Tag Archives: women

Breaststrokes: Titty City; A Guest Post by Claudia Moss

Shoot. That’s kinda cute. Talk about giving up something, like a sacrifice, we’d have given up our Claudia Moss LIVE picprized ace-boon-coon roadie, Sita, to have the kids at school and random ole common folks in the street look at us and see “cute” and “shotgun” in the same thought. Kinda like they saw Sita, whose ‘breasteses,’ yeah, that’s what we said, put them in the mind, we know, of sexy melons a couple years shy of plucking, at least in this country. Where Sita from in New Delphi, way over across the globe in India, she’d already be some ancient, wealthy man’s wife and him and her babies would be hanging like Christmas ornaments from her breasteses right now. Then again, they probably never be as gargantuan as us, we don’t care how many old men and babies laid gums to them.

We so huge, we make Sita’s grandma look flat chested.

And we won’t even mention her Amma, Sita’s word for Mama. It blows us away every time we see her and those two handballs she got. Won’t even mention she done had five babies. Five. Sita is the baby, like me, but she got four brothers, who all try as hard as they can to keep they eyes in they head when we come around.

Yeah. We that huge.

Make it so bad, we have nothing to blame but Mama’nem gene pool. We come from a long line of big-breasteses womens. Mama’s make her look like a capital letter P. You can’t even tell she got hips and legs and a stomach under her clothes, her top that heavy. We’d never ever tell her, cause we only told Sita that Sunday after church, when Sister Foote whispered to that nosy Johns woman that Mama’nem were “catfish,” one and all.

“Catfish?” Sita ask, that black braid snaking down her back riled up and flopping. “I don’t understand.”

We didn’t either until we passed the word back and forth between us for a day or so. Daylight got shed on matters when our sister Kat overheard us on the back porch, thinking out loud, swinging on the scratchy wooden swing.

“Who call who that?” she want to know.

We told her.

“They can talk,” Kat growl. “All them favor water buffalo.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t tell us what ‘catfish’ mean,” Sita chip in.

Kat open the screen door on her way back into the kitchen. “It mean a woman favor a huge fish, a catfish be good as any, just that her feets be like two lil fins and her body go up into a oversize fish head that stick out, ‘cept her stick-out mouth be her humongous bosom.”

In that minute, fish-faced, too, we must’ve looked as crazy as Chicken Little.

“Should’ve known. Mama’nem so pretty that’s all Sister Foote and that ole Johns woman could make mention of—her breasteses,” we say.

“They jealous.”

“That and mean,” Kat add.

Sita nod her agreement.

“Wonder if the kids at school jealous when they call us Titty City. The boys say it mostly. A few of the girls join the Peanut Gallery, when they aiming to show off. They say, ‘Girl, if all titties in the city disappeared tomorrow, you got enough titties to give every girl and woman two cups each. DAMN. You a titty factory. Just a titty plant. How you sleep? You ever topple over standing up with all that? Bet it’s a sheer miracle you can get out of bed on yo’ own in the morning!’”

Kat turn around, step over to the swing. “Scoop over, Baby Girl,” she say.

We scoot over and she hug us, her arms squeezing our shoulders tight. Then Sita, face droopy and cute, like one of the new puppies in the backyard, reach over and hug me from the left, her lil thin Indian arms hugging Kat’s. All of us in a group hug.

“Don’t pay folks no never mind,” Kat say, her tone grown up, sounding more like Mama’nem. “Remember. It ain’t about you.”

“No,” Sita chip in again. “It’s about them and how they feel inside.”

The most important thing is how we feel inside, this much we do know. The first chance we get we gone look into getting a breasteses reduction, we don’t care what nobody say about leaving this life with what you came with. Even though we loving all the love Kat and Sita showering us with right about now, that don’t discount the fact there ain’t hardly no room in this swing, we squeezing out the air and space, between us and Kat’s breasteses and Sita—well, hers ain’t even touching my arm, they so small, and she squeezing the wind out of herself.

