You'd have to wear those stick-on pads to keep the real nips under control and hope the fake nips didn't move too much and give you that "sensual" cross-eyed look.
It's also a great last minute Halloween costume. Just slip on the Nipple Bra, hope for a cold night, and go as the she-wolf who suckled the founders of Rome.
You'd have to wear those stick-on pads to keep the real nips under control and hope the fake nips didn't move too much and give you that "sensual" cross-eyed look. Oh, yes. The heartbreak of "Jack Elam Breasts"
Y'know, the damned thing is that compared to what we wound up with this seems like the mark of a sane, sensible, and rational culture.
sometimes I miss the 70s...
Remember the pencil test? If your girls could hold up a pencil, they were too big to go braless. Oh, the good ol' days!
Woodrowfan writes: sometimes I miss the 70s... Mister we could use a manlike Richard NixonAgainnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!
Seventies, schmeventies. In the 60s, we hippie girls cared nothing for pencils, lemme tell ya.As for nipple bras, Fredericks of Hollywood had that one sorted back in the 50s, and for all I know, the 40s, with bras (really, really supportive ones) that had little holes at the points. Bras had points in those days. I remember seeing a well-endowed beauty wearing one under a sweater in Greenwich Village round about 1957, a revelation to my 9th grade suburban sensibilities. Today's bras are tepid.
What is it about nipples? the vision of a nipple on a breast protruding though a suitable garment is a beautiful thing to behold. But when you start to think about it and ask why, you end up where you get when you repeat a word like 'door' until it loses its meaning.
like when is a door not a door?or opinions are like nipples , everyone has one
"like when is a door not a door?'When its ajar?
That thing cost $2000 with $150 SH?Wow, getting your freak on was expensive back then.
I think it's fair to say that the seventies are a regrettable wasteland.Make me a liar by citing a dozen films of the era.I dare ya.
I triple dog dare ya.
Well, Chinatown, Five Easy Pieces, M*A*S*H, Patton, McCabe and Mrs. Miller, Little Big Man, Annie Hall, Taxi Driver, The Godfather Part I and II, The Conversation and The French Connection, but only if 1) I can't look; 2) you meant American films, and 3) you were pulling our collective leg.
I wonder what our collective leg would look like?
Shapely, with a well-turned ankle, but unshaven because we're hippies.
"or opinions are like nipples , everyone has one "Or two. Or more.
Doghouse: You forgot "The Goodbye Girl," one of my all-time favorites from the '70s. Not quite the same thing as "Looking For Mister Goodbar," though, that's for damned sure...
Oh yeah, btw: "Oh, yes. The heartbreak of "Jack Elam Breasts"Watch it, lady, no picking on those of us who happen to be gravitationally-challenged... there are some things that even underwire can't fix!I guess that I'm just baiting the peanut gallery when mentioning that my mystery security word was "PIZINGLO"... is that a floor polish for men's rooms?
Strangely, I find this garment totally unuseful.In the 70s when I was both a feminist and a DFH, I strode about, nipples to the wind. When I became gainfully employed - in a Bank- I was coerced, nay, forced to wear a bra that hid them entirely.Now that I am once again free (!) from corporate overlords, they breathe again but conditioning is now so strong I just wear really baggy clothes so nobody knows they're there. Baggy all over for the last say 20 years - that's me and my boobs.Suezboo
Oh, Suez Suzeboo, m'dear, I envy your courage. Can't do it, can't leave the house without Playtex cotton, spandex & underwire. Wish that I could afford one of those seemingly-wondrous "AHHHBras" or the other 3 versions/ripoffs thereof, except if I "shopped my top (size)," IT WOULD NEVER MAKE IT UP TO MY TITS. I've got a 1X top and a 2X ass. You're supposed to step into those things and pull 'em up. AIN'T GONNA WORK. Anything big enough to go 'round my ass is going to be wasted sails, flapping in the breeze.I *did* eventually rid myself of the insecurity shackles of the Southern Law Of Women's Appearances, that thou shalt NOT, not NEVER, leave the house/dorm room/apt. without full base-powder-blush-mascara-shadow-etc. heavy-duty WAR PAINT, but it took me a little while. And I *do* enthusiastically let the mammalian follicular traits grow-out in the winter time, as I'm all I've got to keep me warm, so if anybody were ever interested again (*yawn* like I give a fuck), THEY GOTTA HACK THEIR WAY THROUGH THE UNDERBRUSH FIRST, and frankly, I'll never have that much patience again.So I and my pathetically-deflated (*every* single fucking time that I lose weight, GUESS WHAT GOES FIRST?!?!?!!!) tits salute you and yours in a purely platonic & honorable manner, in admiration of your bravery to swing, sway, and stand proud & nippley any & everywhere that you damned well please. You are a far, far more titanium-ovaried woman than I, and I hope that if I ever grow up, that I get to be more like you.
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