Ever since my jiggly juggernauts burst into being, the only constant source of support in my life has been my trusty and ever so busty, boulder-holder. I’ve developed a profound love of lingerie. It has transformative powers on my mood and self-esteem. Combine that with my dangerous shopping addiction and my undie drawers are overlowing with titty-hammocks, knocker-lockers and upper-topperlopper- stoppers made of lace, satin, and industrial strength underwire.
As a femme, fashion is how I express my identity, celebrate my sexuality and spark joy. And my bras are a big part of that. Very big actually. My cups runneth over. 36G, for “Ginormous, Gargantuan, Good God, watch out it’s a Giant pair of wobblers!” My bras are a curious mix of pretty and practical. Due to their vast size, I can use them to store more than just my bazoomers. I stuff all sorts down there when I’m on the go: lipstick, keys, a BLT in case I get peckish.
In all seriousness though, glamorous lingerie is my favourite act of selfcare. It’s sensual, personal and about as intimate as you can get. My everyday go-to is a vintage longline brassiere – the only style I can get away with all day without inducing chronic backache – and a pair of lattering high-waisted briefs. Once I’m irmly encased, my silhouette smoothed out under my retro ensemble, I feel ready to tackle the day. Matching underwear gives me a false sense of control in an increasingly crazy world.
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