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Big tits before and after

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Sexy Photo Big tits before and after.

Would a woman mutilate herself, slice off the most intimate, tender part of her body, for the sake of her career? At the age of 17, Simona decided that nothing would stand in the way of her ambition to make it to the top in tennis.

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Tennis star Simona Halep went under the knife in a bid to improve her tennis. Perhaps as a result, she has since shot up places in the world rankings. Last week, she was knocked out of Wimbledon by Serena Williams, but still deems the operation a success. She experienced back pain, too. I am sure also she hated the whistles and cat calls when she was trying to focus on her game. Personally, I think Simona has been very brave. I admire women who put their career before everything, even going as far as to go under the Big tits before and after.

Because that is something I did, too. Aged 29, I had very big breasts indeed.

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But looking back, I would say I was about a DD cup. I always wore a bra several sizes too small because I found those big, foamy, matronly bras too disgusting to contemplate.

I only owned the one bra and wore it day after day. This bra — I remember it well — was dingy, frayed and cut my breasts in two, giving me four enormous breasts. As far as I was concerned, my breasts were interlopers; they were not my fault. An anorexic from the age of 11, I had never had breasts before.

I was used to jogging or attending ballet class with two perfect upstanding buds with no need of support. The reason my breasts sprouted was because, aged 22 and dangerously thin, I sought medical help at St Barts hospital and was prescribed steroids to make me put on weight.

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They did so — but only on my cleavage. My breasts swelled like marrows after a rainstorm. For an anorexic — fearful of growing up, of male attention, of womanly curves —this was alarming, to say the least. I hated my new breasts. My small frame made them all the more pronounced. I had few mirrors in my house, but staying with a friend one night, unused to her bathroom, I caught sight of my breasts.

They hung almost to my waist. They were covered with Big tits before and after veins. They had huge, stretched nipples. I knew I had to get rid of them. By that point, I was working for a Sunday newspaper. Once, I saw two men exchange a lascivious glance as I stood up and felt mortified. I remember the moment I decided to have surgery.

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My newspaper was helping to launch the British fashion magazine, Elle, and we were running a taster within our pages. Liz Jones remembers the moment she realised she had to go under the knife. The first cover showed a picture of Yasmin Le Bon looking boyish, her torso forming that delicious S-bend you only see on ballerinas.

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Olga was vulnerable, sweet and brilliant. The cover line next to Yasmin Le Bon spoke to me, called out to me oh goodness, you magazine editors, you must be so careful what you write! It trumpeted the fact chic women in Paris were getting breast reduction surgery to enable them to look good in couture. It was as simple as that.

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I read the article and was hooked; I would do that, too. Of course, I had heard of breast reductions before but it was the fact women were doing it in the name of fashion — something I so dearly loved — that made it so seductive to me. I had to have the operation privately, as my GP would only have sent me scuttling back to St Barts. I told no one: The surgeon came in, asked me to remove my top and drew over my chest with a purple marker pen. I would never, the surgeon told me as I came round from the anaesthetic, be able to breast feed.

The scarring was terrible, as if he had sewn me up with a darning needle. But I was Big tits before and after, a 34A, positively flat chested.


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