Me, My Breasts, And Their Tape.

I don’t know how to open this story eloquently, and quite frankly, the matter of the subject is one that only two weeks ago, I would have placed within the radical confines of a raw, visceral, and incredibly nerve-wracking experience (to say my spine recoils to the thought of this recollection is nothing short of dramatic), but looking back now, as an adult who has aged over a couple of weeks, I have become somewhat comfortable with airing what I am about to say:

For the longest time, up until my early twenties (I am now twenty and five), I was uncomfortable with my breasts. I remember the girls in my class who were keen for this beautiful, natural transition into womanhood, but alas, gentle reader, this young, Asexual girl was having none of that nonsense. As a teenager, my dream was to be the goalkeeper for the Matilda’s, a wrestler, Leslie Neilson’s successor, and a boy – puberty’s gift of a dramatic breast expansion within twelve months squashed the last dream – however, I persisted on with the other three dreams. Two of the sport-related ones died down with injuries, and I’m working on the Leslie Neilson one. Oh, how I digress.

Over the coming years, I learned more about myself, and became comfortable with my femineity. ‘I’m sure of my comfortability’, I whispered to myself, as I was standing in front of the Solutions section of the bra shop. The contents of the Solutions section were as followed: hosiery, tights, fillets, invisible bra straps, invisible fillets, nipple covers, stick ons, extenders, and TAPE. I had a dress for a cocktail party that needed a solution to its low-cut square neckline, and I took to Instagram to ask for some advice. The guidance of my pals brought me to this place, and I trusted them completely.

I explained the situation to the shop assistant. The important part of the conversation was as followed:

‘Do you have a strapless bra that just covers the nipple?’

‘I don’t think so. You may have to go with tape.’

I cringe.

‘Is it... Secure? I need something that will prevent my boobs from escaping.'

‘Well, we do have double-sided tape, if you get that with the regular tape it should do the job.’

‘Damn. That simple?’

‘Yeah.’

Fast track to Saturday Eve, the night of the cocktail party.

'SIMPLE?!', I screamed, as I’m watching a tutorial on YouTube of a woman perfectly applying her tit tape, with the caption: ‘Push Up Tape Tutorial. Instant Breast Lift. Perfect Boobs in Minutes!’—I felt like I’d been had. I cut my three sections appropriately, and each one of them bounced up and stuck to itself. The damn stuff was medical-graded, so it was nearly impossible to pull apart. I couldn’t even bend properly to pick the damn things apart because I was stuck in f****** tight shapewear. I lost my cool, ditched the tutorial and decided to work it out for myself. Miraculously, nothing was lop-sided, and everything was in place! Huzzah! And to my surprise, I remembered not to apply the baby oil before the tape.

It lasted the entire night. I tested it everywhere. Sitting, standing, bending, dancing – dancing to covers of John Cougar, and Bruno Mars – and I know EVERY DAMN MOVE to ‘Uptown Funk’, and they still stayed put. Nobody had to call the police and the fireman.

Breast Tape is an abominable, torturous creation with perfectly round results. I will preach this until the day they create a better solution. And for those of you who are keen to try. May you have the breast of luck!