I can’t get within 100 feet of a lingerie store without some ho chasing me down with a tape measure trying to tell me I’m wearing the wrong size bra. Girl, I got plenty o’ cleavage thanks to some French lace engineers. But these brassiere peddlers are always quick to point out the flaps on the back. They blame the visual blight on my bad bra, as it must be pinching me to cause that unsightly bulge. Gee, I really appreciate your concern, but actually, I have back fat, rolls, or as my boy bestie calls them, “back titties.” They are permanent. I’ve had them since I was a baby butterball, and they have been a constant source of insecurity. So thanks, shop girl, for pointing them out with disapproval.
OK, I know, she’s just doing her job. And I don’t really care what some undergarment gal thinks of my blubbery love handles. But I have to admit, I really care what someone who finds the front of me sexy will think when he gets a good look at my back.
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