Part Uno:

I found this blouse at Nordstrom. It isn’t often that I spend $30+ on a single item, especially one with so little material (I’m more of a buy a lot of stuff for my money kind of gal, which is why I shop at Forever 21 even though I’m Forever 34), but I really loved this top. I knew when I tried it on in the store that it was going to be a tough top to pair with a bra since the back is almost bare – besides the bow sash – and it cuts super low, making it too low for a strapless, so I figured I’d have to wear something besides your traditional bra. But I wasn’t deterred; I had ideas:

Some stores call them “breast petals” or “fashion forms” – but I find these are simply the politically correct terms for “pasties”. But hey, if the sticky nipple cover fits… Let me take a moment to explain that pasties come in many sizes (i.e. just covering the nip area, covering most of the boob, and straight up bra-looking pasties) and they stick on in different ways (right over the boob, on the side of your body under the armpit, etc.). If it sounds like I know a lot about them, it’s because I do. I’ve owned a number of booby gel cover things since the first pair I bought about 7 years ago.

*click for image credit

So I bought the blouse, went home, and first tried it on with my smallest pair of breast petals. Unfortunately because of the material of the blouse (which I wasn’t anticipating), the outline of the nip petal was too obvious. I upgraded to the larger, more covering boob petal, but the outline was still noticeable. I needed new options, so I drove to a place where I was sure they’d have exactly what I needed in a variety of options: Target.

*click for image credit

I was right. With a new pasty bra contraption in hand, I was ready to wear my new top. It was summer in NJ the first time I wore it, so while the weather was hot, it was still manageable. The pasty bra and top combination worked fabulously. But the next time I wore my top, in the balmy, slippery heat of the Dominican Republic… proved fatal.

Part Deux:

In one of my island’s hottest months, a group of us were going dancing for a friend’s birthday. Before leaving our apartment, I had had the thought that my pasties might not be able to keep up with the heat and the dancing, but I squashed the thought, thinking, What kind of crappy crap bra would this be if it couldn’t hold up through dancing? Aren’t specialty items like this made for specialty occasions that involve sweating and dancing? Of course they are. Thought: squashed.

And for the first few hours, I was right. Boobies secured, I danced with Husband, footloose and fancy free. Until… schloop. I felt the tape on my right side lift up a little and almost as quickly, the left side. My pasty bra was sliding down the sweaty sides of my torso. I looked at Husband like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

“Oh crap. My bra is sliding off.”

To which Husband replied, “I have duct tape in the car.”

This is why Husband is my husband. No questions in an emergency. Just action.

We left the restaurant and walked down to the car, grabbed the large roll of silver duct tape in our trunk, and slid it on my wrist like a silvery bangle, so as to not appear ridiculous carrying duct tape into a club. I locked myself in the bathroom stall and first tried taping the sides of the bra – the flaps that stuck under my armpit – back down. I hoped this would be enough, but after another dance or two, it became apparent that this wasn’t going to hold either. Armed with the trusty duct tape, again, I went to the bathroom for the next procedure.

Part Three:

The way I saw it, I had two options. First option: go home and be a quitter. Second option: make a bra entirely out of duct tape. Let’s just say I wouldn’t be writing this story if I went home…

Annoyed and unsure of what to do next, I ripped off the whole damn pasty bra contraption and threw it in the garbage (I’m dramatic like that). Next, I had some planning to do: I couldn’t put duct tape directly over my nipples without a protective barrier (that would definitely hurt, right?) could I? Or could I…

Ok, of course not! What kind of crazy person would do that?

I took a paper towel and dried myself down (note: this step is very important in the “How To” of Duct Tape Bra Making). I took another paper towel, folded it, and placed it over one nip and then duct taped it; then I did the same with the second. Once they were both protected and covered with paper towels, I began ripping off more pieces of duct tape to cover the rest of my boob area, and then more tape to cover a larger area of chest like an anchor. I could only imagine what the other ladies in the bathroom were thinking when they heard the sound of peeling and ripping duct tape coming from the next stall. Target crap pasty bra in garbage and duct tape bra in place, I exited the bathroom in hopes that my new form of chest gear would hold. Apparently, you really can use duct tape for everything.

Conclusion:

When I got home that night, I peeled off my bra with zero discomfort (thank you paper towel nipple protection!), hung up my party top, and decided that when in a hellishly hot and humid country where your junk regularly slides all over the place, dancing in a proper bra is probably the best bet.

*click for image credit

Moral of the story? Save the backless top and sticky boob cover for a nice dinner… in an air-conditioned restaurant.

Written By:

Jennifer Legra

Current Rock of Residence:

Dominican Republic

Island Girl Since:

Born to island parents since birth, official island girl since 2011

Originally Hails From:

Jersey (fist pumping not included. Not recommended either.)

Jen, an expert in The Art of Lunacy, decided three years ago she wanted to get married, have a baby, and move abroad. She discovered she was pregnant in February, got married in July, and moved to the Dominican Republic in August. In October, they had their first baby (yes, that is all in the same year!) and then had another baby 18 months later. Did she also mention she has two rescue poodles? She has a particularly strong dislike for insects of the flying nature and has what her husband calls “an irrational fear” of bugs trying to crawl into her hoo-ha… and also zombies… and natural disasters… basically many scary things. She loves being a mom, but blames much of her drinking on raising two small children in such a bloody hot climate. For this reason, she drinks a lot of Presidentes (the official beer of her rock), and visits many colmados since, well, that’s where they sell Presidentes. You can find her Drinking the Whole Bottle on her blog of the same name. Her stories are real. The shamrock tattoo is magic marker.

Want to read more posts by this writer? Click here.

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