A truly disturbing account of what it's like to get a spray tan when your boobs are just enormous.

Having big boobs is very much like having siblings – you didn’t have a whole lot of say in their existence, they often get in the way of everyday activities, yet sometimes they manage to come in handy.

If you’re one of those people who has been blessed in the chest, so to speak, then you’ll know what it’s like to navigate the world each day with a Plus Two leading the way.

It means accidentally rolling over in bed in the middle of the night and feeling a sensation akin to straddling two bloated wombats, not being able to strap yourself into the safety harness that’s standing between you and death on roller coasters, and owning a Burn Book solely dedicated to strapless dresses and all who champion them.

But even if you leave your home each day with your boobs strapped to your chest with the same level of force afforded to Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs, there is one tricky situation in which they must be left untamed and unchecked, free to wreak havoc like two fleshy Godzillas on a rampage through New York City.

I’m talking, of course, about the fraught and perilous journey that comes with getting a spray tan when you’re a woman with larger breasts.

If you were to ask me what my own bra size is, I would be at somewhat of a loss. Human mathematics have not yet evolved to a level where they could calculate such a number, but it’s safe to say they would be classified as immense, gargantuan and behemothic or whatever else the Oxford English Dictionary suggests as a synonym for absolutely freaking huge.

I’m also a woman who avoids the sun like anti-vaxxers avoid common sense, but who still wants a bit of brown sheen across her skin, and so I often find myself standing topless in a small airless room while a stranger I try not to make direct eye contact with spritzes me with a cold vat of odd-smelling chemicals.

An artist's depiction of my breasts when restrained by two bras. Source: Orion Pictures.

Due to the sizeable nature of my boobs, I first require a few moments of privacy from my tanning lady, behind a locked door, and if you've ever attempted to escape from a straight-jacket that could double as a medieval torture device, you'll understand why.

It requires an unflattering yet extensive amount of pulling, unbuckling, yanking, twisting and swearing to unceremoniously free yourself from said torture device, all of which must be done while contorting in such a manner that should an unsuspecting passerby accidentally catch a glimpse of me mid-bra removal, they would think Quasimodo was in town and preferred black lace undergarments.


And, dear reader, let it be known that depending on the style of dress I'm wearing versus the craftsmanship of the undergarment I pull on, I'm sometimes forced to wear not one... but two bras at once, in order to keep my unwanted passengers safely secured in their assigned seats.

Therefore I find myself having to wrestle out of Olsen twin levels of bra torture in order to simply become topless.

By this stage, my innocent spray tanner is beginning to wonder if I have succumbed to some sort of head injury because the door has remained closed for an extended period of time and so she sings out "all ready?", while lightly jiggling the handle to gain access and even though I'm still hyperventilating from the strain of bra removal, I have to let her in.

Even if there are soon to be no secrets between us, I still attempt to cover my upper body with one arm as I shuffle forward to unlock the door (mainly just to lessen the initial impact of intense eye to breast action) but it's about as successful as attempting to cover Russia with a napkin.

Now, there are only two situations in life where I would normally allow myself to stand topless with my arms over my head for an extended period of time. The first is if I were to be innocently taking a shower and the spider who likes to hang out in my bathroom was to suddenly pull a knife on me, causing me to assume a submissive position.

The second is during a tan and it's all fine and dandy until the spray tanning lady, who has diligently been attempting to cover one breast with tan while maintaining a professional silence, suddenly stops and shakes the gun in a way that fills my brain with horror because I'm pretty sure the amount designated to cover one entire body has now been wasted on a single nipple.

But instead of making it awkward, we both evoke the code usually reserved for tense family dinners and just avoid the issue in the room as she tells me to turn to the side for the next phase of spraying.

"I often find myself standing topless in a small airless room while a stranger I try not to make direct eye contact with spritzes me with a cold vat of odd-smelling chemicals."

There was one fateful day where, in my haste to have the spray tan over and done with so I could reunite with my modesty, I turned so quickly to the side that my breasts whipped through the air with such force that if they had made contact with the spray tanner's head, she would have been decapitated.

Thankfully, she was an agile woman who was able to leap to safety in the nick of time and therefore avoid a serious head injury. Sparing me from a disastrous situation where I would have been tasked with both concealing her unconscious form and leaving the salon with half my body a drastically different shade to the other.

Then comes the tense moment when the tanner asks if I would like to be sprayed 'under the breasts', signaling for me to lift them into the air. But since I tend not to travel with an entourage, I lack the man-power needed to hoist them up, and so I always decline that offer.

After the last inch of my body has been covered with brown goo, I am left to plot a plan of escape from the salon to my home as covertly as humanly possible, since I cannot wear a bra while the tan settles and therefore the three of us cannot risk coming into contact with other humans, since we could be considered slightly indecent.

My usual plan of attack is to cover the front of my body with the longest scarf known to mankind and throw my myself into the back of an Uber with such urgent force that the driver will assume I am on a life or death mission for some sort of government agency and refrain from making small talk as he races me home.

While tanning missions can be fraught with danger and despair, it's important to remember that bodies of all shapes and sizes have no reason to be ashamed of stripping down for a spritz whenever they desire.

But if your breasts are of gargantuan size, just be aware that you're entering the salon with two potential weapons.

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