Next time one of them boys, or girls, for that matter, say something to us at school, we gone get up and plop out of this T-shirt and bop somebody upside the head. We can see it now: “Boys Assaulted by Classmate’s Chest.” Teach them who to mess with.

As for Sister Foote and that Johns lady, they better not let us overhear another conversation like that last one. If so, we gone forget Mama’nem home training and inform them they need to hush up and figure out which pond Brother Foote and Deacon Johns splashing around in.

Now there.

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This is part two, in a series of three guest posts provided by the incomparable Claudia Moss, author, radio personality, speaker, dancer, and all-around AMAZING WOMAN! Please share your thoughts here, BigBodyBeautiful peeps; better yet, visit Claudia’s links below, tell her how you feel about her writings, and connect with this Goddess of self-esteem.

Claudia Moss

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Breaststrokes: Shotgun T*tties; A Guest Post

By Claudia Moss.

Before she identified us, as though we were standing in a line-up, her words a poke in the ribs, a shove to the shoulder or a definitive finger to the tip of the nose, we were nonexistent. Just twin mosquito bites with a dark-brown, unblinking eye on both sides of her chest. Not much different from her twin brother’s chest. And we were okay with that.

Yet, the moment shifted when Aunt Marion named us. Just like that.

Said it before everybody in the room: her oldest sister, my mother, my Aunt Suda, and my sister, all of whom had a “bosom.” That was Mama’s word for us. Maybe that’s why we caught her sister’s attention, us poking persistently through a white T-shirt, no training bra to tame us, considering Mama didn’t think us big enough to bother about hiding us respectfully away from society and its groping eyes. So, Aunt Marion opened her mouth and exercised her right to name us, as if God had given her dominion over everything under her gaze.

“Shotgun titties!” Everybody looked around, but there was no mistaking about whom she was speaking. We would have fainted and receded back wherever we’d come, if we weren’t smooched under tight cotton. The sound ripped into our preteen world and parted the curtain on everything that held no prior importance…until then.

Laughter fountained from every corner of our mother’s bedroom. We hardened in embarrassment. And as if her words weren’t enough, Aunt Marion made twin pistols of her hands and fired them at us. “Pow! Pow!” she joked, blowing the smoke from her manicured nails. “Bet those little peaks could hurt somebody in a traffic jam.”

That’s when she turned and raced out of the room, heading for her bedroom. Safe behind her locked door, we rose and fell on her chest for several long minutes, her belly trembling, until she could pull herself together. Then, she domed us lovingly under her palms, although the seed had already been planted. All we thought about from that moment on was how to get into the cup of a bra. With white pads. Obsessed, we were willing to do whatever to be larger and favor two perfect pyramids under blouse or dress, preferably her low-cut ones.

If other girls could boast of having to adjust their bra straps, their titties nestled daintily in A cups, then Mama should do the same for us. She owed us that. Didn’t she know her baby sister had already poured the cement for a major complex?

After that, we couldn’t go anywhere or meet anybody without studying her chest. Did she have boobs? Titties? Bump? A rack or a bosom? Floodlights? Flashlights? Candles? Party hats? Raisins? Breasts? Sugar babies or teats? Maybe, like my teacher Mrs. Ferguson said, “sugar teats,” molasses in cloth, like the slaves used to keep the babies quiet on the railroad to freedom? Every word I’d ever heard to name us seemed better than “mosquito bites,” though “shotgun” still left a sour taste in our mouths.

Months afterward, Mama eventually stood in Sears and Roebuck with a woman older than her measuring us, top and bottom, for our first bra. Why they insisted on referring to it as a “training” bra was a mystery? What was it supposed to be training us to do? Not be visible? Not show our nipples? Quit being so noticeable for hands other than our own to palm us? We never learned the answer to any of this trivia; the only thing we did learn was Mama’s commandments: “Keep these bras clean. Don’t go showing off at school. And, never come out of it for anyone, definitely not boys.” We tingled all the way from downtown to our front door.

