Tag Archives: breasts

January 11, 2011 · 7:50 am

The first time I realized shopping for a bikini will always be a challenge

I love summer but buying a bikini really spoils my sunshine loving.

Here are a few reasons why I find bikini shopping and wearing a nightmare:

1)    They cost a fortune: for a really nice design you have to pay R450 plus from surf shops, or otherwise prance around in a hideously ugly neon costume from cheaper stores. They draw even more unnecessary attention on the beach (which I usually try to avoid at all costs). How can something that’s only two bits of material cost so much?!

2)    The tops and bottoms are usually made in the most random sizes: a top and bottom in one size doesn’t mean you will fit into it properly. The bottom will inevitably be too small cutting into your hips and thighs and the top too large or visa versa. Most places don’t allow you to pick and choose tops and bottoms. Why won’t shops realize that women don’t fit into set sizes or that we aren’t all matchstick thin.

3)    When trying bikinis on in change rooms, there are usually very unflattering fluorescent lights which make you look hideous no matter how lovely you imagine yourself when you are super tanned and gorgeous.

4)    You aren’t quite sure how much support you will be getting from this flimsy piece of material when you are dunked by a wave or whether the white will turn transparent once wet when choosing the bikini. It’s all up the first test swim to reveal all (and hopefully not your whole chest and bottom!)

5)    Most bikinis have this hideous padding that makes women look like they have something shoved into their top half and don’t really provide much support for larger busts. Most of the time you have to worry about something popping out for half the beach to see.

6)    Once you have paid half your savings on the bikini, it’s time for you to strut your stuff on the beach. If you live in Cape Town like me (model centre) you will have to strut in front of loads of other bikini wearers who will usually have a better body and tan than you, making you feel very insecure.  You probably will feel like covering yourself in your towel anyway meaning no one will see it anyway!

7)    You need to buy a new one every summer. Because of the nature of wearing the flimsy bits of material in sea water, chlorine, etc they usually stretch and go manky by the next season. So then it’s time to start the whole process again. By which time you will probably have become more body conscious and another year older.

Goodluck out there fellow bikini-haters, spot you on the beach hiding behind your towel! :)

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December 9, 2010 · 9:38 am

The First Time I Was Caught in the Nick

A man sits high, high above Cape Town. His feet swing gently metres and metres above the ground. He feels the stiff pull of his life line over his shoulder, it rubs against his collar bone. The harness is tight, secure, strong. His bum complains about being confined to this wooden plank of a seat. His balls have given up by now. A bead of sweat runs slowly down his temple. He is annoyed by the tickle and brushes it away roughly with his forearm.

He looks at the cars, scurrying like rats through the city and then scratches the back of his head, squeezing his fingers under his hard hat. The breeze is most welcome. He opens the top button of his overalls, a tricky feat with his safety gloves on, and lets it wash over his neck and the top of his chest. He takes a deep breath; he can taste the salt and cool of the ocean. The blazing sun is too strong to face for very long. He turns back towards the building and lowers himself by a few feet to start painting the next window frame.

He starts laying on the paint, thick like custard at first and then as it spreads more evenly, like syrup. A movement in the window’s room catches his eye. The pale flesh of a naked buttock. No, two buttocks! A woman’s naked back. “Oh shit” he thinks and freezes.

She is facing the cupboard, her back turned from the window. “She hasn’t seen me” he thinks. Now he’s stuck with the dilemma of either moving away which could draw attention to himself or he could pretend that he hasn’t seen her and just carry on painting. The latter seems totally ridiculous. He’s facing a massive window, looking straight into it like a child standing in front of a sweet shop window. While all of this is flying through his mind he hears a high pitched, “Oh FUCK!” and the woman drops suddenly behind the bed.

Her knees hit the black tiles hard. “Fuckity fuck fuck!” She thinks. She’s not sure if he had seen her or not. She crouches even lower so that her belly and breasts are squashed flat on her knees. There’s no point hiding if your butt is peaking out above the bed. She pauses there for a moment. This is not what she had envisioned.

She thought that living alone meant you could waft about after a bath, perhaps sipping on a glass of wine, moisturize your legs languidly just generally swan about being the essence of femininity. She hadn’t quite done this yet. She had just dived out of the shower and was frantically looking for something to wear because…Oh yes, she was late. “Shit! Fuck!” She whispered.

She can’t stay like this for much longer, she can feel the dust and granules sticking to her shins and she has to get going. “Right. Just do it” she says quietly to herself. If he’s there, she has planned to subtly pull the blanket off the bottom of her bed, cover herself with the grey fleece and retreat to the lounge where her washing is drying. She inches forward on her shins, peaking past the end of the bed. She pushes silently off her big toes for the last centimetre.

The view that fills her windows has never looked more bright or more beautiful. So great and so vast. With the telling hint of a rope running straight down through it.

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October 26, 2010 · 7:37 am

The First Time I Decided To Stop Making Excuses

The first time I acknowledged it was time to STOP making excuses.

I ask myself, time and time again “WHY do I keep making excuses”, “oh it’s all in my head,” “there’s no way he did that deliberately.” And then, the other day, I stopped.  I got into the elevator at work, pressed the “down” button, both nervous and excited to be going for a “second” interview in a law firm in Sandton.

On the way down to the basement where my car is parked a man got in who was holding some boxes and making deliveries I am assuming as I have not seen him since. I immediately felt uncomfortable. Perhaps he was standing too close to me in the relatively large elevator, but worse than that, he brushed up close to me, ran his hands across my breasts and pushed the elevator buttons to the floor he was going to.

I was dressed in usual interview attire, shirt buttoned up high, skirt the “correct length” etc (not that this matters, even if I had been in a teensy tiny skirt and next to nothing top, this does not amount to any sort of justification.) He entered my space and made me feel dirty. I was shocked, it all happened so quickly that I wasn’t even sure it had actually occured. The elevator moves so quickly in our building that by the time I had realised what had happened I was leaping out of it and exclaiming angrily ”excuse me!!” anger, hurt and shock emanating from my pores.

WHY did I say “excuse me!?” I should’ve said “STOP THAT. My body is MINE, not yours to violate and touch as though I have asked you to know me in that intimate way.” I was angry. Angry with this man, but more importantly, angry with myself for not speaking out and telling him off. How many times do we as women, make excuses for men like that? I know I do, “oh, I’m sure he didn’t mean it; the elevator was crowded; I was standing too close to the elevator buttons.” NO. ENOUGH of the excuses. He knew EXACTLY what he was doing and sadly, got away with it.

This time I spoke out about it, I told my boss, I told my family, I told my friends. Next time (I hope there isn’t one, but if there is) I plan to smack his hand away and tell him exactly where to go.

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