Big Fake Titties


Logo for burlesque performer Dangrrr Doll's column Dangrrr Zone

 

It’s been one full year since I got my breasts augmented, and they’ve been an incredible journey. They make me smile every time I look in a mirror. I touch them constantly: accidentally, subconsciously, lovingly. Sometimes confetti or crumbs or some shit like that will get stuck in my underboob and I won’t see it until I’m poking pimples hours later in the bathroom mirror. I’ll wipe it off my torso, sighing with happiness at all these fun new problems I have. 1

Whether we mean to or not, we’re constantly judging —and being judged by — the people around us. It’s nothing to feel bad about; it’s our natural first line of defense. Does that person walking towards me look like a creeper or a friend? Do they seem like someone who will help or hurt me? Do they smell like someone I wanna fuck… or fight?2

It’s a good thing when it’s kept in check; trusting your instincts can keep you safe until you’re able to verify that a person is on your side. But sometimes it becomes more than a fleeting self defense mechanism, evolving3 into prejudice, shaming, or the relative extremes of racism, misogyny, homophobia and so forth.

The world is not ideal; all of us are prey to some form of prejudice, no matter how subtle. But today I want to talk to you in particular about the intricate web of body and slut shaming surrounding fake breasts and cosmetic surgery in general.

Even the very term “fake breasts” is inherently shameful. Fake: A knock off, a sham, an imitation, a cheap copy. So before we even get started, let me tell you that these “big fake titties” of mine, they are in fact VERY real — you can touch them, grope them, slap them, suck them, stare at them, soap ‘em up, clothe them, unclothe them, ignore them or be mesmerized by them the same as any other pair of boobs; with my consent, of course. They are not going to get up and walk out in the middle of the night, leaving you after our imaginary sexy times to wake up to a smaller-tittied me holding a big celebration banner saying “TRICKED YA!!!” complete with streamers, polka band and boob-shaped cake.4 I prefer instead to use the term bionic boobs, a moniker which dreamily invokes visions of laser-shooting breasts of mass destruction.

True story time: I never identified at all with girls, in media or in real life, when I was growing up. Nerdy women will often tell you that they found it isolating to be a little girl without much in the way of female heroes in video games, movies and comics. This is super valid but in my case, instead of feeling isolated, I simply wound up feeling male. I grew up relating strongly to masculine heroes, playing war games with my stuffed animals, throwing away birthday gifts of makeup from my aunts into the trash and trying to convince the boys at school to let me play football with them.

For years and years, I daydreamed about what it would have been like if I had just been born as a boy. I decided I wanted to be named Jack.5 I would write it out in my notebooks, seeing what it looked like in my horrible chicken scratch handwriting. Mind you, I was still very tiny at the time and I didn’t know yet that transgender was a thing that existed. I didn’t get along with most other girls, because I didn’t like girl things. I recognized that I didn’t belong to anyone and at that point began to feel very angry and isolated; and until relatively recently in fact, I was afraid to bring it up to anyone.6

It’s a long and twisty story, like everything seems to be, but that’s for another time. Without going into too much detail about it I eventually came to the realization that despite being extremely male — or possibly even more so because of it — I actually really, really, really liked my female body. I started experimenting with femininity and found myself loving how I looked and felt that way. I thrived on the power I began to feel from owning my female-ness, learning to wield it like the double-edged sword it is against a patriarchy that didn’t understand me at all.

When I hit puberty my hips got insanely curvy but my tits never matched up. I always wanted an exaggerated hourglass form, symptomatic of a strong desire to be more fantasy than reality; a cartoon body to match my cartoon voice. I decided then, when I was about sixteen, that if my boobs didn’t grow on their own I would get implants. Spoiler alert: My breasts did not grow on their own, and my desire for bionic boobs never once faltered.

My story could have very easily gone in a different direction. I think I would’ve made a pretty fucking cute transman. It would have been a hard journey, but you’ll have to just believe me when I tell you that this one wasn’t a picnic, either. It takes a lot to come to terms with one’s identity, when one’s identity7 seems to be a foreign landscape that even the weirdos find confusing.

In either case, the story ends with top surgery. Yes, a boob job on a bio-woman is also top surgery. If I had gotten a mastectomy last year instead of an augmentation, my friends and family would have probably — regardless of how much they approved of it — assumed that I was trying to more closely assume my gender identity.

Instead, as a femme presenting bio-woman getting a breast augmentation, the assumption was that I wanted to appear more societally conventional; to fulfill someone else’s sexual ideal, rather than my own personal identity. This wasn’t just society’s assumption; this was the assumptions of my peers.

 

Burlesque performer Dangrrr Doll after her breast implant surgery.

Dangrrr Doll

 

 

All cosmetic surgery, whatever that surgery may be, is about embracing the identity you already know you have. It is a tool you can use to help achieve your true identity. End of story.8

Of course no one should make you feel ashamed of the body you have, and if you have the body you want, no one should try and make you conform it to their rules. But on the same hand if your body does not reflect the You that you see, whatever You that is, and you have the capacity to safely change it, you should not be shamed for doing so, either.

When I finally got the money to get my boobs done, I was already well into burlesque, writing articles on this very website, surrounded by people who are purportedly body-positive. Yet, I’ve heard more than a few of these same people, enlightened though they were about other subjects, deride shows they haven’t even seen by spouting such insight as, “Ugh, I just know it’ll be terrible. All the girls have fake boobs,” as though in order to install the implants, doctors must first surgically remove all of the talent or skill the woman had stored exclusively in her Far Superior Natural Breast Pouches.9 Yes, there is a true problem that lies in casting a show entirely of women who all have the same societal-standard body type and skin color regardless of talent level, but that problem has nothing to do with whether or not they’re owners of bionic boobs. I know bionic-chested women of all shapes and sizes and colors. Don’t blame the titties, people. The titties are innocent.

