The Legend of Tits out Sunday

After the honour of being the Panel 3 Girl in Fred Negro's Famous Pub Strip Cartoon strip last week, I thought I would share the background of Tits out Sunday.
For me, Peter H started it. One workday during the 80s, in my hateful corporate secretary phase, I was in his sales office wearing a white silk blouse with a shot water mark pattern. Hursty walked across the room in a trance. Holding a pencil he walked into our secretarial mensa huddle and started swirling his pencil an inch away from where abouts he thought my nipple was. Suddenly he 'came to'. Embarrassed, he giggled and ran off defending himself 'I don't know what came over me'. Hursty is as camp as a row of boy scout tents and turns 77 this year.

At this Christmas party in December 2002 My mum's friend Jan and I decided to flash our lacy black bras at Hursty and dance around him on the dance floor. Well we had fun.
It was liberating and nice to be past the 'does my bum look fat in this' time of life and celebrate our approaching middle age.

Hursty and Me 1998

It became a party trick. Anytime I got a new bra, I would sneakily flash lucky colleagues and act innocent as they spluttered coffee across their computer monitors. It's no different than a bikini at the pool, but there is something about underwear that can shock people. It's only a bra. According to the Satanist Anton LeVay in the book "The Satanic Witch" (I love leaving that book on my desk at work to intimidate people) it's the 'law of the forbidden', people can't help but become voyeurs.

I created a mantra/chant for work Christmas parties. My husband said it would be funny if it wasn't true.

Yay work Xmas party
Get pissed
Offend my my workmates
Tell the boss to fuck off
Flash my tits
Fall over
Go home
Spew or not spew

I love surprising my friend Ralph, a man in his 60s that has had 22 heart attacks and 50 strokes (according to him) and sleeps with a loaded shotgun beside his bed. I sneak up to his bungalow, open the unlocked door and banging it against the wall, I jump into his kitchen lifting my top and shouting 'Look Ralph, I have a new bra'. My husband tells me it is wrong, on so many different levels. I haven't killed Ralph yet, what's the problem?

Time passes, I find my old mate Andrea and I meet her extended girl network. On one camping adventure, a young mum camping with us said 'It's Sunday, time to get the tits out' and she removed her top to sunbake. She explained that she had trouble with mastitis when she was breast feeding and her wise mother suggested she let her boobs feel the healing power of the sunshine, at least once a week.

And that is what started Tits Out Sunday. Sunday anytime, anywhere, whether we are together or not, it's TITS OUT SUNDAY.