Before I go into depth with this story about boobs, my boobs to be specific, I want to preface it with something.
My “breast-icals” have a mind of their own.
No, I’m not kidding. They seriously do. They are the one part of my anatomy that I don’t seem to have any control over.
- When I want them to grow – they don’t.
- When I loose weight – they shrink first.
- When I try to make them look all sexy and provocative – they act like a couple of two-week-old balloons attached to my chest (And not very big balloons at that).
My boobs are my own worst enemy. In fact, I’ve actually named them. I call them “The Queens”. Why? Because like Freddy Mercury, they too just “want to break free”.
So yes, my boobs have a mind of their own. They’re constantly “breaking-free” of all kinds of restraints; shirts, dresses, bikinis, you name it! One time, I swear to god, my boobs actually unfastened my sports bra while running past a god-like looking male specimen in London Hype Park. (I wish I was joking!).
This means that if you’re a friend of mine (or if you’ve spent more than two hours in my company), chances are you’re acquainted with the Queens.
Which brings me to filming “Dirty Talk“, and an incident that made my cheeks take first place in a beetroot red blush-a-thon.
(WARNING: THE CONTENT BELLOW CONTAINS “DIRTY TALK” SPOILERS)
During Dirty Talk, there’s a particular moment where my character, Cat, has a rather passionate make-out session. Now I’m not going to lie to you. I was rather excited to do this scene. Not because I was looking for a little “make-believe” romance in my life (in fact I had earlier that day ended a two year relationship, making “romance” the last thing I wanted), it also wasn’t because I was attracted to my co-star either (although ladies, I will let you know, he’s a stud so get your stalking goggles on) and nor was it because I wanted to show off this newly found sexy side to me (for goodness sake, my father was going to watch this show… and possibly read this post. Sorry Dad!).
No. I was excited to film this scene because for the eighteen months prior, I had co-created, co-written and co-developed the character of Cat, with this specific moment in mind. This moment was going to be one of those big, amazing, “let-your-hair-down”, let your freak flag fly, “Shake it out” like Taylor Swift, light bulb moments that would give my character a much deserved “Ahh-Haaaaaaaaa” moment.
And given that the Dirty Talk leading ladies are based loosely off of our real life personalities, you can see why I was so invested in this moment being perfectly captured on camera. I mean hell, who doesn’t love to do a little make-out scene? (An actor with a cold sore, thats who!).
Well, do not fear, I was cold sore free and I was excited. Okay, I was a little bit more than excited. I was bouncing up and down, quite literally. Why? Because being me (slightly neurotic and possibly insane), I had totally blown this scene out of proportion. I had “bigged” it up in my head. I had crowned it the sovereign state of all things and I would be damned if I let anything ruin it.
With that being said, I’m going to now walk you through that night on set:
So there I am, on the night of production; my hair done to perfection (Thank you Flor), my make-up utterly flawless (Thank you Shirley) and two shots of vodka warming my enthusiastic belly (Side Note: No I do not condone drinking on the job but I was definitely playing the “method” excuse that night and following Gwyneth’s “Country Strong” advice).
So there I am, looking the part and ready to get flirty.
I’m placed on set. My co-star and I do our blocking. We practice our lines. We joke. We flirt. We are ready to get this bad boy out the gate!
I hear Johnny, our Director, call “Action!”. I start my lines and we’re in it. I’m feeling it. My limbs are loose. My shoulders relaxed. My body’s working it. And I think to myself “Damn! I am a total lioness right now!”.
The tension builds. My pulse is quickening. I feel the moment hit. I go in for that kiss and “Urkia!”, my co-star’s not a bad kisser. I pounce on him further. The make-out begins. It’s fun. It’s steamy. It’s exciting. It’s —
Oh Shit! Oh Shit! I’m out of it. I’m totally out of it. I am waaaaay out of it. And no, I’m not talking in the actor sense of me being “out” of the scene. No.
MY BOOBS ARE OUT OF MY BLOODY DRESS!
I can feel the heat building on my cheeks, of which I’m sure the entire room can see. Which by the way, consisted of about a dozen people (The Queens are strategic!).
I hear Johnny call “Cut”. I feel my co-star pull away and utter terror fills me.
Right now my boobs are strategically covered from most peoples view because I’m pressed so tightly against my co-stars chest, but if he moves an inch further away, the Queens are going to get their way!
I’m panicking. I’m freaking out. I know in a matter of seconds my boobs are going to be on camera. And so, without thinking, and in my frenzy state I shout, at the top of my lungs.
“MY BOOBS ARE OUT!”.
Let me tell you reader, if you have a crew made up of mostly twenty-something year old men, and you don’t want them to look at you and your naked chest, don’t ever shout the word “Boobs!”.
And remember to invest in some sticky fashion tape.
British “Beetroot-red-cheeked” girl out!
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