Large breasts...and a very presumptuous Massage Therapist!

I have big breasts. I can’t say I always have, but I can say that I probably always will. You see, in 6th grade I was made fun of for being flat; I was the last in my 7th grade class to wear a training bra, in 10th I had your average 34B, and it wasn’t until 12th grade prom that anyone really noticed my pillows were getting larger than your average 17 year old. They didn’t grow overnight, but somehow in those years of 15 and 18, I joined the huge tits club. This is a membership that most of us natural-borns are constantly wishing would be revoked.

[Titillating as that was (I kill myself) that isn’t actually the story I want to tell, but it sure adds a steamy prelude to it, no?]


Big breasts = back pain. It’s unavoidable. And painful. Common misconception is that us over sized tit-slinger wearers have chronic lower back pain, but not so! It’s fucking everywhere.

Everywhere. And everywhere.

I could go into a long diatribe about my aches and pains, but I’ll spare you the details. One, because reminders are what makes them worse, but two, because I just can’t be bothered to bore you all even more than I am sure I already am.

But I will say, my back takes a lickin’ but keeps on tickin’! I may wear three bras to hobble around the bases during Softball games, and I may REFUSE to go bra less in my own home for fear someone will knock at my door and I will have to answer it, bra less. But I can STILL hobble around those bases despite those gozongas hitting my chin as I round 2nd. Shit, rounding 1st, who am I kidding with 2nd base? I can barely carry these things 10 yards somedays!

[and this folks, was my INTERLUDE. Who needs writing class, I owned that!]

But through all this, I have discovered massage therapy. Not as often as I would like ($$$$!!!!) but when I can, I do it. That equals to about once a year, but I sure value that day! For my birthday last year my awesome friend (still, no nickname?!? Someone help with this!) purchased me two Groupons for hour long massages and we went together for our first one. I have yet to book the 2nd one, but time is nearing quickly!

The massage started out normal enough… tentative hands getting to know my muscles, slow kneading to slightly faster as she discovered my tolerance for pain, then some real deep massaging in some absolutely terrifyingly sore spots. I can’t lie, I probably moaned a few times, but who doesn’t?! My husband gives shitty massages on his best days on purpose, so when I am deliciously treated to something of this caliber, I am going to fucking moan.

But this is where it got weird. (Cause you know, moaning isn't weird AT ALL).

All of a sudden, my delightfully wonderful massage therapist slowed down and I felt a lighter pressure in the middle of my back… then… wait for it…

SHE POPPED A PIMPLE.

I was frozen in absolute shock my friends. This strange woman, who I had barely just gotten know in a hurry while she touched me in places that I rarely even let my husband touch, just violated a cardinal rule: Popping pimples are reserved for those people you WILL walk around bra less for.

NOT a massage therapist.

And yes strangely enough, I let it slide. I mean, here I was, completely nude except for a barely there thong that really doesn’t leave much for the imagination, laying on a massage table with drool running down my lip, being massaged so wonderfully by superwoman with more strength than Paul Bunyan. I really was in no position to stand up and protest such a violation of popping a pimple. (Plus, my balloons would have been in plain view!)

I mean, who am I really?!?!

Pop away massage therapists, I think you have earned the right. I mean, I DID have drool running down my chin. That counts for something.

[Was that an epilogue? If so, I totally rock this awesome writing thing]