Should I Get A Boob Job?
My recent moral dilemma, the desire to be a woman, unlearning years of social conditioning, feminist falsehoods + when did everyone get their tits done?!
For as long as I can remember I have been strangely fascinated by women’s bodies—in particular their breasts. From a young age I longed for the day my tiny chest would grow and I too would become a voluptuous and enticing being like the women I saw around me and on my tv screen. Even as a child my breasts were talked about as something to be waited for with bated breath; my mother and grandmother would tease me gently and speak of the day they would develop beyond the descriptor of 'little.' In primary school around age 10 my friends began wearing bras—mostly hand-me-down numbers from older sisters with soft worn down cups and tired elastic straps. As an only child—and still rather petite, I was yet to join the party. At a sleepover a friend gifted me one of these relics, passed down from girl to girl, and I treasured it. Coming home from the stay I hid it among my overnight bag stuffed with clothes, teddies and toiletries; I didn't want my mother to find it, it felt dirty and shameful to own something that in my mind was overtly sexual and grown up—a day later I tucked the contraband bra up my shirt and took it with me to school. In the toilets at recess I raced into one of the dingy cubicles and strapped myself in—the firmness around my ribcage felt foreign and a little uncomfortable, and the satin-y beige cups gaped with the lack of flesh to fill them. I showed my friends and we giggled as I pulled my staticky red school polo back over my chest, now giving the illusion of small mounds hiding beneath; exiting the toilets and into the yard I felt like I had a secret that everyone wanted to know about.
A few years went by and at age 12 my mother took me to our local Target for the inaugural first bra selection—at this point my friends had grown out of hand-me-downs and were confidently filling out brightly coloured lace and neon numbers, but I was destined for the My First Bra section. I was shy and embarrassed as my mother led me down the aisles, following me closely as I fingered the soft blush, white and blue materials; the full coverage cotton t-shirt bras felt childlike and immature in comparison to the demi-cups and push-up bras my friends were sporting. Still, I picked out my first three pack, AA cup and followed my mother to the change-room to be poked and prodded at, nipples now sufficiently covered and tiny breasts trapped in. The next week at school I felt like I had taken my first steps into joining an exclusive club, but wasn't sure if I would pass the first ritual and tests.
Around age 14 it became apparent that I was either a very late bloomer, or cursed to remain a permanent member of the itty bitty titty committee for the rest of my teenage and adult life—spoiler alert, it was the latter. In late primary school and high-school, as our bodies became increasingly sexualised and objectified by the opposite sex, I became the subject of jokes from not only boys but my friends too. Teasing of my flat chest become constant and expected—as did the questioning if I were really a girl, so frequent that I too began to crack the jokes; better to be in on it than simply caught in the firing line. Still, it hurt.
My friends had their first kisses and sexual experiences early, and at 14, small-chested and boyfriend-less, I felt like I was behind in a race I didn't realise had begun. I was untrained and unprepared to be a woman—and from the comments my peers would make, it seemed I didn't even look like one; my short hair, makeup-less face and lack of curves labelled me boyish against my own will. Even though my friends had begun to complain about their softening bodies and growing curves, and recounted their sexual experiences with a certain level of horror only mildly tinged by a bragging sort of faked pleasure, I started to wonder if I was missing out. I had had a boyfriend previously, who lasted in my life for all of 8 weeks, his neediness, boring, whiney voice, sloppy kisses and dry humping were far too much for me—why bother if I didn't even like him? But I wondered if I should have kept him around longer, simply to maintain appearances, maybe if I had a boyfriend I would be respected, perhaps if it was implied that I was at least having sex people could look past my lack of chest and plain features. At the end of that year over the school holidays, now age 15, I decided to make a change: I painted determined, thick layers of makeup over my skin like warpaint, black mascara hooded my eyes heavy and I bleached my mousy waves to a bright shade of blonde—I gave up on bras and opted instead for thin lace bralettes that left my nipples exposed through my shirt, or forwent the extra material entirely. And finally, I was noticed. Within a matter of weeks I was messaging one of my crushes incessantly and passing longing looks in the busy hallways between classes—albeit in secret still, I wasn't quite cool enough for him to admit publicly that I was on his radar. And just before I turned 16, I got my first proper boyfriend—I also developed a raging eating disorder around this time too. The stark and sudden weight-loss robbed me of my already small breasts, leaving nothing more than exposed bones and thin flesh stretched tight across my ribcage. A decade later, and I can still recall the first time my teenage love and I took our innocent and explorative kisses further to a full heated teenage make-out session. I laid on my back and his hands ran hungrily up my skin, pushing up my shirt to claw desperately at my chest; I froze, ashamed that there was nothing there for him to hold onto, frustrated that he would even try—didn't he understand? I wanted to dissolve back into the creaking old couch beneath me and disappear forever. I hated myself even more.