And, would have promised Mama anything only to get behind our bedroom door, strip, slip on a delicate bra, one behind the identical other, adjust and readjust the straps, and admire our creamy brown skin against soft, white cotton. She smooched us together, her hands making us strain to form cleavage, what we admired most about the women in Uncle Junior’s girly magazines.

But we stayed “tee-notchy,” our Grandma’s word for little, for years afterward, no matter what she did to make us bigger. We might have gained a tad more plumpness when a new girl appeared in our class the year after we tired of being suffocated by bras every moment of the day, except nighttime. (And, sometimes she’d sneak and wear a bra to bed, sweating us horribly, until, gratefully, Mama caught her and made her stop, saying she was wearing out too many bras and money didn’t grow on trees.) Anyway, she was a big, peach-colored girl, country, although she came from the North. Name was Cathy. Cathy Robinson.

Her claim to fame was the song she taught the girls in our class. “I must…I must…I must increase my bust!” She crooned it as if she were on Broadway. Her hands flew over her own huge titties, massaging them like they had to hear as well as feel the song. We liked the ditty at first. And then it got old, unless somebody else was doing the massaging, and then it started too much stimulation in lower places, not to mention news getting back to Mama we was being felt up in public and she was being fresh to let it happen.

For all the times we stared proudly back at her from the dresser mirror or the bathroom mirror, who’d have guessed that one day we’d contemplate being enlarged so as never to slip down her stomach as if we were on our way to her navel? We might have started out as shotguns, but we eventually found our way to C cups that favored little brown balloon boobs. Just didn’t know we’d take a whole half of a lifetime and a baby to do it!

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This wonderful guest post is provided by the incomparable Claudia Moss, author, radio personality, speaker, dancer, and all-around AMAZING WOMAN! Please share your thoughts here, BigBodyBeautiful friends, visit Claudia’s links below, and revel in the power of another woman squarely in her body and lovin’ it!

Claudia Moss

Guest Post Series: Breastrokes, Starting Tomorrow!

Hi, BigBodyBeautiful peeps! How are you all doing?

Quick announcement to tell you that starting tomorrow, we’re launching a new guest post series called Breaststrokes by Claudia Moss a wonderful author, radio personality, speaker, dancer, and all-around AMAZING WOMAN and sister-of-my-soul. I LOVE this woman so much. The light in her eyes, the fire in her belly, and the love that she beams at the universe is simply a gift to all of humanity and is breathtakingly gorgeous. Claudia is a Goddess.

The Breaststrokes series is a compilation of monologues, written from the point of view of the breasts and in which the breasts share their thoughts about life and enlighten us to the concerns of, and messages from, this part of the body. I love this series so much, because these writings are funny, interesting, poignant, and such a celebration of the body consciousness. BBB will be sharing works from the Breaststrokes series over the course of several months.

So, the first post will go live sometime tomorrow. Please give the series a read, leave your comments, and send a sister some love and support! All my love and light to you, friends. ~BigLizzy

HuffPostLive Discussion on “Love Your Body” Campaigns

Hiya, body-lovers! Following’s a link to the panel discussion in which I participated with other lovely women on HuffPostLive this morning. Had the best time with these wonderful, gorgeous women. It was a great discussion. Proudest moment of my body-lovin’ life. 🙂 Please take a watch and, as always, feel free to share your comments. All my love and light to you, BigLizzy

 

Breaking News! Participating in a HuffPostLive Body Image Discussion Today!

Hi, body-lovers! Quick post to tell you that I’ve been asked to participate in a conversation about body image today on HuffPostLive at 10:30 am, pacific, 1:30 pm eastern. Woop!

The panel of women will be discussing how the “Love Your Body” campaigns are or are not working. One of the panelists, Isabel Foxen-Duke feels that the campaigns are not helping women overcome their body issues and posted a compelling HuffPost Women article on her stance.

