Tit Tape Meant Something Different In my Twenties

PLEASE NOTE: This post is quite detailed about nipples. Specifically, mine. If that's going to traumatise or scandalise you, may I suggest trying a different post? I'm pretty sure the rest are safe, though if it's nipples in general that bother you, you might want to steer clear of "Am I Asking You To Put Your Nipple In My Son's Mouth?". But I imagine the title of that one is pretty self-explanatory, and also probably the most graphic part of the entire post. Everyone else, please proceed at your own risk.

Men may still earn most of the money, own most of the land and yield most of the power in the world, but there's one thing we women do that we'll always have the monopoly on.  No, I'm not taking about the miracle of childbirth - frankly, I'd have relinquished that "privilege" to any passing stranger with cleanish nails.  I'm referring to the wonderful moment which is removing your bra at the end of a long day.  It's a feeling of relief with few parallels, possibly matched only by another sensation more commonly reserved for ladies - that of removing tight or high heeled shoes.

(Excuse me while I go off on a tangent.  I don't know what's more infuriating - the oppressive and damaging beauty industry or the fact that we continue to buy into it.  Seldom do men feel the need to squeeze, paint and pluck themselves into oblivion in the pursuit of bodily perfection.  I don't know whether my innate laziness and inability to endure discomfort pushed me towards feminism as a backup against and reaction to the culture that made me feel wrong for not being "girlie" enough, or whether the movement gave me the strength to finally get rid of my heels and "let myself go" in my jeans and my Converse.  Either way, I'm glad my feet don't hurt any more).

Anyway, back to the bras.  Anybody who's ever spent a day with their bosom trussed up in an over the shoulder boulder holder will understand and appreciate the feeling of relief when the girls are finally allowed to swing, roam, drop or flop free.  It's the high point of the day that signifies the slow, relaxed slide into evening for many of us.  So what do we do when that pleasure is taken away?

Allow me to explain.  I haven't superglued my bra to my back or decided to stop wearing one altogether (call me oppressed if you like, but the last thing I need is my boobs in my armpits all day).  My dilemma is a little more sensitive than that.  Literally.  Almost two years of breastfeeding means that my nipples are on constant red alert, seeking for any piece of clothing or matter upon which to press themselves.  They spend their time like meerkats checking for predators or puppies desperate for affection, the constant friction resulting in even more sensitivity, which makes them protrude, which makes them more sensitive... You see my problem.

Please don't misunderstand me.  This is not sexy.  In fact, the sensation makes me want to remove my own skin.  The only thing that puts the brakes on their relentless quest is keeping them tied up like prisoners of their own misguided mania.  But that, of course, means I have to suffer in a bra all evening.  What's a girl to do?

Being an inventive and impatient sort, I decided to tolerate it no longer.  I took inspiration from a time when slashed-to-the-waist catsuits were, thanks to Kylie Minogue, the epitome of style among the young and beautiful frequenting the pubs and clubs of Liverpool. Sadly, given my more buxom figure, this was a look denied to me, but some 13 years later, it's finally coming in handy for something. You see, it's not just us melon-slingers who have titty trouble from time to time. Even the girls with less in their bras can find themselves in a pickle when dressed in low cut, slinky material designed to titillate. Sexy is a sliver of flesh peeking out from above a toned navel, the suggestion of cleavage nestled in folds of whispering fabric. Sexy is not standing on the dance floor clutching at parts of your errant outfit as it tries to make a run for it, leaving you desperately trying to retain some modesty. The answer then, as now, was tit tape.

This is essentially Sellotaped to her body.  Were it not, there's no way she'd dare to lift her arms above her head.

Back then it secured the clothes firmly to the boobs of the wearer, ensuring that they wouldn't slip over a shoulder and down an arm to the floor. Now, the grown up equivalent (hospital tape - seriously, why would I have tit tape now when I couldn't pull off the outfits that needed it in my twenties?) is used to secure little pads of folded gauze over the offending body parts, acting as a barrier between them and the outside world they're so eager to embrace. It looks awful, especially when you first wake up and have forgotten that it's there. It can be quite the shock, having what looks like two deformed boobs grinning up at you in the morning. But my God, it's worth it. Bra off, tape on, and baby asleep is the starting point for a wonderful Saturday night.