Porn On The Sly

If you want to see a lot of pictures of big-breasted women on your computer but don't want to risk your school-district job to get them, here's my advice: click on an ad for a comfortable bra. Not enough pictures yet? Take the online quiz to discover what your size is and which three bras are recommended for you. Do you still see things other than pictures of big-breasted women? Go ahead and buy one of the bras. (Note, with wonder, that you are now, for the first time in your life, considered a size "small.")

There you go. Big-breasted women wall-to-wall. Russian, probably.

The online quiz was promising. It gave one confidence that indeed the correct bra would thud onto your porch. The questions were very specific. Which of the following three breast types describes you? Round. Bullet-shaped. Tennis ball in a tube sock. Each question generated follow-ups. If tennis-ball-in-a-tube-sock, can you tie 'em in a knot, can you tie 'em in a bow? If bullet-shaped, are you aiming at anyone or are you shooting yourself in the foot?

Many more questions follow. What is the make and size of your favorite bra? Do your straps dig in, or fall off? Do you like to use the first, second, or third hook? What is the name of your first pet? Do you pooch out on the sides of your bra? What is all that puddly stuff flapping around in your armpit, anyway? When did you start having to floss your back? What are the last eight digits of your Social Security number?

Done! Here is your best bra.

Pull the trigger on that bad girl and now someone--Russian, probably--is sending you a photo of a big-breasted woman every few seconds. Even Trump memes can't wedge themselves in, as much as they'd like to. Meanwhile, your new bra is on its way. And when it arrives, it is very Small indeed.

There's nothing to it. It would be snug on a hamster.

Check the packaging. Did it come with a boob-horn? Is it a weasel tourniquet? Are you maybe supposed to lick the back and paste it on? Do you put it on or...apply it? It's seamless. It's cupless. It's wireless.

It's a handkerchief. But you'd need two to get your nose all the way blown.

As it turns out, it's a miracle fabric. If you can motor past the panic stage when you aren't sure you can get your arms back down again, and you manage to scrunch and waggle it on, it will expand with Sea-Monkey technology to fit any kind of knob or tumescence you might care to cram into it. It fits like skin. Well, like skin used to.

And it's buttery-soft. Says so, and is.

It's really quite remarkable. It does make you worry that you might have to take it off with scissors, but in fact you can remove it, too. Sure, it could take an eye out when it shoots across the room, but at your age, nobody is looking your way when you take your bra off.

We Have A Situation

Just saw yet another ad for a bra that is designed to Minimize and Support. It has sleek smoothing side panels and industrial underwiring, with just a hint of rebar, and the model looks quite adequately contained in it, but I'm looking for something with flying buttresses and a block-and-tackle, here. Sleek and smooth is all well and good but I just want to get everything back in the barn and the door rolled shut.

It's not that I'm huge. But I'm not small. Containment has always been an issue, but now that my basic personal infrastructure has begun to break down, we have a situation. The pudding no longer sets up. The soufflé has lost its loft and the batter is overflowing in the pan.

To complicate matters, the leftmost contents of my bra are considerably more voluminous than the rightmost. I'm not sure why I'm not walking in circles all the time. It's not even subtle, and the only reason no one notices is no one expects it. Most people's brains edit out the discrepancy. (Any of you now moved to go back through all the photographs of me on this blog and examine more closely, have yourself a good ole time, and maybe drop a little something in the bucket for the orphans on your way out.) At any rate, a standard bra has never been able to resolve the disparity. There's always going to be either sinkholes or spillage.

Basically, I wear a bra in order to keep everything from lighting out for the territories, especially on the left. On the right I just need a little slap and a "Hey now, Bessie, hey now," and on the left it's full-on border collies and Hee-yaw and git in the corral.

I used to be perky. That was sometime in about 1965, late autumn, I think. It's an odd thing to watch this stuff happening on you. I distinctly recall that at first there was the intimation of a sturdy little disc. A lens of promise, as it were, and you could feel the edges on it like it was an actual implant. Then things rounded out. I do remember being perky because it coincided with the last time my dad barged into my bedroom without knocking. What an awful thing to happen in a family in which private stuff is never said out loud and one is furthermore convinced she's disappointing the folks by growing up. Maybe it wasn't so, but I was pretty invested in my role as the sunny last child that Kept Them Young, and adolescence takes a pretty hard kick at that. At the sunniness, too.

