size. The boyfriends I’ve had throughout my life have been telling me that for years – but for far too long I let my insecurities drown out their reassurance.

I’m not going to lie, sometimes I still catch a profile of my body in the mirror and feel adolescent – like I’m still waiting to grow into myself. I sometimes wonder if my cup size is why my age is often mistaken for 18 (I’m 25).

But I never feel more sexy than braless in a summer dress. I feel even sexier when I’m braless and dancing. Orangutan titties? Sure. Whatever. I know I dance better than an ape.

And P.S as a born and raised Phoenician, I can tell you that braless is the surest way to catch a much-needed breeze on 120-degree afternoons.