EDITOR’S NOTE: I am so pleased to share Beautypendence’s first ever guest post, in three parts. Debbie is a dear, longtime friend who was so generous to share her personal story with you. I hope that you enjoy!
If you missed Part I of Debbie’s story, you can read it here.
As I grew a little older, I was happier with my boobs. I left the confines of home to start training as a nurse at a London Hospital. I had to wear a stupid hat there too, but apparently it didn’t give the same “PLEASE GROPE ME” message. But the catcalls continued. I think English workmen have a fetish about nurses in uniform.
When I entered a wet t-shirt competition during a week-long motorcycle racing event on the Isle of Man, my boobs were much admired. I had fun… and four pictures in Club International. If you’re not familiar with this publication, let’s just say the women are usually lacking more than a wet t-shirt. Also, I learned that the squadron leader for the Red Arrows (the Royal Air Force Display Team) voted for me. I think it was the red trousers I was wearing. Continue reading