No compensation, in the form of either money or product, has been received by the author from either of the companies about to be discussed. No one ever offers to pay me to write about their shit, except that one sex toy company, who I had to turn down for reasons entirely unrelated to the fact that they’re a sex toy company. Anyhoo, what I’m trying to get at is that the opinions about to be shared are entirely my own, and in no way influenced by anything outside of my personal life experiences. Also, if you’re the type of person who would be uncomfortable with a discussion about my boobs, you should probably come back another time. Shit might get weird for you.
I’m cheating on Victoria’s Secret.
I know, I never thought we’d end up this way either, each halfheartedly trying to pretend that everything is still the same as it’s always been. But we both know. We can act all we like that it’s not happening, go through the motions as we always have, but we both know. Even if we can’t say it aloud.
But it’s pretty much over between us.
I can still remember what it felt like when I first fell in love. We’d been acquaintances since high school, when I about died of embarrassment from having to go in with my mom to find a florescent yellow bra to wear in a dance show. (No, I wasn’t dancing in just a florescent yellow bra in high school. We all wore black tanks and each had different neon-colored bra straps. Don’t make this weird.) There were a few other times, I’m sure, but nothing with any meaning. I was still involved in a sweet, naive romance with the lingerie departments in Target and Walmart. I think back on those cheap, brightly colored bras, their underwire poking through after only two washes, and can’t help but laugh at the way I used to go through them like Kleenex. (Which is about how durable they were.)
It was actually my now-husband who hooked us up. During college.
It was a birthday present. He took me to a Victoria’s Secret and told me to pick out some bras. (At the time, I thought it was just an incredibly sweet gift, though, looking back with the knowledge of his unwavering obsession with my rack, I can’t help but notice some of his own motives in the gesture.) As I crossed the threshold of the store, I walked smack into a display for their newest bra, which happened to be premiering that very day. They were called Biofits, and the moment I hiked those should straps up in the fitting room I was completely and passionately in love. It was so fucking perfect. It did nice things for the girls, nicer than any of my bargain-bin finds, but it was also ridiculously comfortable. It framed the girls beautifully in a low-cut top, but it didn’t hike them up so far as to be inappropriate for work. It was the best of all worlds. From the moment I tried on that first Biofit, I wore nothing else. I washed and wore my Biofits until they fell apart or the underwire poked out. Twice a year, during the semi-annual sale, I went to ridiculous lengths to replace them, dumping out bins so that I could dig all the way to the bottom and pestering sales girls until I had cleaned the store of every Biofit in a 34D. But it was all worth it, because I was madly in love with those bras.
Nothing could come between me and my Biofits. We were made for each other.
Until the day my love betrayed me. Victoria’s Secret discontinued the Biofit.
When the sales girl told me, I thought it was a cruel joke. Like she was yanking me. “What?” I asked, staring at her stupidly. “Why?” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t know why, they’re our most popular bra. But they are, they’re discontinuing them.” I couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. But like it or not, it was true. It was okay, I told myself. That just meant that I needed to start over, rediscover the Victoria’s Secret bra, and our relationship would be right back on track like nothing had changed.
Except that it had.
Bra after bra was tossed over that dressing room door, all to be discarded in frustration on the floor. Nothing was right. This one didn’t have enough support, that one’s straps were too wide, the other one squished them together too much. They all felt wrong. Finally, I grudgingly settled on an uninteresting cotton number. It looked okay, perfectly comfortable for work and much cheaper than its predecessor. (My one gripe with the Biofit had always been their $50 price tag. Which is why I usually only had 2 or 3 bras to my name at any given time.) It didn’t do anything magical to my rack, but even in a shit bra I can produce some pretty impressive cleavage, so I went with it.
But the magic was gone.
We went on like that for about a year, the Victoria’s Secret bra acting as my staple over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder and me pretending that I was happy but secretly (and bitterly) wishing that I had my Biofits back. And then, one day, I met someone new. It was last summer, and I was scouring Victoria’s Secret for a strapless bra that was comfortable, supportive, and fit inside the lowest-cut sundress I owned before my best friend’s wedding. And it was not going well. I couldn’t find what I was looking for. All the bras in our local Victoria’s Secret were too big, refusing to stay hidden. To make matters worse, the sales girl kept trying to bring me bras in another size because her stupid fucking measuring tape that I didn’t fucking want to be measured with anyway said that I was a different fucking size than the fucking size I’d been for the last three fucking years. Seeing that I was mere seconds from stomping on her perky little face, Kyle dragged me out of the store and suggested that we check out the bigger store one town over. I agreed, made one last attempt to set the salesgirl on fire with my eyes, and we headed to Albany.
Arriving at the mall, Kyle stopped in front of the store two down from the Victoria’s Secret and casually suggested that we check this place first.
Frederick’s of Hollywood.
I was immediately suspect. After all, everyone knows that good girls don’t shop at Frederick’s. Strippers shop at Frederick’s, and the husbands of good girls when they want their girls to look like strippers. Good girls shop at Victoria’s Secret, coyly giggle behind their hands as if they’re doing something naughty, but really buying the same modest underpants as everyone else. So I had to assume that the only reason Kyle was suggesting that we go into a Frederick’s was because he wanted to see me dress like a stripper. And yet, I was so desperate to be done with the whole search that I followed him in, weaving between racks of corsets and teddies, and asked the sales woman about strapless bras.
What followed changed my boobs forever.
I found the most perfect bra ever. How perfect, you ask? So perfect that when I walked out of the fitting room, Kyle’s mouth literally fell open. “Holy shit!” he yelled. (Yelled! Scared the shit outta the saleswoman.) “Buy two! Fuck that, do they come in a six pack?” These bras are fucking magic. Sure, they have enough padding that in an emergency they can be used as a flotation device. But motherfucker, do they make my tits look great! Kyle cannot keep his hands off me when I wear a Frederick’s bra. Oh, and added benefit? They cost half the price of a Biofit, the same as one of my lame-o cotton bras, without being on sale. And sprinkles on top, the saleswoman was helpful, but not pushy. She didn’t come at me brandishing a fucking tape measure, and she didn’t use it on me even though I told her four fucking times that I already knew what fucking size I was. She suggested a bra, complimented me on the fit when I came out, and then backed the fuck off. I felt like I’d died and gone to boob-support heaven.
And that’s where we are today.
I still go to Victoria’s Secret twice a year. I buy a couple of the cotton bras, because while Kyle certainly enjoys my boobs in a Frederick’s bra, I don’t need them to be quite so lucious for work. And I still buy underpants from them, because they do sell a very practical, serviceable cotton underpant with sassy phrases across the ass. But when I’m dressing for a night out, when I’m pulling out the red lipstick and setting all my guns to ‘phase’, I don’t turn to Victoria. I strap on Frederick, because he does something magical to me. He makes my tits feel two sizes larger, my waist two sizes smaller, and my whole self seven sizes sexier.
Good girls don’t shop at Frederick’s of Hollywood. And I’m okay with that.