The Booby Trap and Other Bits and Boobs (15 page)

He couldn't quite read the confused expression on her face, as if she was uncertain for a moment what she was seeing as she looked at him.

Stewart said, ‘I didn't mean to bother –'

‘He's staring at us,' a nasty voice said. ‘Can't even look at your face. Just looking at us, all over your body.'

Stewart blinked in surprise. ‘Huh?'

Sylvie's eyes grew even wider, a different kind of shock taking over her expression.

‘This girl simple-minded or something?' Stewart's breasts said. ‘She'd still never agree to go out with you … '

They trailed off because Sylvie was staring at Stewart's chest. He instinctively put up a hand and pulled his uniform jacket shut.

‘You can hear that?!' both he and Sylvie said at exactly the same time.

‘She can hear us!' his breasts said, delighted. ‘She's staring right at us!'

‘He's staring right at us!' the other voice said, and Stewart saw Sylvie put her hand up to her neck.

‘What's going on?' Stewart said.

Sylvie just shook her head in disbelief. ‘But you don't even
have
freckles,' she said.

‘Freckles?' Stewart asked.

‘
Freckles
?!' his breasts said. ‘No, lass, he's got two great big cow udders under here.'

Stewart winced, but Sylvie's face changed. She just said, ‘Oh,' in a way that seemed to grasp something Stewart was missing. ‘Oh.'

‘Oh, what?' he asked.

She sighed and wiped her eyes dry, gathering herself with a kind of vulnerable primness. ‘If I were to ask you,' she said, ‘what part of yourself you hated the most … ?'

Stewart just looked at her for a moment, then his shoulders slumped as he understood, too. ‘Oh,' he said.

‘Yeah,' she said, sadly.

‘But what's wrong with your freckles?' Stewart said.

He heard an outbreak of uproarious laughter from the other voice, and Sylvie blushed. Stewart blushed, too, on her behalf. ‘At least you're not fat,' he rushed out with.

‘Fat?' she said, surprised. ‘You're not fat. You're just …
big
.'

‘
Fat
,' his breasts said. ‘That's what she means by big.'

‘Only a fat boy would say there's nothing wrong with us,' her freckles said.

‘Shut
up
,' Sylvie said, closing her eyes in embarrassment.

Stewart felt like he should probably leave, that that's what she probably wanted, privacy, a place to suffer this humiliation alone, just like he had …

But maybe not.

He was surprised a little to find himself sitting down next to her, his hand still holding his uniform jacket shut, not that it had made much difference up to now. Sylvie opened her eyes, but didn't say anything.

She didn't ask him to leave, though.

‘I thought it was just me,' he finally said.

‘Everybody's got
something
,' Sylvie said.

‘Do you think that's true?'

She looked angry for a moment. ‘It had
better
be.'

They sat in silence. Then Stewart realised it actually
was
silence. Sylvie glanced over at him. She'd noticed it, too.

‘It won't last,' she whispered, though there was a clear hope in it that she was wrong. ‘They'll start back up again.'

‘Probably,' he whispered back.

But it lingered, the silence, and they sat, still, afraid that moving might break it.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, but what was probably only a few minutes – though everyone knows a few minutes is all it ever takes for the world to spin just a little differently – he said, almost to himself, ‘You know, I've always really liked freckles.'

Which was all it took to set everything talking again.

But …

His eyes met hers as the voices berated away, and as she realised it, too, she gave him a surprised smile.

He found himself giving one back.

Did his breasts ever shut up as he grew older and kept meaning to eat more vegetables and do more exercise? No. Did her freckles, no matter how many layers of sunscreen she applied in an attempt at melanin birth control? Nope, not for the entire rest of the life they were both quietly astonished to find themselves spending with each other.

But when they were together, her hand in his, and they were looking into each other's eyes again, and the sometimes loud, sometimes ugly noise of the world surrounded them, well, then, at those moments, who could possibly have been interested in listening?

Upfront

The first time I became aware of my boobs was when I went walking with my friend's parents. I was horrified aged eight when my friend Lorraine stripped to the waist and marched through the park with utter indifference to my mortification. As a later indication of my prudishness, I struck up a painful pros and cons conversation with her mum and dad about why I should leave my top on. They were amused and exasperated all at once – I was adamant that my
très bien
T-shirt would remain faithfully in place and relieved that my moral alignment had once again been restored.

