repost: On Having Fat Titties

I originally wrote this some months ago, on a website where I’ve been a member a long time. I just rediscovered it and thought it belonged here.
Warning: Lots of cuss words.
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Reading a column, via bookslut, on a book about fashion that dispenses “sensible” advice, and is apparently less antifeminist than the norm. Great. I was cautiously behind her on the whole thing, but then stumbled across a paragraph that made me recoil with a nearly-out-loud (that would’ve been bad, as I’m at work) “Fuck you!”

Show me a woman with a good three inches of cleavage on show and I’ll show you a woman who has little faith in her powers of conversation. All fashion is, to a degree, a form of self-expression in that it gives onlookers an impression of your personality before you open your mouth. Some style choices, however, come with such an immutable set of associations, there is no need for words. [...]
Cleavage takes this to a whole new level. Any conversation will be pointless anyway as no one will be listening, either because they’re (a) straight males and therefore rendered temporarily hypnotised, a cliché, yes, but sad and true, or (b) anyone else and are thus left shocked by the pathetic obviousness of your tactics.

Yes, you have breasts – congratulations. Whether squashing them together like two pigs fighting underneath a blanket shows them off to their best advantage is a somewhat debatable point. Whether it adds anything to your outfit is less so because the answer is, no, it doesn’t.

Yeah, fuck you. Another possible? Maybe we’re sick of getting teased about being fat so we’re just heading off the inevitable sly digs by just putting them the fuck out there. Look, I have fucking huge tits and I know that, so here they are: when you make the joke about them or reference to them that I know you are going to, at least you won’t be able to feel smug like I’m not in on this joke. I am the fucking joke, of course I’m in on it whether you meant to include me or not.
Also: turtlenecks make me look like I have some sort of bloating-related disease.
Also: a nicely low-cut shirt disguises the fact that none of your fucking bras fit.

Also?
You’re just jealous, you skinny bitch.
(I have to say these things sometimes, and I apologize to any of you who might happen to be thin. It’s not directed at you unless you started this. In which case it’s on now, baby.)

And I came to the inevitable conclusion that fashion is a highly individual thing, there are no categorical dos and don’ts, and anyone who says so, no matter how funkily and pro-feministy and cattily they say it, is just making herself feel better by keeping her sisters down, man.

(The articles are here and here.)

The last time I Went Out On The Town was for a roller-derby-related function. I wore a v-neck halter top with two slightly-too-small bras because none of mine fit my fat tits anymore, and two ill-fitting bras fail less spectacularly than one. I had probably three or four inches of cleavage showing. (I can get down to about six or seven inches before there’s any risk of nipple slippage, so that’s actually pretty conservative for me.) My teammates, once they realized this was deliberate, happily made boob jokes, grabbed them, poked me, etc. One of my teammates played my boobs like bongos.
It was kind of freeing.
I know I got off easy; at the end of the night, some sweater-wearing preppie asshole asked one of my teammates (who is, incidentally, a small business owner, a plus-size model, and an amazing skater, as well as having the most strikingly beautiful face of anyone I know in person– symmetrical, wide blue eyes, very dark eyelashes, classic bow mouth… and a sixteen-inch difference between her waist and hip measurements) if she had “anything going for her besides a big ass.”
We all volunteered to beat the shit out of him. She opted to give him a sarcastic lecture before leaving.
I still think we should’ve beat the the shit out of him.

My answer, which I have rehearsed should anyone ask me a similar question, is “A mean left hook”, and yes I’ve rehearsed the demonstration part too, and yes I do get my hip into it. Possibly with a follow-up elbow to the back of the head, if he collapses properly. Is assault ever justified? I believe so, in response to a verbal assault like that: a man would only start off a conversation like that if he’s hoping your self-esteem collapses so far that you’ll lower yourself to fuck him. And that’s assault. Fuck you, buddy, I don’t need that.

Do I have a point? I don’t know if I have a point. I started off with a point. Besides the fact that I’m fashion-hopeless and take exception to the entire culture’s obsession with it.
My point is, I agree that you don’t have to be ignorant of fashion to be a feminist. You don’t have to shave your head or wear baggy clothing. You can wear lip gloss if you like. Go for it, if it floats your boat.
But I don’t agree that you should mock anybody else for their sense of fashion. You know? Fuck off. Just because you don’t have big tits doesn’t give you a license to make fun of everyone who does.

And FUCK “dressing to conceal your flaws”. FUCK it RIGHT in its metaphorical ass! My fat tits are not a flaw, they are 40% of my torso. I refuse to consign 40% of my torso to the “flaw” bin. And I refuse to make up something else to be self-conscious about. I’m not about to expose my midriff, but I’m not going to label it as a flaw either– that’s another 20% of my fucking torso and you know, a torso is pretty important to my life. It does its job. It’s not a flaw.

Just because you don’t like animal print doesn’t mean nobody can wear it. Maybe someone wears something unflattering and it’s funny: sure. But all that really means is that the person is wearing something unflattering and possibly comical; it doesn’t mean that he or she (more commonly she) is less of a person. It absolutely doesn’t give you the right to judge her psyche and character. Fuck you. If there’s any justice in the world, she’ll take your verbal assault as you intend it, and will punch you right in your smug superior face. Don’t you tear me down with your fucking snark, sister, or I’ll tear you down literally.

Yeah I’m a fucking pacifist. Nyahh. Am I a little wound up? Perhaps.
But I kind of get this a lot. And I’m really fucking sick of it.