Storm in an AA-Cup
You find me in a state of turmoil. I’ve made the most wonderful discovery. My life has been revolutionised … a lifelong problem solved. But I’m also devastated. I feel as though every woman I’ve ever known has let me down … at least those who knew but couldn’t be arsed to tell me about beautiful, liberating nipple covers.
Since puberty, my nipples have been the cause of angst and embarrassment. They have a mind of their own. They react to minute fluctuations in temperature, to the rustle of fabric, to my smallest mood change. In fact, they react to any bloody thing happening anywhere …
I snorted at a FaceBook graphic that said: “My nipples tell me Summer is over.” Hah! If that’s all your nipples tell you, you’re the lucky one!
My defence has been to wear moulded foam bras. They’re rigidly pre-formed and prim, about as sexy as granny in a G-string.
As an earnest wannabee eco-warrior, I worry about such gratuitous use of a plastic product. I read somewhere that every toothbrush you’ve ever used still exists somewhere on the planet. I’d wager the same goes for padded bras. I imagine upturned cups floating around the oceans, gathering in flotillas, maybe providing little floating homes for tired amphibians, until they’re washed up on far flung shores where Man Fridays gather them to store watermelons … or, in the case of mine, lychees.
For some reason, most of my friends are well endowed. My friend Emma has breasts that are as big as her head. I’ve stopped drinking with her since social media became commonplace. When she’s tipsy, she takes her bra off and puts it on her head … and plonks the second cup over whoever is sitting next to her. The last thing I want is to wake up with a hangover and see myself tagged on FaceBook wearing half of Emma’s bra, the pair of us looking like conjoined WWI fighter pilots. Not that you would recognise me. I have a small head so Emma’s bra covers most of my face.
When I met the man who would become The Best Husband In The World, I had a black halter neck Devil Dress with a neckline that plunged almost to my naval, exposing a large expanse of bony chest and the outline of my ribs. Donning it for the first time in his company, I asked if he thought it indecent.
He gave the matter careful thought and pronounced: “On a woman with boobs, it would be; but on you, it’s mildly interesting.”
Oh my goodness! A Devil Dress! For the first time in my life, I don’t have one! That’s why I’ve become so prim and well behaved. My alter ego has no way of expressing herself. We are what we wear. Would Superman have superpowers if he wore his underpants under his tights? Could Scooby do without his collar disc?
My maternal Grandmama dreamed up the Devil Dress. She said every woman should have one. A dress that’s slightly too tight, or slightly too short, or slightly too décolletage … or all of the above. A dress that you know will bring out Naughty You …
Grandmama was a femme fatale who exuded the predatory sensuality of old-style movie stars. She wore killer heels, red lipstick and red nail polish throughout her life, even as a nonagenarian born-again Christian (and her toenails always matched her fingernails). Her life was full of Devil Dress occasions, as was Mother’s. By the time I came along, they’d drained our gene pool dry of flirt genes, but that’s not to say I haven’t had some Devil Dress moments.
Anyway … back to nipple covers. It was horrendously hot a few weeks ago. I spent the day with my bra clinging damply to my rib cage, the foam soaking up perspiration and occasionally leaking it down my belly. Dressing to go out that evening, I suddenly remembered that I used to wear elastoplasts over my nipples when I wore my halter neck Devil Dress. I resolved to abandon my bra and do the same with micropore tape and lint that happened to be in my first aid box.
It was wonderful. Freed of clammy AA-cups, I was empowered, liberated, cool. I had a lovely evening. I didn’t ever want to wear a bra again; or at least, not until the winter.
Practical though my solution was, the lint/micropore tape combo wasn’t pretty. What if I was knocked down by a bus and woke up in hospital, to face the disapproving stares of nurses whose first duty is to judge whether your underwear is clean, white and pure. (I am led to believe that they describe the state of your underwear in secret code in your personal notes. Those with shabby knickers get examined with extra cold stethoscopes.)
I thought of a burlesque show that I went to last year (I must tell you about that sometime – it was a hoot) and wondered if I should venture into the realms of nipple caps… so I poured myself a night cap and settled down to research the possibilities.
It usually takes a few goes to get search terms right. I found some interesting videos on how to make sequined nipple caps, and got quite involved in a long discussion between Burlesque Belles about whether toupee tape or latex provided the best fixer. There seemed to be quite a complex formula involving size of breast (big breasts have a bigger tassel tossing range than small ones), weight of sequins and length of tassel.
Then Eureka! I strayed into the world of nipple covers. Neat little flesh coloured, self-adhesive silicone discs that fit snugly over nipples and leave the rest of the breast gloriously free.
What really pissed me off about this late-night discovery is that they are sold in most high street fashion chains, in the bra section. Talk about ‘hidden in plain view’! Why had I never noticed them? Why had no one ever told me?
So I bought a pair and ventured out to have breakfast with friends, wearing nipple covers and a light summer frock. The sense of freedom was overwhelming. Like skinny dipping. I resisted the urge to do a little shimmy when I met them. I managed to avoid sneaking satisfied glances down at my tamed nipples. I tried not to look superior when I noticed beads of sweat forming in a friend’s bra-bound cleavage.
I breakfasted in the morning sun, shopped without the shackles of bra straps and sashayed through dinner on a moonlit patio.
There were a couple of small reality checks during the coming days. They aren’t suitable for hiking on hot days, or so I realised when I glanced down mid-walk and saw a nipple cover stuck to the toe of my boot. Sweat tends to make them slide south. And supermarket chiller cabinets are saboteurs as covers pop off when nipples suddenly contract in the cold. When wearing a baggy blouse, I’m not sure whether etiquette requires that you reach back into the fridge to peel your nipple cover off the yogurt pot whence it landed or simply abandon it.
Even with those limitations, I am forever converted. Should I get knocked over by a bus in my 90’s, the underwear police will be surprised to find little silicone covers stuck to my willful but aged nipples. I bet there’s already a secret code for such minimalist underwear and stethoscopes lie ready in the freezer!
