Hello Lovely Ladies! Heather here. For those of you living in Chicago, I hope you are staying warm and dry, who knew it was monsoon season in the City? This week’s topic is Exposed!

To shake things up a bit, our lead story comes from a lovely and talented friend of ours, Charla. But don’t fret, Lauren and I will keep you entertained throughout the week with more of our tales and yours. Enjoy!

Over-exposed at Cartier:

So I’m invited to the oh-so exclusive Palm Beach Cartier Christmas party and decide to fully glam it up festive style and wear my “red threat dress”. You know the one that makes you a threat to all the attached ladies in the room to hold onto their man cause you’re such a hottie one?

Yeah, well, it was body skimming, short (I had the legs for it at the time) and loooow backed with a drape front, only supported by two teeny tiny spaghetti straps at the shoulder (I had the back and arms for it at the time too.)

Ok, so what do you do at such a Christmas party but grab some mighty tasty and expensive (free) champagne, try on jewelry you DO NOT have the bank account to purchase, but hope that your date does then go and ask Santa (hired entertainment) to bring you the said wish list for Christmas, right?

Well, that WAAAAAS the plan until, while carrying champagne and handbag in one hand, pashmina over the shoulder on the other side, I strut my way up to Santa and low and behold the pashmina on my left shoulder starts to slide. In order to stop it, I’d have to spill or drop the champagne glass (lead crystal, of course) so I figured if I just try to stand a little taller it’ll stop the fateful slide. WRONG! It proceeded to fall of my shoulder and take my dress strap with it! Even worse, my dress dropped below my waist on the left side so that my boob, sans bra, was staring at Santa, his elves and the rest of the Christmas party.

Needless to say, I didn’t return the following year. Can you say “fashion victim?”

Charla, Chicago, IL

If I type fast, this won’t be as painful, but I promised my girlfriend I’d submit. I was meeting my boyfriend’s family for the first time. I was suppose to get a half day off work to prepare, but it didn’t happen which resulted in a sprint home then mad-rush getting ready. I was afraid the underwear I was wearing would show through my pants so I just took them off with no time to find alternatives. I’m talking a total of 15 minutes to get ready. My boyfriend gave me the impression that we were having dinner with just his family, however, we showed up to a houseful of additional guests. I felt like I fit in immediately and was having a great time as if I’d known everyone for years.

I was helping his mom keep the appetizers filled. I was in the middle of pulling something from a cabinet and a glass bowl fell from the top shelf, but I caught it right before it hit the ground. I heard my pants rip, but when I felt around – there was no rip.

As I filled the bowl, walked out to the living room in front of everyone and BENT down to put the food on the coffee table, I heard gasps. My boyfriend yelled my name and one of his mom’s friends pulled me in her lap.

My pants had completely ripped down the middle!! When I was walking you could tell a little, but when I bent over – YOU COULD SEE MY ENTIRE BARE BUTT!!!!!! Imagine what your bare butt looks like when you bend way over with something weighing you down in front and EVERYONE is starring while your butt cheeks are SPREAD!!

I stayed in the woman’s lap for a good 5 minutes with my face in my hands.

The older, drunker men called me Jiggly Jenny all night.

Jenny
Naperville, IL

GYNA POWER!! Ladies, how are ya? What’s shakin? Er… sorry, Jenny, I think I know what’s shaking for you. But, don’t feel bad, remember, YOU’RE NOT ALONE! At least you had to have a bare butt for people to notice your jiggle – my booty jiggles through wool pants! And speaking of jiggle……..

My story doesn’t emcompass a moment of nudity, in fact, I would have much prefered a bare belly over the secret of my flat tummy being EXPOSED!!!! Slap me hard… one more time…. okay.. I’m ready…

My boyfriend at the time was from New Orleans. His entire family was part of a Mardi Gras float or “crew” for a parade and every year we attended a huge formal ball for all the participates within the parade. I had bought a dress on sale a few months before. Let’s just say that I had cheated on my boyfriend very frequently with a bagful of Crystal burgers and cases of beer (I was a slut for both.) I wasn’t going to spill my secret, but my stomach did. Literally.

