Okay. I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m going to expose one of my breasts.
Seriously.
Real Deal.
Ready? Here goes:
It’s a faaaaake!
Yeah, of course it’s a fake; what the hell were you expecting?
It was brought to my attention recently that I could possibly do some women (and a fair few men, too) a favour by explaining how I make my fake cleavage. Well, as you can tell from the photo above, it’s almost entirely composed of joke boobies I got for five quid in a fancy dress shop. And you know what? I hate them. They’re too damn big and I think they look unrealistic. When I first got them, I punctured them and squeezed the air out before securing them in place with a bra. Then the buggers started re-inflating over the course of the evening, and I realised that I’d have to put up with an attention-grabbing chest. So much for blending in.
Before this, I tried balloons filled with water. I stuck them in a bra, wore a top that covered up my chest and hoped they’d be convincing. Well, they weren’t completely unconvincing, but I figured a bit of decolletage wouldn’t go amiss. So I consulted the big, giant brain that is teh interwebz, and read about grabbing all my flesh from under each armpit, squeezing it towards to centre of my chest, pushing my nipples together, and using bandage tape to secure everything in place. Voila! Instant cleavage!
Sorry, I’m not wrecking the illusion for you, am I?
Trouble is, the tape may not retain its adhesiveness. The other trouble is, taking the tape off. You know how plasters can nip a bit when you peel them away? Yeah; that. In any case, it’s best to shave or wax that chest before getting started. I’ve tried the waxing route (with similar effects to those endured by Scrat in Ice Age 3), but it’s a lot less hassle just to shave.
Next up, I put on a cheap bra and stick the joke shop boobs in. They’re usually freezing cold. Then I put a sports bra on top. Why? To compress the undeflatable bastards, so they don’t look quite so artificial, and to anchor them in place. Once that’s done, I can do the grabbing and shoving of flesh around my upper torso, and the pressure of the sports bra and the padding will hold it in place, creating a cleavage. If anything gives away the fakeness of my breasts, it’s that statement there (see Jenna Marbles’ explanation of how sports bras work on real breasts, and you’ll realise that mine are clearly not human). I’ll usually wear a leotard or something to smooth everything out (and give me a better chance of hiding the fake boobs padding me out) before putting on the rest of my clothes.
Shit, where did they come from?
So, that’s shaving, joke shop boobs, two bras and a leotard required, plus a bit of shuffling of skin around my upper body. That’s how I make my cleavage. Obviously, that means there’s a fair bit of structural engineering works required, and that’s going to limit my choices for what to wear (halternecks, strapless and backless designs are out, as are bikini tops or anything else of a similarly skimpy nature). I suppose if I’d established myself with a smaller chest earlier on, I could have gotten away with smaller, lighter, less obvious padding, and I’d have more options; as it is, I’ve made my choice and I’m dealing with it.
It appears to work; I have plenty of people (almost-but-not-quite-exclusively women) asking how I achieve it. I can cope with people staring at my chest when they’re talking to me because I don’t do it all the time. I can easily imagine that if I wore this all day, every day, it would get old quickly. There’s only been two or three occasions when I’ve had to tell someone, “Hey, my eyes are up here.”
However, there are limits to the realism. Yes, I can show a fleshy cleavage, and it may well fool people, but it doesn’t move or feel right. Anyone who’s tried to hug me as Twist will have experienced the surprisingly solid double-whammy of my joke-shop boobs. I guess I should come with a safety sticker that says, “Look, but don’t touch.”
The heroic music swells… and so does my chest.
Miss Twist speaks her brains 