I Put Shot Bottles in My Bra So I Don’t Have to Pay for Drinks

  • By: Julianne Elise Beffa

This story has been submitted by a LOOP reader…

It all started with a bra that didn’t fit.

I was 19, broke, and living in Manhattan, three adjectives that could double as a cautionary tale. Manhattan doesn’t just eat your money, it swallows it whole, licks its lips, and asks if you want to leave a 20% tip. Between shopping 24/7 to keep up with my nepo baby classmates at The Fashion Institute of Technology and daily Ubers because I was too boujee to walk, I was constantly broke. But being broke in college doesn’t mean you stay home. No, it just means you get creative.

One night, after a particularly reckless Zara haul, I was trying on a clearance bra I’d panic-bought at the Macy’s in Herald Square. The problem was obvious: I had overestimated my cup size by at least two letters. The thing swallowed me whole, practically gaping with disappointment. I should’ve shoved it to the back of the drawer and moved on, but instead I stood in front of the mirror thinking, “This empty space has potential.”

And then it hit me. What’s small, compact, and fits perfectly into an B-cup that’s pretending to be a D? Mini bottles of liquor.

So I slipped two airplane shot bottles of Jack Daniel’s inside my bra, pulled my top back over, and voilà- suddenly I had cleavage. Suddenly I had a plan.

My friends laughed at me the first time I told them. “You’re insane,” one said. Another: “You’re going to smell like a frat house.” But the laughter stopped the second we walked into a club, ordered a Coca-Cola with a flirty smile, and then slipped into the bathroom to pour fresh jack and coke concoctions straight from my bra into the free coke. Suddenly, I was a hero.

The “Bar Bra,” as I coined it, worked on multiple levels. Financially, I wasn’t dropping $18 on a jack and coke in Meatpacking. Physically, the bottles actually gave me a push-up effect, like Victoria’s Secret bombshell but with a whiskey twist. Socially, nothing bonds girls like huddling in a bathroom stall, mixing cocktails from your chest, and pretending you’re in Ocean’s Eleven. And honestly? It was freedom. I never liked when guys bought me drinks, because it wasn’t really “free,” you’d have a drink in your hand but also a man hovering over you all night, expecting your attention. With the Bar Bra, I didn’t owe anyone anything. My drinks were mine, my night was mine, and I could dance in peace.

By the summer after sophomore year, I had perfected the craft. I discovered that two bottles per cup was my sweet spot: one tucked deep for shape, one slightly higher for easy retrieval. I became a human minibar. People stopped asking where I bought my tops and started asking what “flavors” I was carrying. I had variety. Vodka for pre-games, whiskey for winter, Malibu for summer rooftop parties. Once, I even smuggled in a tiny bottle of Bailey’s during finals week. It was festive, if not wildly impractical.

Sure, I’ll pay $20 to get in, because I’m not paying a cent more once I’m inside.

Manhattan nightlife is brutal when you’re on a student budget. Cover charges alone were enough to make me question my entire degree path. But with the Bar Bra, I could justify it. “Sure, I’ll pay $20 to get in, because I’m not paying a cent more once I’m inside.” I was thriving. There was a rhythm to it. I’d arrive at the bar, act casual, dance a little, and then, like a magician pulling scarves out of a hat, I’d excuse myself to the bathroom and reemerge with fresh drinks. My friends adored me. Strangers adored me. Bartenders probably didn’t adore me, but hey, the economy wasn’t exactly in their favor either.

Of course, like all great scams, there were close calls. Once, a bouncer at a rooftop bar hugged me a little too hard on the way in. I swear I heard the faint clink of glass, but he let me pass. Another time, a bottle popped its cap mid-dance and I spent the rest of the night smelling like a distillery. My date thought it was perfume. I didn’t correct him. And then there was the time I got cocky. A Halloween party, sophomore year. I thought, why not go big? So I stuffed four mini bottles in my bra, plus one tucked into my thigh-high boot. I was essentially a walking liquor store. Halfway through the night, as I attempted to discreetly pull a bottle out mid-conversation, it slipped. Right onto the dance floor. The sound of a tiny plastic bottle hitting the floor in a crowded room is deafening. I froze. Everyone turned. And then, thankfully, some random guy picked it up, yelled “Party favor!” and chugged it. The crowd cheered. I lived to smuggle another day.

Related | I Was Sleeing With a Bartender- He Knocked Up My Friend & We’re Still Hooking Up 

I stopped smuggling shot bottles into clubs and started paying for overpriced cocktails like an adult.

Eventually, the Bar Bra era came to a close. Graduation arrived. Jobs replaced classes. Rent replaced ramen. I stopped smuggling shot bottles into clubs and started paying for overpriced cocktails like an adult. The Bar Bra got retired, tucked away in a box of old college clothes and questionable decisions.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about her again. Because let’s be real, the economy is a mess. Drinks in Manhattan and Los Angeles now hover at $20 to $25 a pop. A round of espresso martinis is a down payment on a car. Inflation hasn’t just touched groceries, it’s stormed into the bars and slapped a surcharge on fun. And once again, we’re all broke, we’re all tired, and we all still want to go out.

So maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s time for a resurrection. Think about it: we live in the age of TikTok hacks and influencer “get ready with me” videos. The Bar Bra could go viral. Imagine the tutorials: “How to DIY your own Bar Bra in 3 easy steps.” Imagine the content- slow-mo bathroom mirror shots of girls whipping out Smirnoff minis from their tops, laughing, winking. It’s sustainability. It’s financial literacy. It’s feminism, in its own twisted way.

And listen, I’m not saying we should all start flooding the clubs with contraband booze. I’m just saying, in times of economic crisis, women have always found ways to survive. Some coupon. Some thrift. Me? I engineered a boob-shaped liquor cabinet. And honestly? I regret nothing.

So here’s to the Bar Bra: the invention that carried me through college nights when my bank account balance dipped into the single digits. To the countless bathroom stall concoctions, the spontaneous dance floor shots, the giggles, the chaos, the lift both emotional and physical. And to anyone reading this, broke and staring down a $24 vodka soda on a menu tonight, just know there’s another way.

The Bar Bra is more than just a college hack. It’s a symbol. A movement. A reminder that sometimes, survival looks like slipping a bottle of Fireball into your bra and hitting the town. So don’t call it a comeback. Call it what it is: a revolution.

Read More