In her book Bigger Is Better, Mob Wives star Big Ang addresses the elephant(s) in the room. “The first thing people notice when they meet me is the color of my eyes. Yeah, right. It’s the boobs.” The reality TV riot shares the hilarious ups and downs of her gigrundo bra size.
They’re size 36J ( J is for “jumbo”). It’ll come as no surprise to anyone that they weren’t always this enormous, but they have been substantial since they first sprang out of my chest. At fourteen, I was already a 36DD. The only drawback of having such large breasts? I can’t sleep on my stomach. Who cares? Small price to pay.
My first augmentation was in 1985. I was twenty-five years old. During pregnancy and right after giving birth to Raquel, my tits inflated and got huge. I mean, HUGE—size 42J, like I was smuggling a pair of beach balls under my shirt. Maybe they wouldn’t have blown up so much if I breast-fed. But that wasn’t for me. It seemed like something animals do. So a couple of months after they inflated, they deflated—and sagged down to my waist. They looked like flattened watermelons. I could’ve tucked them into my jeans. It was gross.
During the mid-eighties, sponges were the best implants at the time, so that’s what I had done. My boobs were round again and higher than before—which was great because I didn’t want to be playing soccer with them before the age of thirty. I loved the look.
The doctors told me I should have the implants changed every decade. So in 1995, I went back in. By then, the implant of the moment was saline bags. Out went the sponges, and in came the saline. This time, I went bigger by a couple of sizes. I had them redone one more time, in 2005. Just keeping up with medical advances, I swapped the saline implants for silicone, threw in a boob lift (I was forty-five by then; gravity had taken its toll), and went up another couple of sizes to my current 36J. The scars have faded, and now you can barely see them at all. It’s just a faint, superthin outline. I’m grateful for having naturally dark skin that heals well.
Three times is enough, though. I’m not going to go any bigger. The size now is perfect. Guys love them—straight (obviously) and gay. On Gay Night at the Drunken Monkey, my bar in Staten Island, gay men come to see me and shove money between my tits. It’s like my cleavage is the tollbooth to get on the Verrazano Bridge. I wear Victoria’s Secret unlined Body by Victoria DDs. Cups that small don’t cover much. They’re tit hammocks. It’s not like I need a bra for support anyway. When I go commando, they don’t budge. I could bend forward, to the side. If I could do a cartwheel, they would not move. They feel… firm. Not rock-solid cement balls like the horror stories you hear about implants gone wrong. But, compared to mushy normal boobs, they’re pretty hard.
A few years ago, I was on vacation with my family at the Villa Roma resort in the Catskills. We were standing outside the restaurant when it turned from dusk to dark. Suddenly, the sky was full of bats. Now, I adore all animals, with the exception of rodents—especially rats, and their winged equivalent, bats. I don’t get scared about walking home at 4:00 a.m. in six-inch heels in August through Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, but I’m deathly afraid of bats. So this resort was apparently bat heaven, and they were swarming all over the place. Out of nowhere, this bat flew right into my chest. Bam, he hit hard, then fell splat on the ground. We were all screaming and freaking out. The bat didn’t move. We thought it was stunned. Turned out, he died on impact. My implants broke its little neck.
So when I say I have killer boobs, I freakin’ mean it.
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