After a 48-hour panic period, my sister and mother re-introduced me to a trick I didn’t need in my pageant days – DUCT TAPE your tummy flat. It worked. You couldn’t sit, or breathe, or use the restroom, or talk above a whisper, but by George, you had a mid-section flatter than a runway model who only allowed herself a daily teaspoon of water a month before a fashion show. The day came. Right before leaving, I locked myself in the bathroom, made as much noise as possible to drowned out the sound of unraveling duck tape and revealed myself looking gorgeous and SLENDER in my beaded gown. Note: the technique began with the mid-section being covered in ace-badges then to be sucked in by duct tape.

Though, I didn’t sit much, I felt confident and carefree. I pulled it off!! Everyone was probably jealous of me, the girl they all witnessed throwing elbows at the hotel breakfast buffet determined to get the last (and her 3rd) helping of egg casserole just 12 hours earlier. How could a girl with such a hearty appetite have such a rockin body? I was telling NO ONE!

Later in the night as a couple of ladies tried to yell over the band and tell me something, my boyfriend’s sister grabbed my arm and took me out in the hall. “Lauren, what happened to your dress?” What does she mean? I walked into the bathroom and almost passed out in horror. Somehow, the duct tape turned inside-out and began to stick itself to the inside of my dress bunching up the fabric. Furthermore, the ace badge unravelled and most of it made it’s way through the bottom of my dress and trailed behind me.

I don’t call this a wardrobe malfunction. I CALL IT EXPOSED!!!! Especially because my boyfriend shared with me that the table of women behind us were bragging how they knew I didn’t have a flat stomach, but was camoflaging it with either control top pantyhose or a corset. Bitches.

Sooo.. I did what every determined GYNA Gal would do!!! I hung in the bathroom while my boyfriend’s sisters brought me booze. HOLLA!

I’m not a big underwear fan. Thongs ride up and granny panties freak me out. Too many memories of my grandmother ironing in nothing but her bra and panties that started under her boobs and ended at her knees. Needless to say, I don’t wear them. I was on a date with a guy I’d been seeing for around 3 mos. He had taken me to dinner then to a friend’s party. I had already met most of the people there previously and was feeling comfortable enough to circulate on my own. I was wearing skinny jeans, but always had problems with the zipper riding down. To make sure nothing was exposed, I wore a tunic that covered the zipper. Later in the night, this really drunk girl tripped in front of me, throwing her entire glass of red wine on my shirt. The hostess, who was so gracious, but also much shorter and smaller than I was. She was nice enough to find a shirt (probably the largest one she owned) that I could wear for the duration of the party so I threw it on and continued to party and dance like a wild woman. Apparently, I was jumping and dancing so much my zipper did it’s nasty little trick coming down, but with the pounding of jumping, did another little trick of spreading apart!!! So… I’m dancing having fun… and everyone else is watching me expose my business below the belt! I’m talking a “Basic Instinct,” crouch shot.

The guy I was dating had to break it to me. I could tell that he was so embarrassed telling me while some of his guys friends laughed behind him. To think of what I looked like especially jumping up and down. God help me.

Tara
Madison, WI

If I had a quarter for every nipple attack that’s upstaged a cute top I’ve owned.. I’d be playing shuffle board on my personal yacht right now.  However, that’s no longer the case as after I turned 28 years old, my size D’s started the Great Battle with Gravity and continue to lose. Going braless is not even an option for me unless I want my boobs to have a playdate with my belly button. I have to wear double-duty bras with ropes for straps and thick cups that give me Barbie boobs and no cleavage. I know…. too much information, but just an objective introduction to understand my alliance with the featured post today (wow.. I said a lot of big words in one sentence. I’m smart.)

Anywho… we can all high-five this post by Stephanie Dolgoff, author of the blog Formerly Hot  and the book  “My Formerly Hot Life”   which is on pre-sale now (the book officially launches in August, but you can buy now by clicking on the book title!)

Here’s to rebelious nipples. Enjoy Stephanie’s story!

“Girls Gone Mild”

All I can say is that they didn’t have “nipple petals” when I was at an age where I could even consider going braless. Or if they did, I didn’t know about them.

I’m talking about those little adhesive flower-shaped thingies you stick on your breasts, presumably to prevent your headlights from showing through your top. (The banner above is from YourNippleCovers.com). I do remember being embarrassed when that occasionally happened–like when someone told the kind of story that also made my arm hair stand up–but I could never figure out why I should be embarrassed, precisely. What did the phenomenon really betray about me? That I was secretly aroused? That my mouth said no, but my nipples said yes? Not hardly. It usually happened when a cool breeze blew through.

