Boobs are nature’s greatest invention - a bold statement, I know. I can hear people thinking that the human brain deserves top honours while others must feel that life as we know would stop without a heart. I can appreciate these points of view since I do think about boobs an awful lot and fallen in love with a pair or two. Without boobs I’d be hard pressed finding anything worth thinking about and be left feeling nothing below my waist but knees and toes. Without boobs…no, I don't even want to consider it. My love is too deep.
I started forming my conclusions at a young age. At about three or four I was still small and cute enough to get women with racks. With the right mix of ennui and guile I could usually get a two base hit. Unfortunately, my exposure to women outside of the immediate family was restricted to church and the welfare ladies who shared the yard in geared-to-income housing. The church ladies usually looked and smelled better than the yard ladies but the holy-hangers were a lot harder to access than backyard breasts (mostly because yard ladies would trade feels for cigarettes and church ladies didn't smoke). I was a brave explorer charting islands in the stream and logging the results - wee as the log was at the time.
Grade one was an eye opening experience. Some of the girls in grade six were starting to develop and that got me bugging `cause I shared a yard with them and there`s all sorts of stuff a twelve year old will trade for a touch or a peek. I learned a few more important lessons; boobs grew off of girls, girls don`t like you staring and arithmetic is just plain old math in fancy dress. Eventually I even learned to read but it took so long because the TA who taught remedial reading drove a Trans Am, smoked in her car during recess was stacked out to yowza. I spent more time looking at her bumpers than the books she brought me (and there were some good books too including Where the Wild Things Are). When pressed I could manage a few sentences before finding a long word to stumble over and stumble I would. She would lean over and point to the word and help me sound it out while my eyes feasted on the breast meat revealed. I remember the day after she saw through my ruse like greasy underwear - the day a woman finally put me in my place.
It was starting on to summer and she wore a tight T-shirt with something printed right across the front. In my mind it was carte blanche to stare and after a few moments she asked if I was having trouble with the word. She said it out loud and I could see how the sounds came from the letters on here shirt - especially the J circling her left nipple. And then she gave me a twenty minute lecture on the meaning of the world.
The word was OBJECTIFICATION. For the effect it had the word might as well have been CASTRATION. I was devastated and ran home weeping uncontrollably. When my mother asked me what was wrong I couldn't tell her - make that would`t tell her - what had happened at school. I was too ashamed of my behaviour to tell her and I knew that she`d be mad enough to offer a little of the old percussive maintenance. The less I talked the more she started worrying and jumping to conclusions. Mom’s are funny like that. “Did you have reading today?” she asked. “Yes,” was my barely audible reply. “Did something happen with Miss Grace?” “Yes.” “I need to know what happened?” “no.” I started crying again. In the end, my mom went to school with me the next day and we talked with the principal. I read him my copy of "Where the Wild Things Are" (long since memorized) and he said that I didn’t need remedial reading anymore. Then he and mom talked when I went back to class. Half an hour later the whole school hears Miss Grace peeling out of the faculty parking lot. At recess the grade fours told us she was giving the finger too and the burnt rubber hung heavy in the air - and in my heart. The best boobs in school were history.
In a perfect world I would have stopped there and been better for the lesson learned but it was only a matter of time before my boob love reared it ugly head again and again. Successful completion of grade school led to junior high where hormones hit over-drive and girls became women - women with boobs. I grew an extra two inches every day, starting on the bus ride. But Miss Grace’s lesson was never far from my mind and I had learned to keep my glimpsing furtive and non-descript. Still, it didn’t stop me from learning a few more important lessons; girls always know when you’re looking and most of them want you to - there are exceptions to every rule. I did, however, limit my worship to glimpses of the divine peaks. I never got to second base or even kissed a girl until I was just shy of leaving high school and all the way towards quitting on God.
And I won’t say any more about that.
My boob love continues unabated through the years and, nerd that I am, I have learned my lessons well. Short of teaching myself enough about genetics and cloning to grow the perfect pair I can content myself with the boobs at my disposal (i.e. Internet porn and not suggesting that women are trashy or garbage). A little self control and imagination goes a long way towards lifetime fulfillment of my desires but I don’t base my opening statement on fetish alone. Don’t misunderstand, I can’t deny that my statement has a lot to do with a deep seated boob appreciation and lifelong fascination - but nature‘s greatest invention? Yes. After all, for the first seven-odd months of our lives, our favourite food is made by boobs.
Mmmm…breast milk.
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