It's not that I wasn't familiar with boobs. As a small Catholic child I saw Jesus's boobs every day and sometimes my mother's, admittedly when her cleverly concealing face cloth slipped during bath time. Thankfully they weren't hairy like my dad's, but sort of eager and buoyant with a will of their own – prompting both accelerated fear and excitement in equal measure. Ours was a prominently female household and growing up with Mum and my two sisters meant that tits and bits were unavoidable (I sigh on behalf of Dad). I remember my big sis Kel getting her first job on the underwear stall at the local indoor market and eyeballing (albeit lids half cast) the exotic paraphernalia she brought home at discount price. I didn't waste any time trying it all on in her absence. Claire, my fellow conspirator and youngest sister, once mistook a pair of crotchless pants as a bra, with the open crotch comfortably slipping over her petit head as her arms flapped about trying to find an outlet either side. As quickly as her naivety had betrayed her, she literally sprung one spring, leaving me and my inverted nipples firmly behind.

As my first day of secondary school approached, I bought myself a new alice band to coordinate with my new uniform and a set of new vests – yes, you heard me correctly. Upon reaching that momentous day I learned quickly that boobs were tits and tits meant only one thing – bras! The protruding bow that hung over my blouse served only to expose my still child-like body, and having received what can only be described as a wedgie of the upper carriage from a boy in the fourth year, I was sent into a blind frigid panic. You could call it a life-changing day, not least because it was to be another seven years before I went bra-less again. Not one, you understand, but two, worn one on top of the other, padded and intricately scaffolded to give the illusion of normality and inclusiveness. The indescribable physical discomfort I felt was akin to wearing a toddler's harness with egg boxes attached – but to endure the pain of going without would have been a far greater punishment within my adolescent mind.

As Mother Nature would have it, I had to wait until my sweet sixteenth before puberty lazily stirred within. The fact that the one (OK, two) things I had wanted so desperately to arrive hadn't, was in itself a reason for martyrdom. On top of it, I had a shnozz that apparently knew no bounds, protruding from my face to give me an air of haughty assertion that betrayed the still shy girl within. My respite came in the form of ballet, where boobs weren't needed but body strength and determination were. My 183 cm body began gradually to unfold itself, and for the first time I felt good about my tits as they clung safely, nestled within the pre-moulded bosom of my spandex leotard. Alert, pert, proud and nipply – yes nipply! My body was responsive – or perhaps I was beginning to respond to it. Oh how malleable and ‘on demand' they were. I began to tweak and play with them at regular intervals – they were having a regular coming-out party of their own and continue to be upstanding!

To cut a long story short, my boobs have proved to be a source of enormous discussion over the years. It's true to say that as a teenager I thought about getting ‘them done', but thank God I was broke as it meant that I sat quite literally with the problem. I remember early on in my modelling career, a hairdresser in LA advised me to get my nose reduced and to expand my bosoms. Now, I'm NOT infallible to my own self-criticism; however, something wonderful happened in response. I realised I had punished my lovely, hard-working, healthy body for years with feelings of inadequacy and ‘not quite right' syndrome – how dare someone else tell me what's wrong with me!? In that moment my stubbornness took over and with almighty gusto I told the bozo in question to do one. He was aghast and ignorant to my new-found conviction and I began to protect my body, just as it was, with all my might.

In general both men and women have intervened, offering me constant solutions to my body issues – not mine, theirs – because it seems that even if I accept my body it doesn't necessarily mean other people do. Some ask, with genuine concern, if I will be ‘relieved to get a boob job once my modelling career is over'? I am always astonished by this question because to me it brings into question my womanhood, as if by not fixing the problem I am somehow incomplete. I can assure you that I am all woman, in attitude as well as physical attribute. I revel in my femininity so how could I betray that by succumbing to a social stigma of what's considered right and wrong, socially acceptable, even? I have collected a couple of amusing anecdotes over the years to satisfy the reader's appetite: How will you breastfeed? Did you have them removed? It's a humbling thing to put aside someone else's ignorance in order to stay sane. One journalist, a woman, splashed my tits over a double-paged spread in a tabloid newspaper, seemingly indignant that I had chosen to wear a revealing dress. Her response? Contrived references such as ‘part-time ironing board', etc. My point is, SHE wasn't comfortable with my body, therefore I was punished and subjected to public humiliation.

As a prerequisite to accepting my body/boobs just as they are, it has given me enormous empathy and respect for all other women. Our boobs are precious, gentle and sensitive but also proud, happy and upstanding in a very powerful, responsive way. I'm all for variety in tit/tittage of all different shapes and sizes – heck I have fondled my sisters' (of blood and friend variety) enough over the years, and they mine in equal appreciation!

Garnering both positive and negative descriptions of my body over the years has, at times left me feeling very uncomfortable – I have worked hard to be kind to myself and quit judging. After all, my tits have served me well – they work, they satisfy and I am eternally grateful to be healthy. Why shouldn't I be upfront about them?

PS I haven't worn a bra in 15 years!

Pillow Talk

INT. TEENAGE GIRL'S BEDROOM – NIGHT

A girl, 16, lies in bed.

