Boobs have been on my mind recently.
They used to be on my mind every 2.5 seconds about 16 years ago, but that was when I was in total cognitive surrender as a result of acute testosterone poisoning. Ah, them were the days…
So anyway, boobs.
It all started with Harlock. Yes, I can hear the grinding gears of your prurient brain. Sure, Harlock sports a stunning rack, but it wasn't like that.
It was like this.
And then it was like this.
And then Wanton Hussy reviewed the porno flick featuring little people and titanic breasts.
I guess it was inevitable. You mention boobs enough times to a red-blooded American male and he'll eventually lead an armed incursion into Mexico or the Philippines. You can get a similar effect by repeating "Die hat eine große Kiste" to a German until he gears up to invade Belgium.
In my case, I'm just going to write about 'em.
I still remember the first moment breasts pushed their way into my awareness. Sixth grade. First day of school after summer vacation. Luz Alvarez looks different. She's got boobies!
I hear that it can be like that for some girls. One minute, they're little girls. The next, they're little girls with knockers and no intermediate step of silly training bras to wrap their protoboobs, or as the Dutch say, "erwten op een plankj", "peas on a plank."
Watching Luz run around with those protuberances under her sweater made something click inside my head. I had one of those "so that's what life is all about" moments, similar to watching an onscreen kiss (between, of all folks, Gene Hackman and Barbara Hershey in Hoosiers) the night after my first actual kiss. Now I at least had an inkling of what it was all about.
The following years were not filled with a huge amount of breast experience, me being a geek and all.
My first glimpse of a real-life, bare, adult breast was a left breast that belongs to the wife of my parents' business partner. Quite simply, the door to the bathroom didn't latch very well. When she ducked in one day to change, the door crept open on its own accord and I got a full on look at a dusky 34-B from the next room.
There was the young lady who taught a special health class to us elementary school kids, demonstrating to us how icky and nasty cigarettes were. She hadn't tucked in her shirt and when she leaned over on a table to write something, I got a straight shot of her bare stomach and breasts.
In junior high, my geekiness paid dividends one day when I was a teacher's assistant in computer class. Strolling up and down the aisles of ignorant kids banging away on Apple II+'s or IIe's, I noticed I could look down a popular girl's shirt and catch a healthy glimpse of a rosy nipple.
High school was mostly a boob drought, except for a few episodes I'm not willing to write about at the moment. Sure, there were tons of hugs from tons of female friends (because I was such a safe, understanding, non-threatening, asexual geeky guy) that lead to intriguing and maddening pressing of flesh. There was the time Erin Schmidt was laughed off the stage during drama class when she walked on with painfully apparent tittie hard-ons. I've never seen anyone turn quite that shade of crimson since.
There was my girlfriend right out of high school. One of my best friends, in his amusingly direct style, always refers to her as "Oh, the one with the big tits?" I learned then that, while boobs are an important part of a young, heterosexual male's life, who those boobs are attached to is more important than cup size or nipple configuration.
The boobless trend continued in college. Sure, Cubby sunbathed topless in the quad, but that was as thrilling as trying to watch Rosie O'Donnell pole dance.
Then there was the semi-formal Thanksgiving dinner at college when a next-door dorm neighbor sat across from me. Her hair was all done up. She had a cute, black velvet choker with a pearly pendant. Her dress was a flouncy, floral number with a low front that showed of quite a bit of her considerable cleavage. I was hooked. Later the next year I asked her to marry me.
Despite the evidence to the contrary, I'm more of an ass man than a breast man, but to me, that's like saying the sesame seeds on the bun are my favorite part of a hamburger. I understand that there are leg men and feet men. There used to be more ankle men. I also understand that in some circles it is considered piggish and evil of me to so openly objectify chicks.
In the meantime, I just don't get the pneumatic breast trend in general and the hypertrophic porno mammary thing in particular.
How can anyone who is not damaged mentally or emotionally find such stretched, veined, scarred breasts in any way arousing or even attractive? They don't move naturally. They inspire more disgust than anything. In some ways they are fascinating in a morbid sense. I feel the same pressure to look at mega-boobs as I do ogling auto accidents or pig-on-woman porno layouts displayed on the streets of Amsterdam. Usually I can resist, but I don't go out of my way to put myself in such a position.
All this discussion is in retrospect, of course. Now that I'm a married man and a father, I have absolutely no opinion on the subject. I can't say such things as "Hey honey, that woman over there has really perky breasts." Forget even thinking of mentioning something like "I, uh, accidentally came across topless pictures of Catherine Zeta-Jones and it sorta burst a bubble for me. She doesn't have very attractive breasts at all. Poor Michael Douglas."
Pakeha