3 min

Tools of the revolution

Thoughts of a big-racked woman

Credit: Xtra West files

In the words of the buxom Jessica Rabbit, “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way.” As a big-racked girl myself, I know how she feels. See, the good lord, in her infinite wisdom, blessed me with 36 double Ds-in Grade 6.

My early development presented a problem. I’d wanted to be a ballerina when I grew up and the knockers pretty much put the kibosh on that. Later, when I figured out I was a dyke, they almost put the kibosh on that, too. “What?” you say. “But lesbians = women = breasts = you being very popular, no?” No, not so much. Oh, sure, maybe it’s my cranky personality but today we’re blaming it on my tits.

Breasts are funny things. Well, not funny, unless you’re five. Then they’re “boobies” and, yes, they’re funny as all get out. But being stacked in the queer world is an even funnier thing. Inexplicably, fags love my breasts. Which is all well and good but the last time I made out with a fag was in high school. (I didn’t know he was gay back then, but time has since let so many of my high school boyfriends out of the closet.) So, the attention I get from my homo brothers, although flattering, isn’t really doing me any good. Worse still, it would seem that my breasts are as much of an anomaly in the dyke world as they were in ballet school. Once again, I don’t fit in to the accepted aesthetic.

In case you haven’t noticed, the popular lesbian aesthetic is a far cry from the adult film version. For a girl with porn-star tits like mine, that’s some bad news right there. No, if you want to get by as a lesbo today, pretty-and-just-this-side-of-androgynous is the key. If one believes mainstream TV and movies, all lesbians have exactly the same, non-threatening, handful sized breasts. They also seem to wear only tank tops for some reason. But I digress.

In reality, queer breasts come in all different shapes and sizes, sometimes matching up with one’s position along the butch-femme continuum, sometimes tossing out a curveball.

I love being femme. I love my breasts. But reactions to my cleavage sometimes make me feel like putting on a parka and apologizing. It’s as though my breasts fly in the face of all that we feminist lesbians are supposed to reject, as though my rejection of the sports bra is a rejection of the rejection of the beauty myth. I understand where this attitude comes from but it doesn’t make it any easier to take. Maybe if we lived in a world where large breasts weren’t equated with desire for male approval, I might get a more positive reaction to “the girls” (also known amongst my friends as “the twins” and, after a recent altercation when a drunken straight man decided to-uninvited-plant his face between them and I went off like a mother bear, “the cubs”).

The fact is that, when approached by my breasts, most dykes suddenly become about five years old and hesitantly poke at them and giggle (see “boobies” above). Oh yeah, that’s hot. They don’t seem to consider my breasts an actual integral part of my body. I sometimes contemplate how ironic this is when I’m happily sucking on their silicone cocks.

Which leads me to my butch/boy sisters and brothers. Someone asked me recently if I prefer muscles or curves on my boys. I replied that I like them comfortable in their bodies. It’s true. There’s no denying that I have a type: the people I’m attracted to are invariably masculine, taller than me, bossier than me (no easy feat) and generally confuse anyone who tries to determine their gender. But getting it on with a boy with a rack that counters my own doesn’t turn me on any less than getting down with a flat-chested one. My understanding of their gender is strong enough to include what might be considered incongruent to others. Yes, the girls and I love the boys in a variety of shapes and sizes.

Lying beside an FTM lover a while ago, tracing my finger along his top surgery scars, I thought about how much I used to wish for tiny ballerina breasts. Not for the same reasons as someone who is trans, of course, but out of a desire to fit in better nonetheless. He wanted a body that would be better aligned with his self-image. I wanted a body that would allow me to better fit into someone else’s image of me. I smiled, thinking how we’d each found our way to a more contented place in our own skin.

The chances of my breasts and I inciting a revolution in the world of ballet are slim at this point. But I do like to think of my tits as tools of the gender revolution. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I say. However you are drawn, however you choose to draw yourself.

* This is the first of a monthly column, Siren, written by Vancouver comic Morgan Brayton.