From the pages of Bitch ¥ Volume 3, Number 3 (3128 16th Street, Box 143, San Francisco, CA 94103; $3.25)
Excerpts from: My Cups Runneth Over
By Erin M. Pipes
I didn’t start out in the world a hard-ass, I swear. I was the nice girl, Little Mary Sunshine. But you know what finally pushed me over the edge? I’ll sum it up for you in one word: breasts. More specifically, my breasts. I am a woman with large breasts. I am sick to death of the prejudice that comes with the set. How many times does this happen to you? You’re wearing what is, to you, the perfect example of the classic outfit–tailored, professional, powerful. Then you leave the comfort of your home, and some caveman on the street uses all his reserves of brain power to sling some witty comment at you, like, “Hey! I like your big tits!” Well, gee. Thanks! I mean, what the hell am I supposed to say to that?
Another thing that grows old real fast is the open-mouthed gawk at my chest when I meet someone for the first time. Oh sure, it’s usually men, but it has happened with a few women as well–but whereas the men will follow this stare with a cliched smirk, a woman will frown and cluck her tongue silently, in that “you should be ashamed of yourself” way. I should be ashamed of my body, uh-huh. And I was–for a long, long time.
You never hear a man get slammed with commentary from people he passes on the street. “Hey baby! Love your big cock!” Or, “Oh–you should be ashamed of yourself, flaunting that . . . monster like that.” Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve always gotten the message that men should never be made to feel ashamed, whether it’s penis size, body size, or brain size. That’s a woman’s job.
After years of collecting breast-reduction pamphlets, it occurred to me–why should I be made to feel indecent for something I had virtually nothing to do with? I suddenly realized that these breasts are powerful. Like Wonder Woman’s lariat of truth, they bring out weaknesses in all people, they intimidate–and, when attached to a strong, smart girl, they can be dangerous.
Now, when I’m walking down the street and a crew of construction workers are so overcome by the sight of “us” approaching that they cry out, “Oh baby! You could feed a nation with those!” I stop, plant a fist on each hip, and stare the fuckers down. I don’t look away until they do, and, so far, they always have. What they really want is for their words to lower your spirits–to see that you are put in your place for taunting them with what they can never have. It won’t work–they can’t bring me down.
Besides, these babies float.
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Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): zine cover.