So I’m in this store, Pookie & Sebastian, on Third Avenue, and you can’t wear a real bra with almost any of their otherwise adorable dresses. That’s a problem for a gal who is feeling the effects of gravity, has nursed twins, and, well, probably should never have gone braless in the first place. And probably should never have walked into Pookie & Sebastian in the first place, but of course I have to do that at least 30,000 times before I finally get the message.

Today’s excursion beat it into my head pretty good. I held up a cute little strappy number, and then thought aloud, “Oooh, can’t wear a bra with this.” The very blonde and tanned salesgirl, whose back was to me as she stacked skinny jeans on a high shelf, thought I was speaking to her. Without turning around, she chirped, “No, you can’t, but we have these really great…”

At that moment, she stepped down from the stool she was on, and swished her hair around to face me. Her eyes landed on my boobs.

“…nipple petals,” she said flatly, as if she wished she could inhale the words back into her throat. It was clear from her expression that she felt my nipples were beyond petals. Potential protrusion was the least of my problems. Any nipple issue that I might have if I were to go braless would be overshadowed by the fact that I was braless, and the effect that would have on onlookers. I don’t think I need to paint a picture.

She pulled her eyes from my breasts, up to my almost 43-year-old face, and smiled with a mix of sympathy and embarrassment. “Have you seen this blouse?” she said, holding up a loose, flowy peasant number. “It’s really great because you can…I mean…”

“You can wear a bra with it. I know,” I said, putting her out of her awkward misery. I felt bad for the girl. It was not her fault that I insist on fantasizing about wearing clothing that no longer looks good on me. She didn’t mean any harm.

It was clear, however, that she couldn’t fathom that someday, perhaps, she, too, might need supportive undergarments, even if, like me, she’s not particularly large. It never occurred to me when I was her age. I usually wore a bra, but if I didn’t want to, I could get away without it.

“It’s really not so bad, having to wear a bra,” I said. “It happens. I don’t mind. And if you get one that’s lined, no nipple-itis.” She smiled gratefully. I even bought the top, in a fit of wanting to prove to her (or perhaps myself) that there are other attractive ways to dress that don’t involve nipple petals, and that I’m OK with it.

I’m going to return the peasant top, though. It’s nothing special. Not like a strapless underwire bra that didn’t hurt or wind up around my waist by day’s end would be, if such a thing existed. “Nipple Scaffolding.” Someone’s gotta invent that.

Ahh… cleavage… some pay for it… some pray for it…. some loathe it as gravity takes hold over the years and causes wrinkles right between the boobs. No matter the cleav position… most of us  like to keep it hidden during office hours. There’s a time, place and purpose for cleavage, but during business meetings, nine times out of ten, it’s better to keep the girls behind closed doors. Every so often, though, those little bitches rebel and open the door without asking!

The other day, my coworker came  flying in the office, mortified, ”LOOK!” All I could see were half-naked boobs. I looked at her, “Is there a reason I’m staring at your boobs at 11am?” There she was, clad in a professional pencil skirt/button down combo complete with trench coat, an true tribute to the Ann Taylor woman. EXCEPT, the coat was open and that one shirt button which could hide or reveal decided to pop open. She discovered this while waiting at for the elevator bank in the main lobby of our VERY BUSY office building. She looked down to find two humps of flesh gazing into her eyes. Her main concern? She had just left an important business meeting with three males and had no idea how long her shirt had been open.

There I was, admiring her bosoms while she restlessly told the story, in fear that her potential clients would think she exposed purposely. She had anxiety, I had the need to motorboat her valley of  smoothness.  I couldn’t get over the fact that she’s 40 years old with the cleavage of an 18 year-old. Impressive.

As anxiety took over, she felt the right move was to confront the client via email so he wouldn’t think she tried to taint with boobs. In the 20 minutes it took the client to respond, I thought she was going to have a panic attack. Finally, he responded with wit and regret that her shirt stayed shut during their meeting.  His comment gave her the greenlight to laugh with relief and me the redlight to stop obssessing over another woman’s love humps. Hey.. if you got ‘em, flaunt ‘em.