Underwires and the National Debt

Something you may not know about me is I am a top heavy girl. Thanks mom. I sport a pair of 36DDD, all me, all natural, all a pain in the ass. I wasn't always this size. I hear from other ladies that almost as soon as they started developing, they practically overnight got to their current splendor. Not me, no way. I had my first real bra just in time for my 6th grade pictures. Yeah, there I was the only girl with bra straps showing in my elementary school picture. YAY!

I did develop into quite a full C by the time I graduated high school and even into college I maintained that size depending on the brand of bondage I was wearing. Then it happened, I joined the United States Navy and I went to boot camp and the saltpeter that is rumored to be in the food to keep us from getting horny, made my boobs inflate to super human size. I came out of boot camp a DD and never looked back. I like to call them my government issue tits; as they seem to have come in my seabag.

Well, let me tell you about joining one of the last good ol' boys clubs (AKA US Navy). First of all, ask any female service member and she will tell you that it takes about 300% effort to get 30% credit. Add to that the 15% enlistment rate of women across the services and you can see that being a woman in the service is about as lonely as one can feel. Forget that the odds are great to throw a stick and find a date, but it is still a lonely existence. Yes, we can't carry as much as men. We can't run as fast or do as many pushups (on average), but don't you dare assume I can't outthink you any day and twice on Tuesday. Women have had to be able to think creatively when it comes to accomplishing manual labor.

Now the funny stuff: Boobs get in the way! Trying to shoot from prone position is just a joke. Considering most safety equipment that our government gets from the lowest bidder is not made with anyone bigger than a 32A in mind, can you picture what my everyday existance was like. I wore a shirt with two pockets on the chest that I couldn't carry anything in. My name was over the left tit and I always got "hey, what's the other ones name?" Har har har, yeah, hillarious.

So, I played the tomboy card and worked my ass off and got the respect of my peers by getting as much, if not more done in the same amount of time. I got to mess with drunken sailors and tell them I used to be a man and there are barcodes on 'the sisters'. I got asked over to the married sailors houses for barbecue's under the guise that "my wife just wants to meet you!" No she doesn't. She wants to check out who you are stupidly raving about. "That Williams is one cool chick! She kicks ass, makes me laugh, keeps us going" Yeah, dumbass, fastest way to get me invited over is to talk too much about me. The fastest way for me to never get invited over again is if I actually go.

I went to a few of these until one was at my Lieutenants house and there were lots of officer's wives around and a few other senior enlisteds and they asked me to whom I belonged. When I answered "the USN, I am stationed with them," all of a sudden I might as well have had a heaving pustule on my face. Yeah, wives don't want to meet me they want to know the face of their presumed enemy. Trust me ladies, all I get to see is the nasty habits they have when they forget that we are women and we are just shipmates in their minds. You can have them.

Anyway, back to the boobs. The sisters, twins or ta-tas as I like to call them, have gotten me in and out of trouble. Mostly, though, they have caused me ever growing grief trying to find a sling to keep them in. Stay tuned for the next chapter: "Seeking the Perfect Bra," I am gonna buy stock when I find it.