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I’ve just been asked for my first nude. I’m 14-years-old and my friend and I are bouncing around the room in glee. The request in question has come from a boy called Jack in the year above me at school (bonus points!) that I had been texting for a few days. This message is the sign that I am officially desirable to the opposite sex.
My friend and I start raiding my underwear drawer for the perfect ensemble. A white cotton bra from M&S (courtesy of my mother, of course) is tossed aside and a leopard print push-up is briefly considered before we settle on a plain black plunge bra with matching lace pants. It’s perfect. Now to tackle the small problem of my boobs, which are a very small problem indeed.
Like many unfortunate souls, I was a late bloomer. Puberty had come for everything, from my raging acne to a monthly blood sacrifice, but seemed to have taken a mysterious hormonal detour before visiting my chest. At 14, there lay little more than two molehills – but I was determined to make them into mountains.
We begin furiously stuffing each cup with socks, packing enough for a weekend getaway, yet it still doesn’t quite have the volume required. So my friend comes up with the genius idea of crouching behind me, while I take the picture, and pulling my two bra straps together. Like magic, two contours begin to form at the centre of my chest. In delight, I assume the position. Tummy sucked in slightly, one hand on my hip, the other holding my LG Cookie. My two mountains present in all their pride and glory and the picture is snapped, sealed and delivered.
Within minutes, I receive a reply. My friend and I cross our fingers for a “woah, you’re hot” comment or at the very least a “:P” face. Yet, when I open the text all it says is: “who’s foot is that behind you lol”.
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