You hardly ever see anybody perky anymore. I don't know what happened to today's young women, but they're busty as the dickens. I used to be considered on the substantial side, but I'd be dead-average these days. I've heard this has happened because the kids are raised on dairy products from cows that have been artificially hormone-boosted, which has to suck for the cow, who has a hard enough job shoveling in pasture and throwing up in her mouth all day long without having to deal with stretch marks and irritability.

Anyway, inasmuch as I have two sizes of Secondary Sexual Characteristics to compare, I do know which I'd prefer. When I was younger, I'd have preferred to match the bigger one for the Yoo-hoo, I'm Over Here factor. Now I'd match the smaller one, which  has the good grace to not get wedged in my armpit. As it is, when I roll over in bed, things just keep rolling over. It's not restful.

If my underwear is going to support me, I hope it's planning to send money.

All illustrations from Trousering Your Weasel, available at a sidebar very near you.

How To Prevent Sagging Breasts Naturally

The author, six years younger.

The following article was published in The Science Of Eating. My notes were not.

Every woman wants to have perfectly shaped breasts throughout her life. This is pretty much what we live for! Sadly, this is not possible in most cases. Just the lucky few who die before age 25. Breast sagging is a natural process that happens with age where the breasts lose their suppleness and elasticity. Not so! My breasts are supple enough that I could slather them in marinara sauce and ricotta and roll them up like manicotti and if it weren't for the parmesan on top nobody would ever know the difference. A drooping pair of breasts can severely undermine how a woman feels about herself, and may feel it lessens her attractiveness in the eyes of the opposite sex. This is because it does. Learning what causes breasts to sag and tackling this issue proactively can offer a lot of help. Or not. It might be more advisable to acquire a life.

What Causes Saggy Breasts Spoiler alert: gravity.

For starters, breasts do not have muscle, they are made of fat, connective tissues and milk-producing glands, and they need proper care to keep them in good shape. Though saggy breasts usually start happening after a woman reaches 40, it can occur earlier. For instance, say you're an 18-year-old woman who has just gotten on birth control pills for the first time. Say it's 1971 and those pills are the size of ottomans and contain enough estrogen to incite a civil war among Amazons. Your breasts are going to go completely Hindenburg on your ass and when you finally get done tearing everyone you've ever met a new one because they've suddenly become SO irritating, you go off the hormones cold turkey in favor of getting some piece of hardware that looks like a paper-clip jammed up your uterus, and then your Hindenburgs wilt into shriveled little party balloons striated with stretch marks. Oh, the humanity. According to various studies, it is understood that when a woman reaches her late thirties, the skin can become loose. Sure can. Even if you put up posters and someone shows up with your missing skin, you'll have hell to pay to get it all back in the old corral again. Apart from age and pregnancy,  other factors that cause sagging breasts are menopause, rapid weight loss or gain, strenuous exercise unless conducted upside-down, nutritional deficiencies such as starvation, smoking, over-tanning and wearing a poorly fitting bra.

Some diseases like breast cancer or respiratory conditions like tuberculosis can also cause breasts to sag. It's all the coughing. Excessive consumption of alcohol can also contribute to the problem. And the solution.

A wide variety of creams and lotions are available on the market to tighten and tone up sagging breasts. However, if you prefer natural methods, there are many simple and easy home remedies that you can try. Like a block and tackle.

There are a number of home remedies for regaining the firmness of saggy breasts, including massaging. This actually increases the firmness of the penis.

If you gain and lose weight continuously and fail to stay at a healthy optimal weight, it could take a toll on your breasts. Screw your psyche at this point. Your perkiness is at stake. This continuous stretching and relaxing of the skin makes it droop and sag over time. And also over your belly.

Drink Plenty of Water

According to experts at the University of Wisconsin Hospitals, the skin is comprised of cells that are predominantly made up of water. Pretty much all cells are. Lack of water takes a toll on the skin, and can make the skin over your breast look shrunken and dull. Shine it up with K-Y Jelly and see where that gets you. Always combine healthy eating with exercise. Improper weights such as the breasts can also cause your breasts to sag. Drastic weight loss in a short span of time would definitely cause your breasts to lose their fullness. Eat up. It's essential to eat foods that are nutritionally rich and contain proteins, vitamins, calcium, minerals, silicone, carbohydrates and essential fats etc.

