By Gazonga Gal

Back in the ’50s, huge hooters were so much in fashion that those who had hefty headlights were placed on a lofty pedestal of amatory desire, while those with less or little were left to the sad charade of bosom stuffing or the folly of brassieres with enough built-in padding to keep a proverbial princess so far removed from that irksome fairytale pea that she might sleep the century away. Sex-drenched Hollywood bombshells such as Marilyn Monroe (whom I idolized), Jayne Mansfield, Mamie Van Doren and Jane Russell slinked and cooed across the gangplank of Ike-Age American cinema screens, while on the other side of the Atlantic, stacked and sultry sirens such as Gina Lollobrigida, Sophia Loren and Brigitte Bardot buttered the popcorn.

Accordingly, lingerie of the day was constructed to amplify the goods. Conical over the shoulder boulder holders (predating by four decades Madonna’s glittering gilded funbag funnels) lifted ones ladies up and out like dangerous, gravity-defying science experiments gone awry. “Look out, Orville! That mutant tit’s been exposed to massive levels of radiation. There’s no telling how high or pointy she might get. You could poke your eye out on that thing!”

Busty beauties such as Raquel Welch and Ann-Margret, along with a bevy of heavily endowed Russ Meyer vixens continued the top-heavy trend into to ’60s—ah, but fashion is a fickle mistress. Suddenly, it was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Women’s liberation. Bra burning. Hippy chicks flaunting unbridled tit for all and sundry to see. “The natural look” was in. Of course, the natural look looks better on some than others. (Hey, it’s only fair.)

But as this trend in breast downsizing took hold, the sight of pendulous pulchritude flapping lazily in the breeze became an aesthetic pariah; a fashion faux pas that designing divas and their devoted acolytes sought to stamp out at any cost. Now, it took some doing; some cogitating and careful planning. Blueprints were drawn and revised, only to be discarded. Mummies were disentombed, and their secret wrappings studied. Ancient flappers were kidnapped and plied with liquor for tips. The gob-stopping girdle, at first so promising, was finally abandoned as ill advised when a flock of testers swooned after but a few short hours of use.

More than once, it was back to square one, but eventually, by combining the old adage of “divide and conquer” with a new variation: hide and conquer, a solution to the loose boobage situation was finally wrought, and a disaster of epic proportions was averted with the introduction of… (drumroll, please) the Minimizer!

Of course, bowing to the so-called wisdom of stylish minds infinitely more chic than my own, like most big-chested women, I felt the societal pressure to conform. I not only tried on a minimizing bra, I actually bought more than a few. Fact is, for a several years there, short of ordering old-fashioned jug sundries from a Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogue, it seemed like the only option.

Minimizers function as brilliant combination of a construction detour and classic carnival card-trick misdirection. Genius, no doubt, yet somehow, perverse. By subverting the natural flow of traffic with a lil’ white trompe-l’œil, who are we really kidding? To me, minimizers are less a case of “less is more,” than “let’s just pretend they’re not there.” If we push them off to the sides and flatten them like pancakes, no one will be any the wiser, right? Wrong.

One day, the mighty mirror of truth finally lit up and I had to ask myself, ‘Do you really like the way you look?’ and the answer was: ‘Um, no.’ Minimizers just weren’t me.

Flattering alternatives were few and far between, but perseverance eventually paid off. Although it would be years before frilly, colorful bras of larger proportion debuted, even relegated to a miserly spectrum of black, white and nude, if one looked hard enough, there were items to be had that enhanced one’s shape without making you look as if you were smuggling wallets under your shirt, or alternately, needed a carry permit for your matched set of loaded bazookas.

Of course, big tits are back in these days. Cleavage is ubiquitous, and the coverage of our cultural obsession with un-coverage is practically without end—especially on E! The days of minimizing—for most of us at least—are thankfully at an end. However, as much of the current crop of buxom tomatoes is surgically enhanced, it begs the question: How many cc’s in a DDD?