Guest Post: The “Real Truth” About my Stepmom’s Boobs
My stepmom is one of my favorite people in the world, so I’m excited to share guest-blogger Jezzie Tremaine’s (a pseudonym) story of her equally indomitable stepmom.
I give you:
“The Real Truth About my Stepmom’s Boobs.”
“They were massive, with dark, dollar pancake-size nipples that stared right into my timid eyes.
“It only happened once. I was five-years-old and mortified when my fairly recent stepmom, Beatrice, hopped into the shower with me to wash my hair because I couldn’t yet manage it on my own.
“The incident wasn’t just bewildering; it also made me painfully aware of the flat, birdlike quality of my own chest.
“Standing before my stepmom, my head ringed with bubbly suds, I felt puny and unfinished, more boy than girl. I knew I was shaped the way any young female child should be shaped, but felt inadequate nonetheless.
“Beatrice’s personality was much like her breasts, large and intimidating.
“She was easier to manage clothed; but even then I found myself smothered between those two sweatered orbs near to suffocation during her every-other-weekend welcome hug.
“To be clear, Beatrice did not molest me. Her breasts simply aided and abetted her mandate to claim me as her territory. Her archipelago of sad, lost, little girls.
“My real mom, whose breasts were diminutive teacups of Apologia, wasn’t quite as stalwart. My stepdad made her cry. And break down. Her wee bosom was simply incapable of grounding her or protecting me from the volatility in our home.
“My stepmother’s bust, meanwhile, was an impregnable fortress against which no evil thing could pass.
“My mom’s breakdown, when I was twelve, lasted. Too long. I landed permanently beneath my stepmom’s watchful eyes.
“Should any pimply, horny teenage boy appear on my door stoop he was met full-force by this curvaceous nautical figurehead, her prow steaming right through him as if he were nothing more than a ripple in a paddling pool.
“I genuinely believe had Beatrice been modestly endowed I’d have had a very different childhood.
“I’d have cursed more, bathed less, eaten entire jars of Hines’ Red Velvet icing with a spoon.
“I’d have lost my virginity at fifteen to Johnny Northam, a pot-smoking, motorcycle-riding, high school dropout I met on vacation in Puerto Rico with my mom.
“Instead, I towed the line, earned good grades, was voted “Girl Most Likely to Succeed” and won the Earl Havisham award for mathematical excellence.
“I left high school, and the long shadow of my stepmom’s bust, unsullied, and virtually untouched.
“I didn’t know then that all was not as it seemed. That my belief in those orbs as my twin guardians was nurtured by a little white lie …
“It happened on a Thursday. My stepsister, Amanda and I, now adults, stood in a Marshall’s changing room.
“She sat on a leather-cushioned stool as I tried on dresses for her to vet. As I pulled my t-shirt over my head, exposing my Wacoal bra, my stepsister’s eyes ratcheted down on my bustline.
“‘Since when do you have such big boobs?’ she demanded.
“’They’re not that big,’ I responded — though a bit smugly.
“’Yes, they are, they’re huge! Did you get a boob job and not tell me?’
“’No I didn’t get a boob job. Are you crazy? I’m a normal size. I’m a 34 C.’
“’You are not a 34C, you’re much bigger than that. It’s a fact that 68% of women are not wearing the correct bra size, according to Khloe Kardashian.’
To prove her point Amanda determinedly exited the changing stall and returned accompanied by a petite, faintly militaristic saleslady who boasted a tape measure draped over her shoulders.
Before I knew what happened my breasts had been measured to within an inch of their aureoles. It turned out I was a 34DD.
I wore the same bra size as my stepmom!
For a young Maaasai warrior, drinking a mixture of milk, cow’s blood and alcohol, followed by one man sitting on his chest while another one circumcises him with a sharp rock, initiates him into manhood.
For me, the 34DD meant the tiny, breast-less babe in the shower with Beatrice lo those many years ago had finally achieved womanhood and now had powers equal to, and perhaps surpassing that of her stepmom.
I said as much to Amanda.
“’Well, okay,’ Amanda responded in a cavalier fashion that suggested her mother’s breasts signified nothing to her, that unlike me those tatas didn’t keep her in check, force her to excel, guard every waking hour of her life.
“’But you know,’ she said, in a tone that didn’t portend the bombshell she was about to drop, “’Those aren’t Beatrice’s real boobs. She had a boob job right before you came into our lives.’
What. The. Fuck.
Must all my heroes have feet of clay? And breasts of silicone?
Still, I’ll be forever grateful that my stepmom, human and vulnerable after all, showed up and suited up to ferry me safely to adulthood. xxoo Beatrice
If you liked Jezzie’s piece please share, and here’s my version of being raised by an equally protective, loving stepmom. All stepmoms out there, you’re more important than you know! Just stay the course! xo S