Fast forward 18-months later and I had gained 17 kilos and mostly recovered from my anorexic tendencies, and in this I had gained back what little fat used to be on my chest. I started to feel a little more like a woman with a softness now covering my hips, thighs and buttocks—something to be stroked and held during my excited and explorative teenage love-making. From age 18 onwards I had ditched the bras entirely, embraced my perky breasts, and come to the conclusion that a hard nipple under a tight shirt was the perfect accessory to any outfit and more than enough to be desirable—I didn't need double-D’s to be sexy, I was hot and a little strange in a fairy-like way; men had noticed me and the girls who had once teased me were jealous of my confidence. Still, I have always had certain a level of detachment to my own body; even after making peace with what I was given. I have dipped in and out of eating disorders again and again over the years, lost weight, gained weight, had loads of strange, passionate and at times downright awful sex, and sold my body to strangers online. To any onlooker, I am quite confident in my body, and I am...yet, I question it all the same.
At 21 I wrote a blog post about making peace with my breasts and body and—if not embracing my lack of curves, seemed to at the very least forget about the topic for a while. Lovers came and went and all seemed to appreciate what I had to offer; I didn't think as much about the way clothes fit me and save for the odd comment here and there about my proclivity for semi-transparent tops, my breasts—and the size of them, stopped being a topic of conversation. Peace at last.
That was until I turned 25 in the perfectly curated plastic era of Only Fans models, influencers, sexual "liberation," cosmetic surgery celebration and so called "radical transparency." Jesus.
Now before I go on, I feel I must make a disclaimer: I am in no way shape or form here to hang shit on these women—hell, I was one for a moment in time, posting provocative photos and videos of myself for a price, selling sex and objectifying my body with no shame. And whilst I like to think I remained true to myself, I perpetuated our obsession with naked bodies and performance—I too was desensitised to sex.
Lately, there has been a trend of women sharing their cosmetic work online. In a display of transparency and honesty they tally up all of their weekly, monthly, yearly and once off procedures and slap the grand total at the end of the video with the statement to the young girls and women watching that they should stop comparing themselves to her because she doesn't even look like her. Or perhaps the underlying message being that you too could look like me if you had the money... but you don't—cynical of me to think like this? Perhaps.
An even bigger and more recent extension of this trend is that of women sharing their surgeon, and exactly what they asked for prior to their boob job—this text is often layered over a cutesy video of them in a bikini, bra or tight fitting top with their perfect cleavage spilling out as they bounce and grin happily; life clearly made better since they went up a few cup sizes. The caption is often something incredibly 'girls girl' like, "we don't gate-keep around here," or "this ones for the girls" (did you also read that in Pauline Hanson's voice?). Do I sound jealous yet? Obviously I am. But this is where I become frustratingly conflicted—enough so that I have had to write about it, and now you must read my struggles.
