Author: Nellie Stokeld
I don’t remember ever wanting big boobs. When my 30-something friends giggle together at their yearning pubescent selves, I can’t relate. I got big boobs before we all understood that was the goal.
I got them while still firmly slotted in the child era of existence; my awkward, lanky limbs and pre-orthodontics buck teeth gave away the thumb-sucking habit I’d only kicked recently. By the time I’d entered 6th grade, I already had a recognizable curvature under T-shirts and my basketball uniform. I was on my third male teacher in three years when my newfound boobs gave me a swift kick from “precocious little girl” to young woman. I’d always been a bit of a teacher’s pet, but this was different.
In the first week of 6th grade, Mr. R made the observation that, despite what I’d written in my “About Me” assignment, he didn’t find me to be shy at all, offering me my first indication that, somewhere between this moment and then, he had thought of me. He played games with me, teasing “17? 94? 49?” He returned my befuddled look with a finger pointing at my chest, clearly stating GUESS, as if the logo was an invitation. That memory is the first logged data point in the folder marked “Nellie with big boobs,” the moniker I’d be given for the next 20-plus years.
At the end-of-year evaluation, Mr. R told me I got better grades than I deserved because I was “pretty and charming.” Another logged data point. I told my best friend Kate after class what he had said. She immediately reacted, squealing loudly, “Oh my god! Mr. R was hitting on you!” I don’t remember conveying it then, but I was certain she was wrong. He wasn’t hitting on me, whatever that meant; he was trying to tell me the truth. Telling me that my academic efforts weren’t enough, that I’d been relying upon other factors to maintain whatever pre-GPA metric I’d been enjoying.
I held onto that understanding for years, the memory bubbling up in conversations a few times in my twenties and unfortunately confirming my 6th-grade conclusion: he was just telling me the truth. I did get better grades than I deserved.
There’s a name for what he described to me that day: Pretty Privilege. We sense it and adhere to it; seeking thinness, whiteness, beauty, and youth. Awkward at 12, we could already picture ourselves at 22, high-heeled in a red convertible, getting pulled over but unafraid. When the cop looks down on us, we can picture his view of our ample, sun-kissed chest. We imagine the sense of power we’ll feel when we get away with a warning and a wink.
“My physical maturity signaled an emotional maturity I hadn’t yet reached.”
By middle school, we understood that attention and desire were the economy, and breasts were the currency. Whatever our cup size was back then, the banker was the same: boys and men. Our breasts earned us nicknames like “Titless” or “Tits McGee.” We earned reputations as bra stuffers or easy. Some girls matured beyond their years in breast tissue and behavior. They acted older, dated older, and were rumored to have gone further than anyone else. Their capital had been spent too quickly.
There’s a scene in Euphoria that demonstrates this transition well. Sydney Sweeney, whose body serves as a catchall for breast fascination in our culture, plays a character who transitions from childhood to womanhood through the extent of her cup size, her mother praising her for her beauty and newfound power, male family members recognizing this shift and suddenly treating her as a heartbreaker rather than anything else at all, then, finally, the boys she crushes on, using her body as a trophy and photos of her breasts as receipts. Does Sydney’s character benefit at all? According to her younger, flat-chested sister, the answer is unequivocally yes.
“They’d been an area of fascination for most of my boyfriends over the years, but their fascination hadn’t translated to actual pleasure for me.”
While my friends had the ritual of a Bat Mitzvah to signify their ascent into adulthood, mine was the everyday task of strapping an increasingly tight training bra over my adult-sized tits. I was told I was lucky, but I didn’t understand the benefit of stares from older men, lewd messages scrawled into my yearbook, or the discomfort of bra and clothing shopping with my new form. My physical maturity signaled an emotional maturity I hadn’t yet reached. Not wanting to disprove anyone’s ideas about my grownupness, I grew quiet. I opted for the front seat when a parent picked us up, rather than to squeal in the backseat with the girls, technically months older than me, but now inches behind me.
It wasn’t until I decided to get a breast reduction that I considered the privilege my breasts had afforded me. The only time I’d ever been pulled over for speeding was at sixteen and my breasts didn’t get me out of it. Sure, they’d been an area of fascination for most of my boyfriends over the years, but their fascination hadn’t translated to actual pleasure for me (somewhat ironically, large breasts are often desensitized to touch due to size). Even if I admit that my boobs made me stand out on the dating market, I was vehement that “breast men” were inevitably man-children, fetishizing their desire to go back to their mother’s tit. We’ll have to blame porn, and not some inventive charmer, for the bizarre fixation on “titty fucking” that exists among (at least millennial) men.
The first time I had sex after a breast reduction, I warned my partner sheepishly, “I had a breast reduction, so I have scars.” This was my first time making an announcement; usually, my breasts had already done so, announcing themselves to my prospective partner between the times I wore baggy shirts. He said he didn’t care, and what followed was a lack of caring that I wasn’t quite used to. Usually, men looked like they wanted to eat them and generally proceeded to attempt. For the first time, my breasts weren’t the appetizer and dessert of the three-course meal.
The most surprising aspect of getting a breast reduction was my newfound understanding of the desire for larger breasts. Why hadn’t I taken more photos, worn more low-cut tops, made piles of cash on a faceless OnlyFans account, describing my breasts as “heavy naturals” for all who cared to see? There it was again. The message my friends and I had received as children: breasts are powerful. Why hadn’t I yielded that power more?
Now, my breasts fit my figure. I’m tall, slender, and androgynous in style. They’re no longer a descriptor of who I am. Without the 800 grams of discarded tissue, I’m able to do the things myself and fellow r/bigboobproblems subredditors have dreamed of: buy bras at Target, work out without two sports bras, and wear tank tops without wives thinking we’re baiting their husbands.
The last naked photo of my breasts I sent was to my best friend Kate, the same friend who had at least partially understood the transgression of my sixth-grade teacher’s comment. She, squarely a B cup for most of our youth together, had always had a certain fascination with my breasts. At some point in the 20-plus years of friendship, I got over hiding my breasts from her. Her own breasts had grown to an equally inconvenient size over three pregnancies, but with years of desire behind them, she was far more comfortable displaying them than I’d ever been, a gift to her former yearning teenage self. And in that moment, I got what I wanted, too: a final validation – before I opted out of whatever power they’d granted me.
About the Author:
Nellie Stokeld is a writer and founder of Gravitatas, a sleepwear brand for women with big boobs, based in Los Angeles. She writes essays about womanhood, entrepreneurship, and the quiet work of unlearning the stories we’ve been told about our bodies and our worth.
www.nelliestokeld.com
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