Pomegranate

This fruit is considered a wonderful anti-aging ingredient and can help prevent sagging breasts. In most cases, a minimum of sixty pomegranate seeds placed in a Ziplock bag and taped under the breasts will be required. Pomegranate seed oil is rich in phytonutrients that can lead to firm breasts. Especially if they're lined up on the driveway to the Playboy Mansion.

Massage your breasts at least 2-3 times per week with coconut or olive oil to help add firmness and increase the elasticity to the skin as well as improve the skin tone and texture. Add sunflower seeds, dried cranberries, and a dash of lemon zest for a tasty summertime treat. Massage draws blood to the surface of the skin, increases blood flow, while stimulating muscle growth although we just told you there is no muscle in the breast.

Ice Massages

Ice can help tone the skin in and around the breast region. All you need to do is rub a few ice cubes over your breasts in wide circular motions. Try this massage at regular intervals throughout the day to firm your breast muscles and skin. Eventually you can get your entire body to tighten up just by walking toward the freezer door.

A wrong sized bra can make your breasts sag in no time at all. Not wearing a bra would not help as well. You're screwed.

According to the results of a 15-year study in France, bras provide no benefits to women and may actually be harmful to breasts over time. Jean-Denis Rouillon, a professor at the University of Franche-Comte in Besancon, measured and examined the breasts of more than 300 women, aged 18 and 35, taking note of how the additional support provided by bras affects the body over time. M. Rouillon notes that many more years of research will be required. Rouillon noticed that nipples gained a higher lift, in relation to the shoulders, on women who went braless. In fact, some of them could sling 'em over their shoulder like a Continental soldier. Rouillon cautioned women who have worn bras for a long time, like several decades, that following these recommendations may have less chance of seeing as much benefit. Yes. Because these women have old breasts. You're not Dr. Frankenstein; they're not going to perk up.

You know what, Petunia? Someday soon you're going to die. Maybe someone will think enough of you to throw you in a blast furnace and scoop up your carbonaceous remains, but your breasts are going to be vapor. You know when you forget the fat in the frying pan? It's all going into the air except for a nasty bit of sludge left behind. Your breasts are going to be one episode of bad odor followed by blessed nothingness just like the rest of you, so you might as well find something appropriate to give a damn about or at least offer to rub oil in someone else's breasts while they still have nerve endings. Jesus Johnson, it's not always about you.

An Unsupported Argument

It is not enough to sift uncritically through the available medical advice sludging up the internet. One must weigh sources, review data, note controls or lack of controls, and check for ulterior commercial motives, and only then can you make an informed medical decision for yourself based on what you wanted to believe anyway.

So I was excited to read that bras cause cancer. My own relationship with underwear is fraught with woe and this news confirms my worst suspicions. I only wear a bra these days in order to not attract attention, in pretty much a reversal of my strategy as a younger woman. Supposedly the heat generated by a tight brassiere is conducive to cancer cell growth, and cancer cells appreciate a little shaping and support as much as the next cell. The underwire bra in particular is implicated, which doesn't surprise me in the least; the underwire is also responsible for unsightly ridging, occasional irregularity, acid rain, and world strife.  But the main reasons I believe this study has scientific merit are (1) I hate bras and (2) it runs counter to the advice of Miss Olive Pawley.

Mr. Guter

Miss Olive Pawley was the Dean of Girls at Yorktown Senior High School in the sixties. It was a terrible time to be a Dean of Girls. Even a few short years earlier, it had not been considered at all out of line for Mr. Guter, Dean of Boys at Williamsburg Junior High, to deal with the scourge of bangs on boys by butch-waxing the miscreants' heads into a gloppy pompadour in public. Such a move was not considered a fatal blow to self-esteem in those days; in fact, self-esteem had yet to be invented. But later in the decade, those in charge of maintaining order among the young were stripped of all such tools and weapons. Humiliation and coercion were out. Even the title "Dean of Girls" was soon to be abolished in favor of "Suggestress." Not only were girls no longer required to kneel and have their skirt hems inspected for proximity to the floor, but the dress code was done away with altogether. Sartorial anarchy reigned. Patched blue jeans and work shirts prevailed, and bras were out. Everything was out, and some of it was in motion. Miss Olive Pawley was appalled by this development which, she was certain, would ultimately tear down civilization as we know it and replace it with a soul-corrupting licentiousness. She was right about that, but not really on solid footing with the bras.