These women—so well intentioned (I think), claim radical transparency, but the ethical and moral dilemma I see here is that we are still pedalling to young women that their bodies are not enough as they are. By trying to be honest about why they look so damn good, and how none of it is real, they emphasise the fact that being real simply doesn't cut the mustard anymore—but for just a few grand you too can level up and become beautiful, desirable. I hate to break it to you babes, but the little girls and women watching—myself included, were and are still going to compare themselves to you anyway, regardless of whether you are real or fake. I will tell you now, it doesn't make us feel any better knowing that you have a few CCs of plastic in your tits, in fact for many of us it now feels even more unattainable because to do the same, we would need to have the disposable income—at least when I believed they were real I just thought you were blessed, now I feel blindsided and left out...again. Whist I love honesty, transparency and empowerment, and I love sexual liberation, sensuality, sex and women's financial freedom and bodily autonomy, I don't love the normalisation of excavating your body and building an entirely new one. When did it become so common to spend a house deposit on changing our appearance? And is it even safe, both physically and emotionally for girls as young as 17-18 to be committing to these sorts of procedures? I worry about what the long-term effects will be. If this can reach just one more influencer before they post about how to get their exact shapes, size and weight tits so publicly, I would urge you to ask yourself who you are really posting this for. Are you posting it to protect the women and little girls out there from comparing themselves to yet another work of art from the operating table, or are you doing it for yourself? Are you proudly transparent because it makes you look better ethically? Because it boosts your ego and perhaps absolves a weird guilt you now carry? Or do you simply just want the world to know how great your rack is and how much it cost you? Because if this is the case then post away sister, absolute power to you that you can afford it and now feel great in your body—just don't paint over your desire for attention with coat of morality and call it feminism. I want it to be clear, I am not anti-boob job, anti-model or anti-social media, I am anti marketing and normalisation of expensive and risky cosmetic procedures to those just trying to get by and love the skin that they are in—because for most, they have little other option. It is 100% okay to focus on your appearance, after all looking good leads to feeling more confident and this is how we get by in life right? I simply worry about the emphasis we place on it; and perhaps the price we pay both literally, physically and psychologically. Moreover, I wonder if we have placed too much emphasis on performative sexuality and the bodies that supposedly represent this, the manufactured curves that are the "epitome" of lust and sensuality; the faces that have been quite literally carved to look like angels. Surely there is more to life than how we look, and if not, there must be more than one (cup) size fits all. Is there not room for all of us to be beautiful?
Since this trend took over my feed, and the feelings above became a constant irritating buzz inside of my ribcage, my peace has been disrupted and I have one again become consumed by my body—it feels almost unavoidable. Every day I open my phone and see it right in front of me, my shortcomings and the solution, just a few thousand dollars out of reach; all I can see is everything I am not, everything I was told I should be as a woman. I admit, I have allowed myself to be towed under by this more than I care to acknowledge. Even with my impassioned opinions and self-confidence—which despite my apparent recently resurfaced insecurities, is somehow still intact, I do think I am hot, but I still find myself weighed down by comparison and questions; I wonder if I am missing out, and lust after the solution. But if I get a boob job am I not just a hypocrite unable to take her own advice? Would this just be a bandaid solution to a deeper issue? And for the love of god, where is the love I so readily dish out to others when I need it?
It turns out that the little girl who just wanted to be accepted, but was instead told she wasn't enough still just wants to feel like a beautiful woman; and that I, just like most folk, am impressionable, and when all I see is praise for everything I am not, it will get to me. Go figure. Starting this piece, I did not realise quite how deeply this would stir my emotions yet now it is 6:34pm on a Thursday night and I am sitting here crying as I consider the weight of beauty standards that we carry as women.
In a world that creates and perpetuates so much noise it can be hard to hear your own thoughts. With the over accessibility of Instagram, Only Fans and pornography, women's bodies are more objectified and hyper-sexualised than ever—by men, women and ourselves through our own social branding and personal marketing; it is so easy to spiral into comparison and competition when we can see so much of each other on constant display. In a world where it is becoming increasingly easier to build ourselves into a cut-out, barbie doll-like copy of each other, all I hope is that we can pause to ask why we want what we want, and do what we do, and if it is a genuine desire of our own or a lacking forced upon us by others. And if it’s for the right reasons, then by all means proceed: book the surgery, inject the filler, post the video; I just hope we can find beauty in our differences—and if not, I guess at least a damn good surgeon will do.
Courtney x
Great read. I’m booked in for my first boob job next Monday👍