Family can be tough.
Judgmental.
I feel like during the holidays I’m often guilted into going to see them more than I actually want to.
Last year me and the tiddz turned into a very, very big topic of conversation—and this year it would only have been bigger.
“They have to stop growing soon obviously” (they aren’t)
“The doctors actually can reduce them” (they can’t)
“You just need to lose weight” (I’ve tried and they don’t lose any)
I decided, the night before, that I wasn’t going to go.
My aunts can patronize someone else, or at least talk about my boobs to someone besides me. They use to make fun of my sweaters, now it’s my body.
I stayed home and did the thing that’s been helping my anxiety recently:
I cooked.
And—because anxiety apparently turns me into a one-woman catering service—I cooked waaay too much.
Not just steak and scallops (which was the plan).
I made mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, honey-glazed carrots, stuffing, roasted squash, cranberry sauce, green beans, garlic knots, two pies… basically enough food to feed twelve.
There were only four of us.
Six including my torso-dominating tits.
I don’t know how to cook for “just a few people,” so I just kept cooking and cooking. Definitely not helping the calorie deficit I’d put myself on.
Somewhere between tasting the mashed potatoes “one more time” and checking the mac and cheese for “doneness” on six separate occasions, I started doing that thing where I graze and nibble and accidentally bloat myself before we even sit down for dinner.
Idk why but that feeling of being full is calming to me.
Cooking settles me.
Eating pleases me.
Digesting way too much takes my mind off everything and it’s… dangerous.
By the time everything was on the table, my plate could barely hold the variety of foods I compulsively added.
And by the time I went back for seconds (and, okay, thirds), my stomach had that soft, round little holiday swell.
Not huge. I am still unable to put on weight anywhere except the obvious gluttonous glands.
My partner’s sister and her boyfriend came over. They know about my Instagram, Patreon, boob business, and the whole medically significant mammary situation I’m going through. They had been over the month prior. But his sister did ask me privately, once the boys went in the other room, if they’d grown.
Just more proof that, yes, they have indeed grown.
Noticeably.
In less than two months.
I told her the truth.
I’m pretty sure they don’t ever really stop growing now. I’ve held my breath for months—almost years—hoping some hormonal changes would occur, some metabolic shift would happen. But if anything, they seem to grow more consistently as they’ve gotten bigger. A reality my doctor warned me about.
Hypersensitive to hormones.
My glands are hypersensitive to hormones.
So what happens when the glands grow? There are more glands to be hypersensitive to the hormones.
A freakish feedback loop to be stuck in.
My partner’s sister listened to all this and looked worried, but she also didn’t look away from them. A common occurrence. Definitely felt better than being the main event at the circus tent my family would erect around my newly lap-filling form.
The food was my little escape.
Something for all of us, but more so for me.
This next part is a bit embarrassing to even mention, but my boobs fans will understand (the gif I posted above is the outfit I wore to this Friendsgiving)
As I sorta compulsively stuffed my face, I kept burping. Mostly held in, kept quiet. But after a bit I couldn’t anymore and some big ones slipped out. Sorry, I know it’s gross. But with my cleavage out during the meal, each big burp caused a rhythmic wave of jiggles to rock my breasts.
Her boyfriend pretended not to notice, which I was grateful for, but she full-on stared.
I blushed but couldn’t stop.
I wish I’d controlled my eating a bit more.
Definitely the biggest embarrassment of the night was me trying to sneak an extra buttered biscuit when I was surprised by an oddly loud burp that sent my fat tits quivering in violent booby waves before the buttery, flaky biscuit fell out of my mouth and into the cleavage canyon I’d been trying to downplay.
I know this all sounds silly, but the butter made the fattiest, jiggliest part of my tits shiny and slick as I futzed around trying to get every little flaky piece of biscuit off them. My fingers digging in and making indecent indents in my squishy bosoms.
A display I probably should have handled in the bathroom, but my mobility has been a bit more difficult lately, so getting up wasn’t my first priority.
My new difficulty in getting up is a testament to the weight they’ve added to my frame.
It’s still shocking to me how little my torso and body still are while I’ve “put on weight”… and it’s them.
Calories move through my belly, but they don’t stick there.
They travel.
They migrate north like birds.
They become mass. Soft, warm weight.
Me, I suppose—just specific parts of me.
I can’t take a sexy selfie in bed anymore without my breasts covering my face and taking up the majority of the frame. It’s not even a third of my boobs in that picture, but they take up almost the whole frame.
I’d be more embarrassed if I didn’t know y’all love it.
I keep thinking about the Instagram polls from last week—
All of you overwhelmingly telling me you prefer me softer, bigger, fuller… that if it makes me happy, you’re not just okay with the growth, you voted for it.
I’m not saying yes to gaining weight necessarily… but
I’m not intentionally chasing anything.
I’m not restricting anymore.
Not punishing myself for eating.
Not fighting every calorie like it’s some intruder.
The Thanksgiving bosom banquet was proof.
Too much food.
Too many seconds.
Too many tiny “just one more tastes” before things were even cooked.
A full tummy that made me sleepy and warm and strangely proud.
And the knowledge—half humorous, half terrifying—that in a few days, that little food baby is going to turn into more boob.
More mammary.
More of me to carry and hide and reconcile with.
Maybe that’s part of why I skipped Thanksgiving.
I’m still adjusting to the reality that I am a smart, creative woman… and my boobs don’t care about that at all.
They see my entire head as a delivery system for calories for their endless expansion.
They don’t care about my singing, or poems, or embarrassment at a burp.
They just grow, whether I diet or not.
So maybe I won’t anymore.
Maybe I’ll just live and the consequences will be documented here. lol.
Me from a year ago would not have believed what im writing. Hah.
Anyway. Stick around for more boob reflections and bosom blogs.
-Plushy 🦃🦃