“My mum and her mum and her mum (from what I’ve heard) are quite well-endowed with regard to breast size.

Even pre-childbirth, my mum says, she was a size 36D. I didn’t give this much thought; it was often casually remarked on that I had booby genes that I would grow into in time. As a teenager, my closest friend was a puritan person who thought that sexuality is reserved for marriage and all those who think otherwise are ‘sluts’. It wasn’t till her flyaway comment, “wow, careful with your boobs, guys are going to think you are easy,” that I gave my growing breasts a second glance.

A guy friend commented on a picture of mine wearing a T-shirt with “great knockers, puberty kicking in, huh?” and it only served to further make me conscious. I started becoming obsessively self aware, stopped wearing T-shirts, started getting clothes two sizes too big for me, while somehow simultaneously living in denial-town and getting wrong (small) sized bras. At an age where the only thought people have is how to make my body boy-approved, I stayed up nights scared that every boy I know was thinking of me as some scarlet woman, and when I wasn’t obsessing over this, I stayed up because my chest and back hurt due to the constricting cages that I wore and called bras.

It took adulthood and the world for me to break out of the conditioning. I’m still not completely free of the shackles; I still steer clear of T-shirts, and I think my desire to not have children is probably subconsciously fueled in part from the fear of going up a few bra sizes. Nevertheless, when I send a nude to a guy today, or undress in front of someone, and see the wonderment in their eyes or the praise they give me, I have learned to pick power from that, rather than cower away.”

They said, “If you do draw me, please draw me in a bedroom if possible, because that us where I’ve felt the most powerful. Thank you,”knockers”.

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