Here's something you might be interested in.
I know many people, men and women alike, love the fake ta tas. They are as reliable as Starbucks. They have that same familiar shape, feeling and symmetry that give Americans comfort in a neurosis driven society. They may have the occasional wavy stretched skin, or internal rupture, but mostly they have made fantasy a reality. These boobs defy gravity and always provide the perfect cleavage on which to rest a weary head or a sweaty beer depending on your preference.
Real boobs, on the other hand, are amorphous, unpredictable, spontaneous and free-spirited. They can take any shape one might desire. You can achieve the bounding cleavage with the quick purchase of a slightly ill-fitting, but mesmerizing miracle bra. If you want to look classy and turn down the sex-kitten, you can wear a full cup, minimizing bra, letting them fall into a more natural habitat.
When it is time for a mammogram, they can be flattened like uncomfortably soft, revealing plates and then bound back to their former shape. Doctors can poke and prod and check for more lumpiness than is usual with ease as the fat and skin provide little resistance for this medical fondling.
Real boobs are as beautifully asymmetrical as any organic sculpture. It may be slight or glaring. The right may hang left while the left remains in place. A video entitled “Breasts” featured a lefty that was long and straight while the other was short and round, a backward ten. For most of us the difference is imperceptible and at times convenient. A comedian noted that as a right-handed man, he was happy to note that his girlfriend’s left breast was just a hair more than a handful, while the other was a full hand.
Each pair is unique in size and shape. From childhood to womanhood to motherhood to death, they tell the story of life and age and change. These supple ever-changing masses of fat belie our matriarchal histories. They hint at the shapes of our mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers and sisters. They also resemble a cultural history. Different women, from different countries have different circumferences and colors common to their soil.
I love that as I move in activities, they move. I must wear a sports bra to pin them as flat as I can when I run, but I can spill them into a lacy holster when the job is done. They easily go from day to night. I can morph my breasts to fit various outfits. In pajamas, I laugh as they disappear and spread out imitating the same form as my sleeping body. As I wake up, I awe as they have bigger days and smaller. I enjoy meeting these creatures anew in their various daily manifestations. What will they be today? Perky, hidden, small, cold, relaxed, swollen, heaving, sexy?
As I get older, I shed a slight tear when I reminisce about my breasts at 16 and then at 20. I get lost in the memory of their heyday when a bra was unnecessary and they most closely resembled the fantasy breast of the plastic modern age. But generally, I feel joy and curiosity as they evolve.
Please don’t consider this ode an indictment or a judgment of the fake. I have real ones, so of course my affection lies on their side. Perhaps, however, as the years pass and my life changes and my titties sag, I will dive into the plastic surgeons office, bare it all and bid farewell to my 100% real, fantastic, beautiful breasts.
I know many people, men and women alike, love the fake ta tas. They are as reliable as Starbucks. They have that same familiar shape, feeling and symmetry that give Americans comfort in a neurosis driven society. They may have the occasional wavy stretched skin, or internal rupture, but mostly they have made fantasy a reality. These boobs defy gravity and always provide the perfect cleavage on which to rest a weary head or a sweaty beer depending on your preference.
Real boobs, on the other hand, are amorphous, unpredictable, spontaneous and free-spirited. They can take any shape one might desire. You can achieve the bounding cleavage with the quick purchase of a slightly ill-fitting, but mesmerizing miracle bra. If you want to look classy and turn down the sex-kitten, you can wear a full cup, minimizing bra, letting them fall into a more natural habitat.
When it is time for a mammogram, they can be flattened like uncomfortably soft, revealing plates and then bound back to their former shape. Doctors can poke and prod and check for more lumpiness than is usual with ease as the fat and skin provide little resistance for this medical fondling.
Real boobs are as beautifully asymmetrical as any organic sculpture. It may be slight or glaring. The right may hang left while the left remains in place. A video entitled “Breasts” featured a lefty that was long and straight while the other was short and round, a backward ten. For most of us the difference is imperceptible and at times convenient. A comedian noted that as a right-handed man, he was happy to note that his girlfriend’s left breast was just a hair more than a handful, while the other was a full hand.
Each pair is unique in size and shape. From childhood to womanhood to motherhood to death, they tell the story of life and age and change. These supple ever-changing masses of fat belie our matriarchal histories. They hint at the shapes of our mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers and sisters. They also resemble a cultural history. Different women, from different countries have different circumferences and colors common to their soil.
I love that as I move in activities, they move. I must wear a sports bra to pin them as flat as I can when I run, but I can spill them into a lacy holster when the job is done. They easily go from day to night. I can morph my breasts to fit various outfits. In pajamas, I laugh as they disappear and spread out imitating the same form as my sleeping body. As I wake up, I awe as they have bigger days and smaller. I enjoy meeting these creatures anew in their various daily manifestations. What will they be today? Perky, hidden, small, cold, relaxed, swollen, heaving, sexy?
As I get older, I shed a slight tear when I reminisce about my breasts at 16 and then at 20. I get lost in the memory of their heyday when a bra was unnecessary and they most closely resembled the fantasy breast of the plastic modern age. But generally, I feel joy and curiosity as they evolve.
Please don’t consider this ode an indictment or a judgment of the fake. I have real ones, so of course my affection lies on their side. Perhaps, however, as the years pass and my life changes and my titties sag, I will dive into the plastic surgeons office, bare it all and bid farewell to my 100% real, fantastic, beautiful breasts.