I can remember the day I realized that you were dramatically larger than your twin.

While working at Victoria’s Secret waaaaay back in the day, I was asked to try on the new Incredible bra, and whichever ones, in whatever color fit, I could take them home for Free.99 to add to my collection. I was like a kid in a candy store.

I entered the dressing room, you know the ones with the mirrors that can move and give like every angle possible? Yeah, those were the ones I faced when I got undressed that evening. And in that room, as I stood, and as I pulled my bra off, there you sat, looking completely different than my cheap full body college mirror ever let on before.

‘What in the hell!?’

I stood there, shocked and a little sad at what I could somewhat feel for years, but honestly had never seen in this light, in this way. To have an imperfection amplified and seen even if just by myself at every turn, was a bit much. Let’s just say that the rest of the day didn’t go very well emotionally.

But who am I fooling? I could tell something was different about you for years. You made bra shopping the ultimate hassle. While my right boob was down to cooperate and sit comfy in my cups, there you were, being an a**hole again, down to clown. Instead of sitting snug, when I would bend over you would slowly but surely try to peek out of your cup, begging me to go up another cup or to tighten my straps up or adjust my band to contain you. Your behavior is what led me to leave the alluring demi bras and strapless joints behind and go full-on granny with my lingerie, opting for full coverage just to keep you in check. You were annoying, but I never thought you were THAT bad. But it was that particular day in that dressing room that I realized why you had always been a struggle–you had outgrown my right boob at a drastic level, and for me, visually, it was way too much. What was something I was initially aware of and a little shy about became something I wound up being embarrassed by, even if no one else could immediately notice or said anything about it.

And for so long, I was paranoid. I would try and dress uncomfortably in tight stalls at the gym because I wasn’t as confident as some of the women around me who wanted to go commando at the drop of a drawl to show everybody what they were working with. They could do that because their chests were symmetrically on point. And if they weren’t…well, if you’re walking around a room full of women undressed, washing your workout clothes in the sink like folks do at my raggedy gym, you don’t care whose looking at your lumps and bumps anyway. Trying to buy swimwear for my chest became a nightmare, and even when I went to visit the gynecologist, I was literally in a state of extreme discomfort. And once I became sexually active, I was very much worried about you and how the man in my life might react to your appearance.

But to my surprise, he didn’t notice. At all. If he did, he sure didn’t say anything to me. In fact, he often speaks on how he loves my body and the confidence he seems to think I have about it. I think he had me confused with someone else, but I appreciated his kind words. His support of my body image, and you, my lopsided tit, have been encouraging, but honestly, it was my own reality check to myself that made me more confident in you and my body as a whole.

What was I going to do about you? Was I going to get surgery? Was I going to hide in a stanky a** stall every time I needed to change to get my work out on because I thought someone would be looking at me? Was I going to continuously be sad about something I didn’t cause and couldn’t change? The answer to all these things was no. While I would love my chest to sit perfectly, it doesn’t and that’s fine, because I know it’s not the end of the world, and better yet, I’m not alone in the lopsided committee. And if the doctor continues to say that there’s nothing wrong with you, I’m not going to treat you like there is. I might stick with the full coverage bras for simple convenience (aye…they’ve been MAD supportive too), but you’re not going to have me doubting myself any longer.

So yes left boob, we haven’t always had the best relationship, and you’re not perfect, but hey–you’re mine. You, in all your oversized glory, were given to me by God to carry around with confidence, and for that reason, I’ll continue to try my best to do that. We’ve been at odds since you first started growing back when I was still messing with Barbies, but now that we’re older, let’s call a truce and keep it peaceful and perky. Aight?

Source: Getty

In spirit of all that the Christmas season entails, Nicki Minaj and the folks over at Hot 97 decided to bury the hatchet. You may remember that they had a huge falling out this past summer after Pete Rosenberg, one of their DJs, dissed Nicki’s song “Starships,” an hour before she was set to take the stage. Needless to say this didn’t sit well with Young Money; and the singer, following the direction of Lil Wayne, canceled her show.

But Hot 97 and Nicki seemed to have let bygones be bygones as Nicki performed at an event Hot 97 hosted at Webster Hall yesterday.

Though Nicki kept it kind of conservative color-wise, she still let it all hang out in other areas. If you know what I mean. (And I think you do.)

So ladies… and gentlemen, caption this picture of what Nicki and her girls are saying or thinking in this photo.

We so look forward to reading your responses on this one!

Anyone who knows me, knows that I have a high appreciation for the female form. Seriously, I’m a boob woman. They’re soft, life sustaining and nurturing. I’ve even been known to rub my own in public places, at inappropriate times. I could go on and on about boobs, they’re the greatest.

In general, the female form is something to be admired. But admiring from a distance is as far as I think I can go. As much as I love boobs, the thought of another woman’s breasts touching me literally repulses me. Have you ever had a woman’s boobs accidentally graze your arm or has a woman ever hugged you too hard, forcing her boobs into your own chest? I can’t speak for anyone else but the sensation makes my skin crawl.

Why am I telling you all this?

Recently, I linked to a post from our partners at Your Tango, asking whether or not you’d be pissed if your man went to the strip club and didn’t tell you what went down while he was there. Surprisingly, when we posted the question on Facebook and Twitter, a lot of you mentioned the fact that you would have no problem whatsoever and would probably join the boo at the strip club, some of you even mentioned getting a lap dance of your own.

Hmm…I can’t say that I was surprised. Ya’ll have said freakier things. But I just couldn’t get with you all on that one. Call me prudish or puritanical or whatever you like, but it never occurred to me to go into a strip club for enjoyment or even pleasure. Sure, I’m heterosexual, but even that is not enough reason not to go. Plenty of hetero women hit female strip clubs all the time.

A friend and I recently asked our co-worker what she thought about the subject and she said women can do some amazing things on those poles and move their butt cheeks in downright acrobatic motions. Tis true and they are to be commended, but I can catch the pole work in a number of pole dancing classes and a booty clap certainly isn’t hard to come by, even after the days of BET’s Uncut. Being the germaphobe that I am, I’d probably watch the whole spectacle wondering how a woman could so comfortably grasp an object her co-worker had just held between her open a** cheeks?  I just don’t understand why I would ever have a reason to venture into a female strip club…or really any strip club for that matter.

Years ago, I attended a bachelorette party with a male stripper. I knew there was going to be a stripper and he was going to be my first one, so I was excited. Unfortunately, the man that entered the room was none too attractive and by the end of his routine, I couldn’t help but think he was desperate and pathetic. Something about flaccid wang flopping in my face, did anything but arouse me.

Maybe the wack stripper ruined me for all strippers, male and female alike. Or maybe, and I think this reason is far more plausible, something about the human form being overtly broadcast as a sexual object elicits disgust instead of arousal from me. Something about a stripper, male or female, seems so forced and unnatural in comparison to the way real life sexual encounters go down. When you think about it, even pornos try to create some semblance of normality, though they often fail.

At the end of the day, for me it’s the little things that I find sexually appealing. Anything too in my face, even a pair of perfectly crafted, supple breasts, is just cheap.

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