EDITION 7: Boobs, tits, breasts

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When I was 18 I got spotted by The Sun and I was asked to take part in a competition to become a Page 3 model.  I grew up in the era of Nuts Magazine, FHM, and High Street Honeys. So at 18 I thought it was totally was blooming terrific to get an offer to strip chest naked for a photographer and have my boobs featured in the national newspaper.

Before accepting this once in a lifetime opportunity I decided it was best to study other models in The Sun. With research, I realised they had one thing in common: PERFECT KNOCKERS. This understanding made me a. terrified and b. led me to have boob life crisis.

Before that moment the only transmission of a 'normal women's breasts' I had received was via my old art teacher Miss White. Miss White was a lady who I now look back at fondly. She had zero qualms about standing in front of a classroom of adolescents, braless, with her somewhat uneven breasts akimbo, wearing a white t-shirt which just about kept her modest, whilst she lectured us about Monet.

So at 18 I began to strap my little boobs up in push up bras, and stuffed the cups up with half a roll of toilet paper each. If a member of the opposite sex would ever reach out to fondle my fake and prominent chest, I would freeze in sheer panic. Not because it's an assault to grope a woman, but because my stuffed 'boobs' were similar to the firmness of two unripe apples.

One day, I decided to go and have a very serious discussion with a breast surgeon about having my A's enlarged to D's. I was given a date for the operation and I walked out the clinic knowing that all my dreams would be answered if I could somehow scrape £5k together for the surgery.

Due to this my breasts and I made the intellectual decision to sign up to a website where rich men would donate money to girls who wanted breast implants. I almost feel faint that such a thing existed, and even fainter that to me back then, it was the best thing since sliced bread. One day, a guy offered to give me £5k outright for the boobs of my dreams. But then something weird happened. I was suddenly faced with a strange internal voice that said: "why the fuq do you want to stick a slab of silicon behind your boobs again?"

These days I have a tight relationship with my tits. They are what they are. Untampered. Natural. Petite and squishy. When I'm about to bleed they get firm, but not like firm apples. When I'm chilling I gently hold and squeeze them, a bit like dudes who put their hands down their pants when they're lazin'. I've not worn a bra for nearly a year (happy braless anniversary), and since setting my boobs free from the chains of wires and straps, I'm the closest and most accepting of them than I've ever been before.

I've come to realise that luckily for me I eventually escaped the conditioning of Page 3 perfect knockers, and upon receiving the gift of a breast lovin' white tee from @indigolillyuk, I see that that here I am, unabashedly braless, with really great and normal boobs, just like my art class hero, good ol' Miss White.

Grace Brown