- my mom took me bra shopping after my first period. the white satin-esque training bra set atop my developing breasts like an ill fitting hat. to 11-year-old me, my chest looked fleshy, but it fell short in needing a bra for support. but an aspiration that young girl and i still share is that i would spend as much time as i could braless.
- adrienne c. moore (of netflix’s orange is the new black) saying she doesn’t have “tv titties” was a pivotal moment in representation for me. queen latifah’s topless scene in bessie was given the meme treatment. i accidentally caught sight of nicole kidman’s breasts during a scene in eyes wide shut. she was yelling at tom cruise for not being jealous about her. what a fool i thought she was to ask. she was white and perfect and everywhere. he could find her again on a grocery run. porn introduced me early to the idea that breasts could be a source of pleasure for men, mostly. the fuller, the perkier, the better. i never envisioned what my breasts would look like until i got them.
- i had them and they didn’t feel like mine. a boy i didn’t know but laid in my bed cupped them like a jewel. another stranger living in my house found me in the dark and suckled them as if milk were bursting from them. a security camera caught me wondering what i’d be doing if my back weren’t anchored to the pillar behind me while a stranger from tinder flicked my nipple with his tongue as if he were waiting on encouragement from someone else. like an old girlfriend or his last hookup that survived the encounter by faking it.
- my breasts feel like mine when i take nudes. when they fill out a top without disrupting a button. when their held and bruised and sucked by a person i want. a therapist told me that she doesn’t know a lot of sexually liberated women following sexual trauma. i don’t either. but i plan to be one of them.
- i like sex. i may not need it. i don’t like bras. i need a bra. bra shopping is an isolating experience in a body changed by love and grace and age and genetics and pizza.
- an ill-fitting bra is not hard to spill out of. when you find your fit, a person or the preferred taste of your morning coffee, you don’t want to stray. the wire of my beloved bra came out like a family secret; so i had to carry six bras off the rack to a dressing room in hope that the support i needed would only cost me $11 and a quarterly trip to ross dress for less. but one spill and gaping cups and shifting band after another: i left with socks and hair products. i saved my tears for the parking lot.
- i spent $200 on bras. i wish i could write it off on my taxes. an investment into my breasts that isn’t a reduction feels like a waste. but they’re the only titties i have. there are others like them but these are mine.
Bryanna Beaman
Writer & Digital Creative
Bryanna Beaman 
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