I was not the type to be called into the Dean of Girls' office, as a rule, but I was summoned there one day so that Miss Pawley could have a go at saving my soul, using the only tools she had left. "I have noticed," she said, "that you are no longer wearing a brassiere, and I want you to be aware of the medical consequences. Studies have shown that the flopping of one's breasts against the thoracic cavity causes cancer."

Which, I knew even then, was ridiculous. Given their location, where else are breasts supposed to flop?

Her real concern, I suspected, was that the flopping of one's breasts against the thoracic cavity causes erections.

Her information had been unreliable in the past. It was she who warned us that the reason our parents did not want us to drive over the line into the District of Columbia was that it was the scene of a thriving "black market in white women." I did not and do not know what she meant by that, although it had enough poetic resonance to stick with me to this day. But I knew the real reason our parents didn't want us driving into D.C. was that we would hit the first liquor store over the line on MacArthur Boulevard where the drinking age was 18 and buy beer by staying in the car and sending in the hairiest boy with the most dependable baritone.

Well, I keep my own counsel. From what I can surmise, sun, bisphenol-A, charred meat, lack of sun, breasts, colons, stress, and bras all cause cancer. Drinking in moderation is beneficial. I'm ditching the bra and doubling down on the beer.

Torture, And The Rack

As if Saudi women didn't have it bad enough, it turns out that they're not allowed to work in underwear stores, which puts them in a bind. They are mortified by the prospect of discussing underwear with male clerks, so as a consequence many women in Saudi Arabia are wearing the wrong size bras. In this respect, of course, according to Oprah, they are no different from American women.

There are degrees of mortification. Every single bra-shopping trip in my life triggered an aftershock from the initial excruciating episode when I was twelve or so. My family was modest to a fault. I was humiliated by the prospect of bringing up my need for a bra to a woman who, I have no doubt, conceived me immaculately while fully clothed. Eventually, and a bit late in the game, the mortification of not having a bra trumped the other mortification. But neither could hold a candle to the mortification of the actual purchase. As always, both parents were in attendance, my father reluctantly. He was a wonderful man with no ease whatsoever in social situations, and unfortunately the bra department maven was someone we knew from church. Daddy hung back uncomfortably, distracting himself by pawing through a basket of silk undies at the counter. "Now, you leave those alone, George!" the bra lady sang out merrily for the benefit of the hard-of-hearing, and Daddy retreated instantly, shamed and miserable. Meanwhile, I was cringing in the dressing room with a bevy of brassieres, blushing all over--it was easy to tell--when the bra lady whipped the curtain open to find out how "we" were doing. She invited herself in and proceeded to give me, and much of the greater metropolitan area, instructions. "Now just bend over, dear, and pour yourself in," she bellowed happily. She loved her job. I tried to pour myself through the floor vent.

From that day on, I did all my bra shopping alone, with mixed results. Nothing I bought was ever all that comfortable, and by the time Oprah came out with the news that most of us were wearing the wrong size bra and could benefit from a professional fitting, I could concede that it was a possibility, albeit one I would never look into. Until one day I was in Nordstrom's, with their alarmingly helpful personnel. I insisted to the clerk that I didn't need any help, but made the mistake of admitting I was looking for something that didn't exist: a comfortable bra. Well! Would I like to be fitted? I would not, but the clerk was already squinting knowledgeably at my chest and pulling bras off the displays, and I let her follow me into the dressing room.

Here's how a fitting works: the fitter puts a tape measure under the breasts, pulls it tight enough to hinder respiration, and takes note of the circumference. That's just for drill; it's the measurement around the forearm that we're going to end up using. The cup size is considerably different from what one is used to, as well. The elastic is robust enough to have drawn in flesh from the sides and back and points south, so we are contending with a lot more volume than before, and a cup size that would be cozy on a missile-head is recommended. A series of bras is produced and installed with the use of a foot planted firmly in the back; the result looks like an exploding tourniquet. Clearly the bra, and its contents, are not going anywhere for a while. So, yes. Like most American women, I have apparently been wearing the wrong size bra, if by "wrong size" you mean a 38-C when it should have been a 22-OMG.

"Now. Don't you look better?" the clerk beams, and begins to take advantage of my inability to inhale by ringing me up. I go home wearing my new correct bra, suspecting that if I ever get it unhooked, it will shoot clear across the room and clip the cat. But we will never know. With even a spot of perspiration, there's no removing the thing. Even if you're highly, highly, highly motivated.

Mostly I prefer to set the girls free in their original packaging nowadays, but it's getting to where that doesn't fit so well, either.