And the winner is…

It was a tough contest, folks. You submitted your humiliations like chumps. Champs! Whatever.

The task of choosing a winner was ever so hard but that’s why I get paid the big money.

First up, is the runner up, winner of the second place Humiliation Prize which is exactly the same prize as first place: Crowbiz and her tale of the wayward brassiere.

The scene off-court.

Setting: summer camp, 1977, age 13. Despite my boyish looks, my breasts had forged ahead into adolescence without me, and I chose to participate in tennis class wearing a woefully inadequate, flimsy, late ’70s bra (its manufacture perhaps influenced by those Farah Fawcett and Cheryl Ladd posters?). The tennis instructor was an of-the-era 16-year-old hottie (winged hair!), and even his acne was magically spackled over by the stirrings of my young teen mind. Being poor at tennis, I found myself scrounging for the ball a lot after my partner or I sent it out of bounds and through the gaping fence. During one retrieval near the end of class, I was shuffling through the weeds and oddly vexed by a flap of fabric down around my thighs, which seemed to have been there while I was running around on the court, too… but I kept digging for the ball. When I finally bent to grab it, the flap identified itself as my bra, one shoulder strap having somehow unwound itself, then, probably from the lack of tautness, the back clasp had undone as well. So there it was valiantly but barely clinging to one shoulder, the rest of it hanging straight down and out the bottom of my shortie midriff shirt, flapping cup, limp strap and all. How long had I been lunging and serving and swinging with my bra waving down the front of me? As the hottie instructor called over about my delay, I panicked. Not yet being skilled at remediating these kinds of events, I hastily shoved the wad up my middie shirt as best I could (simulating a lumpy growth between my navel and boobs), threw the lost tennis ball back into the court with a closed-arm girlie throw, imagining his delighted mocking laughter and retellings back in the counselors lounge, as I ran all the way down to my cabin, clutching my chest. Thereafter, I skipped tennis for the remainder of the week.
By the way, I just simulated this with my current breast support system. Much larger nowadays – it would really make an impression in, say, the supermarket.
CAW

Well played, madam. It was a helluva show down between this tale and RightasRain’s story of the Winnie the Pooh panties. In the end it came down to simple math. Both tales had adolescence, both had the desperation of wanting to make an impression on a handsome young man, and both had, ultimately, exposed undergarments in woeful condition. The only element that our lovely Crowbiz had to top that was time. The sheer length of the possible exposure for the brassiere, the ticking of the clock, the very duration of game time during which the boy must have been stifling his amusement – it’s hard to beat that.

OK now…CAN I HAVE A BIT OF HUSH?

Right, the first place winner, riding the roller coaster of adolescent emotion and surprising none of us with her ascension to the Throne of Humiliation (let’s just hope she’s got straps on that gown), it’s ELYSE!!

I was 14, and was spending the evening at Canada’s Wonderland with my cousin. I was obsessed with demonstrating my bravery by riding terrifying roller coasters. On this particular soiree, I was wearing jean shorts and a lime green tube top, thinking I was pretty hot indeed. We went on a roller coaster called Dragonfire, which involves sheer drops, several loops, etc., which was all well and good. After the ride, our cars rolled into the station, and we hopped off. It was at this moment that my cousin stared at me, horrified, and said “Oh my GOD, your shirt.” I looked down to discover that my tube top had betrayed me. It had folded upon itself, fully exposing my braless chest to the world.

Of course, among my initial thoughts were “Sweet Christ, at what point of the ride did this nightmare befall me?” Unfortunately, as I discovered moments after, it was NOT after the moment where the camera takes a picture of you and your joyriding associates, posting the proofs on a large video screen for hundreds to see.

Bring a little crimson to your cheeks, Elyse?

Big screen nudity wins every time.

Folks, if I can just take a moment to thank everyone who entered. There were tales of pipefitting hands, hands lost to fat rolls and mid-air suspension by underwear.  The entrants are all to be commended for posting their humiliations. You remind me of myself. *wipes tear*

Now, winners please use the contact form on this site to send me your mailing address and your prizing will be winging their way to you.