Bratags Forum

Confession time.

When you’re built like this, the fitting-room journey leaves a trail behind. Not heartbreak — bras. Lots of them. Some worn once. Some never worn at all. Some still stiff with tags, as innocent as the day they left the factory… until they met me.

Anyone who’s ever chased “the perfect fit” knows the cycle: order, try, stretch, sigh, repeat. Cups too small. Bands too tight. Straps that almost understand the assignment. And suddenly you’re left with a secret drawer full of beautiful, barely-used bras that don’t quite deserve to be forgotten.

The question becomes: what do you do with them? Tossing them feels wrong. Donating them feels like giving away a story. Selling them? That’s where things get interesting.

Some resale sites take a big cut. Others make shipping feel like a logistics exam. And then there’s the quiet realization that somewhere out there, someone actually wants the exact bra that failed you — maybe even dreams about how it once fit.

As for shipping… let’s just say wrapping a bra properly is an intimate act in itself. You want it protected. Respected. Sent off safely to its next adventure, whether that’s across the country or across the ocean.

So I’m curious:
Where do you send your almost-perfect bras when they’ve done their time?
And how do you make sure they arrive the way they deserve to — smooth, supported, and ready to be appreciated again?

Okay, I have to get this off my chest… literally.

Went bra shopping the other day, hoping to replace a few bras that weren’t cutting it. I already know my size — we’re talking “don’t even think about touching these without respect” territory — and I was just trying out styles around my normal range.

Enter the store’s “bra expert.” Sweet, confident, perfectly proportioned — but apparently totally blind to reality. She insisted I try on a few bras that made my chest feel like it was trapped in medieval armor. Every strap pinched, every cup gaped, and the gore kept threatening escape. I told her, politely, “Yeah, this is way too tight,” and she just looked at me like I’d described an alien spaceship instead of a bra.

Then came the medical problem line: apparently, having actual big boobs is some kind of disorder. She sized me way, way down, squeezed me into strapless bras that defied physics, and kept insisting the straps and cups were perfect. Meanwhile, I’m hopping around trying not to get a red mark on my chest or a strap bruise.

Left the store empty-handed, sore, frustrated, and more convinced than ever that some bra experts are in a parallel universe where giant breasts don’t exist.

Moral of the story? Gentlemen (or anyone with a thing for well-endowed women): if a girl says “these straps are digging,” believe her. And if you want to see the real magic of properly sized, large-cup bras without the pain and drama… well, let’s just say Bratags has a little corner of heaven for that.