thrifted shorts, Good Will button down, Leopard Lounge belt, Victoria's Secret Bra (buhhh, yes) the oldest falling apartest boots
So for the most part, you guys, I hardly ever wear a bra. I like the way clothes fall better without one and let's be honest, it just feels fuckin right, ok. This is where my boobs are supposed to be, society, here in this honest and humble place on my chest, not strapped back and hoisted up to my collarbone where they can then be thrust into the faces of male mate hopefuls who want to buy me a gin and tonic and do that "im not really listening" head nod while I talk. I get that some women wear them for "support" or "modesty" (fear of nipples) or whatever, and I respect that, but places like Victoria's Secret fail to embrace the complexity of female beauty in their advertisement and product, you guys. There's something fuckin elegant about the natural distance from clavicle to nipple on a woman, sans bra. You could sensually snowboard down those lady slopes right there, man. All I'm saying is it's a lovely and gradual dip that can be absolutely ruined by a perky push up bra. Right? I mean, exactly, right?
Anyway on a visit home to Texas this past Christmas I agreed to attend a NewBraDay-Trip to the mall with my sister and mom. For them, being conservative, well raised women who, Bible abiding, strap those boobs in, a NewBraDay-Trip is a fun lady day outing to buy a practical wardrobe staple. Not wanting to miss out on this prime female family bonding time, I joined, despite my lackluster feelings about bras in general, fueled only by my blacksheepdesire for the love and acceptance of my family.
I exclusively shopped for bras that could be worn as tops. A bra as a top is the kind of bra I can get behind. Especially if it has two rows of frills and a sweet little bow. I bonded super hard on that day in December and this is my NewBraDay-Trip treasure.
My sister was torn between admiration for my boldness in bra selection, and sorrow for my surely damned soul.