So, so excited to be doing this! Thank you, universe. Thank you, my loyal body-lovin’ peeps. Thank you, HuffPostLive. : )

Self Esteem is Sexy at Any Size

It’s true. Ask any dude and he’ll tell you that a woman with self-esteem, a woman who knows who she is and can actually think for herself is far sexier than some stick-thin bimbo with big boobs who leaks insecurity and pathos all over the room. Now, before you jump on me: This is not to say that stick-thin bimbos with big boobs can’t have self-esteem or be intelligent; they can. But, in a straight, side-by-side comparison between a chunky woman with self- esteem and a woman with a “hot body” and little self-esteem, the fatty with a healthy love for herself will always win.

self-esteem-is-sexy

Don’t believe me? That’s okay. I can’t really prove these assertions anyway as they are largely anecdotal. But, I can tell you that I have observed this interesting social phenom on many occasions, mostly, through my own experiences. This is not because I’m not interested in other people’s lives, but because I honestly do not know many women with the rampant body-love that I possess, so I have to use myself as the guinea pig.

But, back to the core message. I get hit on all of the time. Yes, me, at 250 pounds of hefty Germanic-Indian-and-French origin. Seriously. I do! Oh sure, plenty of people look right past me or through me like I’m not there, but that’s about them, not me. I can tell you that lots of people, the right people, notice me and my “healthy, happy, loving emanations”. I get looked at, up and down. I get hit on. My husband tells me this all of the time; dudes look me up and down, alot. Yes, even with my big booty and my joyous rolls of belly fat. They look. Why?

The secret is that I love myself. I love my life. I adore my body and that “light” of self-love just blitzkreigs out of me and into any given space, filling it with a breathy, astonishing, and buzzing buzziness. Okay, ya, ya, ya. Everyone knows that I’m terrific. But, I want YOU TO FEEL AND BE TERRIFIC!

I want you, dear readers, to know how awesome and gorgeous you are. I want every woman to feel her power and to feel her sexiness and to truly, deeply, and abidingly know that it doesn’t matter one little bit what you look like. What matters is how you feel. What matters is your mental health, your depth, your presence. Most guys, well, guys of substance and equal self-esteem, do not care if you have a fat ass. They don’t! They care that you can laugh and poke fun at yourself and poke fun at life’s travails. They care that you are healthy and happy, not “thin”. Trust me. Guys, back me up! Leave some comments. Let’s fix this female “mind-poop” once and for all!

Women are the ones who largely obsess over their size far more than men obsess over their wives or girlfriends’ sizes. If you could spend 1/10th of the time you now spend obsessing over your weight and instead find little ways to love yourself, to think about the miracle that you are, connect with your reasons for being here, in this particular body, and then embrace that journey? OMG! Your life would explode with energy, joy, movement, passion, and love.

So, I have an idea. Do this: Stand in front of a mirror every day for five or six minutes and tell yourself how cute or sexy or happy or present or beautiful you are. The adjective does not matter so long as it’s a positive adjective or statement. Do this even if you do not yet believe it. And, do this for a total of 30 days. Look at your body and thank her. Look at your breasts and tell them: “Thank you for being here with me and for feeding our children.” Tell your hips: “You are so awesome for holding me up, for allowing me to do so many things.” Tell your neck, “I love you, neck. Look at your cute little pad of pudge and how you laugh when I do”. Tell your feet: ” What a wonderful job you have done in supporting my life and movements, feet. You take so much and rarely complain and for this, I deeply love you.”

Go through your whole body and tell your entire body that you love and respect her. This exercise, if done diligently and with a full, soft heart, will change your mind and it will change your perspective. I promise. I promise that at the end of 30 days, you will feel differently about yourself. You will feel happier. You will begin to believe your own programming.

Try it and write to me. I want to know what you experience. And, if you want to write a guest blog post here about your experiences, ABSOLUTELY let me know. All my love to you, my friends. ~Lizzy