“Idea: The girls next to various common items people think of, when they hear “big boobs”; Cantaloupes, Watermelons, things like that!”
I should have known it was a bad idea the moment I agreed to go.
Super Bowl parties are, in theory, low-effort socializing.
You sit.
You eat.
You occasionally shout at a television and pretend you understand the rules enough to be mad at “bad calls.”
You hide behind a plate of nachos and nobody expects meaningful conversation.
Perfect, right?
Except the part where the sitting happens.
I didn’t think about sitting often, I just do it.
I thought about snacks. I thought about commercials. I thought about how I could wear my oversized cream sweater and maybe — maybe — pass for “just bundled up.”
I did not think about what actually happens when you try to sit between two normal sized adults while smuggling an absurd plethora of breast fat and flesh
My partner asked me three times before we left:
“Are you sure you wanna go?”
And I said yes, because sometimes I get tired of being a person who says no to life.
So I layered.
Compression bra.
Sports bra.
Tank top.
Sweater.
Then the big hoodie over it.
From the mirror I looked… idk… fat.
Still obvious, but not spectacle obvious.
I even had a moment of confidence.
That was my first mistake.
We walked in and immediately hit the smell of buffalo chicken dip, pizza, chips. I’d take advantage of the pizza.
I hadn’t seen half these people in almost a year.
Which means they remembered me as “very busty.”
Not as… this. These. The events jiggling with every breath underneath my chin. The lap filling bra breaking medical mysteries that have forced themselves into being my career.
You can actually watch a person’s brain update in real time when they see my tits.
Their eyes land on your face.
They smile.
Then they drop down a few inches.
Then they pause.
Then they do a second pass, slower.
Then they try to look like they didn’t just do that.
Every single greeting took about 20 seconds longer than normal human greetings should. I can see the mental gymnastics going on where their thoughts are literally 99% about why my breasts have grown so much but they’re trying to find that elusive small talk question that isn’t about tit growth.
“How… um, how have you …beeen?”
Don’t talk about her boobs, dont talk about her boobs. about boobs. Don’t talk about her insane fat,fluffy, fleshy, full lap filling, body dominating mammaries!
But they eventually do. In a whisper that they somehow think EVERYONE else at this party didnt already do.
“Oh my god girl, are they still, your boobs I mean, are they still growing?!”
No, this is an optical illusion I like to bring out at parties, (meanwhile im sitting, babysitting two soft swaying piles of heat and nerves that I have to plan every move around.)
So I answer politely
“Yeah they are, I’m healthy, they are healthy, but thank you for your concern.”
And I go back to being the pair of boobs at the party, overeating a TON out of anxiety.
The more public disaster, though, was the couch.
There was one open seat.
Middle cushion.
I should have declined.
I should have taken a chair.
Instead I tried to be normal.
I sat.
And discovered something I hadn’t thought about …
My lap no longer exists.
Which means sitting on a couch, surrounded by other people is not easy. My breasts aren’t obeying any social rules about personal bubbles. They can only push forward so much. I kept my arms cradling them so that they wouldn’t bulge out to the sides too much and occupy space in other people’s laps, so I’m basically pushing them together and straddling them forward between my legs. Which honestly made my thighs sweaty.
But eventually, I’d have to lean forward to get some chips or food from the coffee table, and that’s when my stupid heavy overly soft boobs would squish out to the sides. Onto other people
So I did the only thing I could do.
I pretended it wasn’t happening. I just pretended it was the normal thing that happens when you sit on a couch other people, you’re insane breast flesh occupies half of their lap, as well as your entire torso and leg space.
Then came the plate problem.
Someone handed me a plate of nachos eventually, thankfully. It was a woman of course, I think the guy to my left was perfectly happy to have his big squishy leg warmer for the rest of the game.
But then it was almost worse because… where else would I rest the plate… except on them. The size of a plate should be way way bigger than cleavage or boobs. But for me, it’s like a little raft on a vast tiddy ocean.
Every time somebody would glance down at my plate, I’d have a little panic attack. One of my friends grabbed some chips off of it which caused quite a bit of waves in motion in them, across my lap, made my arms move, and she didn’t really notice it, but I think a lot of other people did.
But anyways, all in all it wasn’t the worst social event ive had, but my breasts are the biggest they’ve ever been so I guess I should expect my breasts will be part of these kinda of events now
… abrupt ending lol.
I have another post for this Monday I think, trying to get more content out to y’all, but I don’t want quality to go down either. :)
Thx for the support as always. The girls need it now more than ever
-plushy 🍈🍈