A cheeky boy has just climbed out the window.

Under the covers –

LISA

I'm fine, I'm fine, I don't want to talk about it.

REGINA

OK. It's just … you don't seem fine. You seem a little tender.

LISA

What the hell is so wrong with me?

REGINA

Nothing, you're beautiful, you are –

LISA

Bullshit! Bullshit, Regina. Night after night I just lie here, freezin' my tip off like a lonely shadow, while you cavort over there like the feckin' Queen of Sheeba.

REGINA

You're being very sensitive …

LISA

Of course I'm sensitive, and he knows exactly why, and it's the same reason he's being so top-half friendly this week.

REGINA

Well, fanny's house guest has been no picnic either.

LISA

Stupid, stupid, stupid boys. They always ignore the introverted one –

REGINA

(under her breath)

– inverted –

LISA

What was that?

REGINA

Eh … nothing … I was just agreeing with you.

LISA

Does he think I'm sick? They're stretch marks, not leprosy, you knob!

REGINA

What you need to remember is … Jimmy is left handed.

LISA

Well, ambidextrous Andy did the same nonsense. Titism is all it is, plain and simple.

REGINA

You're not plain and simple, Lisa –

LISA

Easy for you to say, old piercy Pip over there, steering palms like a big silver hand magnet …

REGINA

Hey! You didn't have to deal with the infection.

LISA

I know, I'm sorry. It's not your fault. I'm sorry, I'm just …

REGINA

Hey, she should guide them more.

LISA

Like it's not enough she puts us on show at parties, and then during the day –

Silence.

REGINA

No support at all, I know, I do.

LISA

Another 15 years of this shit and then she'll just turn us into big food troughs.

REGINA

Hey, at least we're in it together.

LISA

Yeah. I love you R – wait, what's this … No, no, don't turn over, sleep on your back ya bit—

The End.

My Date with Destiny … in the Form of Boobies

I've never been much of a boobies man (OK, from here on in, can we call them breasts? Otherwise we could be in a second-year common room looking at
Fiesta
magazine in the 80s and trust me, this could be a very dark place).

When my friends were all hunkered down, transfixed by the screen, trying in vain to get dealt a straight flush to beat ‘Sam Fox's strip poker' on the ZX Spectrum, circa 1987, I was wondering, firstly, how do you know the rules of poker aged fourteen? (They didn't.) And secondly, there's no way the lovely Sam is going to give up a brief glance at her heavily pixelated crown jewels to a group of adolescents who can't play poker for toffee (she didn't).

Don't get me wrong, I adore – did you hear me? – ADORE the female form, in all its forms! It's just that when it comes to breasts, it's much like your taste in chicken; you're a breast guy or a leg guy. And when you were a fourteen-year-old boy you DID NOT say you were a leg man, we had them too, as well as bums, it just didn't add up, it was the equivalent of not having red blood cells coursing through your veins.

So now, twenty-five years later, it gives me great pleasure to say I've seen the error of my ways, and I realise that being attentive to one's breasts is of paramount importance to women (and men) of all ages.

My wake-up call came at The Pride of Britain Awards a couple of years ago. I was giving an award, and it's always been the most worthy, thought-provoking ‘put your own stupid problems into context' kind of night. Think toddlers with super-human strength pulling their grannies out of burning buildings, or OAPs walking on their hands for charity from Lands End to John O'Groats … If you're not in floods of tears within ten minutes, then you're made of stone. It quite simply restores your faith in your fellow man.

I wasn't on the table I expected to be on, but I was with friends, so I didn't make a fuss and sat where I was put. One hour in, a blonde, bald bombshell and her twin sister bowled up to my table. Kris and Maren were friendly, but were certainly on a mission.

‘And why have you changed your seat? You're supposed to be sat with us.'

This was bad. A: I had no real idea what they were talking about, and B: A cancer patient was telling me off … which is not a good look, especially when you don't know why.

I obviously folded like my fourteen-year-old friends' poker hands, and sat them down for a chat, and chat we did, all night. I was vaguely aware of the issues around breast cancer, but Kris and her sister Maren's knowledge combined with their passion and energy was a much-needed education.

Two years (and two half-marathons) down the line, I'm proud to be a patron of one of the hardest-working and dynamic charities I've ever worked with. The girls at CoppaFeel! and their merry band of game disciples (who incidentally also bake a mean cake) travel the country to universities and festivals spreading awareness and the word of all things booby (curses, I've said it again) to both women and men. Hell, they're so on it, they now even stage their own festival! (‘Festifeel' … very strong) to spread the good word.

And much like my experience with them, others have found … they are pretty hard to say no to.

Turns out I am a boob man after all.