Breast implants are a catch 22: Smaller breasts may not be the societally implemented standard, but bionic breasts come with significant negative stigma. You’re looked down upon as a mindless victim of the system, for having the audacity to have not grown your breasts naturally, and for “wasting” your money.

Take the example of the now infamous act by Jenny Rocha and Her Painted Ladies, which won them the coveted Best Group award at BHOF10 last year. In the act, a woman is looking at a porno mag as a reference for a boob job, only to find after the surgery that her breasts have been turned into weird messed up monster poi-tits11, and that all the doctors also have weird monster poi-tits and have tricked her into ruining her previously unspoiled, naturally perfect body. In the end, the bamboozled woman mourns her decision and her new monster tits, alone, miserable and abandoned by the other dancers.

I’m not going to sit here and pretend that people don’t sometimes make aesthetic decisions for the wrong reasons — at the same rate as any other type of decision, mind you — but a significant percentage of us in the industry have, and are happy to have, decided to modify our bodies somehow to further reflect our identity; tattoos, piercings, hair color, acrylic nails, breast implants and reductions, dental veneers, contacts…

And yet, we literally gave an award last year to a performance which had the message, “Hey gals! If you change your titties, you’re only doing it because society told you to look like a porn star but that makes you an ugly weird slutty slut monster and in the end you’ll die alone forever and also did I mention that you’re ugly now.”

You may argue to me that their choreography was brilliant and that, as opposed to the message, was why they won; and yes, their choreography WAS brilliant, they as a group are very talented and entertaining, and I could’ve gotten behind them winning with a different act. But this is art, right? The message we send to the world is integral, and if we’re really going to say that the pinnacle of our industry’s talent is body and slut shaming, then we’re doing it fucking wrong. There’s nothing innovative or special about the continuation of society’s bullshit.

I was extremely public about my decision to get boobs during the whole process. Before the surgery happened, I would hear such delightfully subtle shaming as, “I’ll miss how your boobs look now,” because they’ve arbitrarily decided that bionic boobs are “less than” on principle. Condescension like “isn’t there a better way to spend your money?12 because they don’t comprehend the value of being able to embrace your identity for the first time, and the sickening “I guess it makes sense for your business” which, while admittedly a thing I thought about after having already decided to get them, always came from audience members and performers I barely knew who just couldn’t believe I would be getting implants for my own satisfaction; they were sure I must be spending thousands of dollars and going through the trauma of surgery for The People to enjoy, on the unreliable off chance that it might make me a few extra hundred dollars a year.

Some of my friends took my desire for larger breasts as an insult to their smaller ones, as though my desire to change my aesthetic somehow affected or involved them. Later I wondered why when I dyed my hair from blonde to black, none of my other blonde haired friends ever accused me of hating or shaming their still-golden locks.

I made a decision to get anatomically shaped silicone because I thought they’d look and feel best on my body, and I got them just large enough to be proportional to my hips. I did this because I wanted them to be capable of pretending to be ginormous with enough padding while still fitting nicely into a suit if I felt like it. I had a 30.5” chest with a 28” underbust — now it’s 35”.

They look pretty great, I’ve gotta say, and so far everyone has — to my face, anyway — agreed with me. Still, the compliments I get now often carry microaggressions as well. They’re well-intentioned, but carry the stigma on between the lines. “They look so natural!” implies that I should be ashamed of people knowing that they aren’t; “I’m so glad you didn’t go with comic book size tits” is an insult not just against those people who did specifically choose a larger size than me, but also against the many, many women who naturally have beautifully huge breasts. You’d also be surprised how many people think it’s ok to say to me, “I hate fake breasts, but yours are great.” Gee, thanks so much for allowing me the privilege of your enjoyment of my breasts. They’re not for you!

Whatever a person’s reason to choose cosmetic surgery, it is their right; their identity and no one else’s. By implying otherwise, whether you know it or not, you’re attacking not just their right to self-identify but also their sexual autonomy.

As always, feel free to disagree with me. S’all good. I’ll just be over here having a great time smashing the status quo with my big fake titties.13

1. The other day a penny fell out of my boobs into the sink. My boobs are like your amateur magician uncle.
2. Or BOTH! At the same time! In wrestling singlets! Covered in glittery oil, writhing together like hot muscley warriors asserting their dominance but just… wanting… to be… subdued! Oooh. Don’t get lost in tangential dreams, Dangrrr Doll, you’re on a mission here.
3. Like neurological pokemon
4. Fun fact: boob cakes are much faker than fake boobs but no one ever calls them FAKE boob cakes. Also, they are delicious.
5. My actual name would have been Kyle Olaf. So viking!
6. Now, of course, my giant metaphysical dick is happily out in the open, flapping around in the breeze like a wacky, wavy, inflatable tube man. That’s how dicks work, right?
7. Bigendered Androsexual Jackass
8. Except not actually, there’s like twelve more paragraphs in this article. Seriously, so long. I need a snack.
9. Grade A, organic, artisanal, free range, natural breast pouches.
10. Boobs Hoohahs Oppai Funbags
11. That’s the technical term for them, of course
12. I like to call my breasts my investment portfolio.
13. And my huge, veiny, throbbing boy brain

Dangrrr Zone is a regular column on Burlesque Beat penned by The Twisted Beauty of New York City, Dangrrr Doll.

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  • Bre VonBuxom-Schrader

    Bravo! I’ve had my breast implants for 15 years and have never regretted an instant of it. They will always be my real boobs to me!

  • Elton Graham

    Beautifully said Dangrrr. Straight to the point and from the heart. They gonna learn today.