Titty Tribulations

Elsewhere on this blog, in flash fiction erotica tagged as semi-autobiographical, I’ve written about having large breasts.  Well, my lovelies, true confession time. I do, indeed, have massive melons. Tremendous ta-tas. A behemoth of a bosom.  Juggernauts, even.

How big are we talking? DDDs.

I’ll withhold the,er, bandwitdth. That would be a mite too personal.

My boobs’ FB relationship status would be “It’s complicated.” On the one hand, I love them because they’re part of me. They’re mine.  (Though my guy says they’re his. I think we share joint custody.) On the other hand, they make my back hurt, I can’t see my shoes, the buttons gape on blouses, they’ve been a source of unwanted male attention since I was ten, and my bras truly deserve the name foundation garment – these bazookas can’t be contained by any frilly bit of lingerie.

Oh, and one more thing. The thing that most bums me out. They aren’t very sensitive.

My nipples are the only bits that feel sexual pleasure, and if my partner wants to stimulate them, he has to really pinch those puppies. It’s like the rest of my tits are simply the delivery vehicle for nipples. All that acreage, just along for the ride.

I sometimes think… What a waste of flesh. I’m not going to have kids, being touched there doesn’t get me off, and I have an increased risk of not detecting suspicious lumps because, I mean, damn. Do you know how many lumpy bits are inside really big boobs? Wish I could redistribute a few nerve endings. It’s ridiculous how sensitive my back is. Do I really need to moan and lose my shit just because he rubs a whiskery chin between my shoulder blades? How about a bit of body equity here.

If you’re counting pros versus cons, if you just tick off item by item, the accounts don’t balance. Maybe you’re thinking, wow, poor woman, those big tits are a real trial. Nothing but tribulations.

However, as I said, they’re a part of me and I love them. Much more since I found a guy who loves them.

Maybe love isn’t the right word.

Better words: Adores. Worships. Obsesses over wouldn’t be too strong a claim.

Before him, my FB boob status would have been “We so fucking OVER.” But his appreciation has helped me learn to love them. He has a marvelous sense of humor. Okay. He has a thirteen-year-old-boy’s sense of humor, but so do I. My tits have their own names and personality profiles now. Generally if we’re alone (or sometimes when we’re not, because um, he’s a guy), he is either squeezing or has just finished squeezing one or both.

Hell, it wouldn’t surprise  me to find out they’ve got a secret handshake.

So. I know we’re supposed to be all empowered and love ourselves. And I am. I am, I promise, in lots of ways. But I can honestly say that I developed self-love for my boobs because someone else loved them first.

---

This post is my participation in the 5th annual Beauty of a Woman Blogfest (#BOAW16). It’s going on May 2-9, 2016. Check out lots more posts, and chances to win cool prizes, at the BOAW16 blogfest page.

Blog posts could be in one of two categories: Original (real beauty in general) or Girl Boner (the beauty of sexuality). Imagine which one *I* picked? Yes, exactly.

Hope you enjoyed this Girl Boner post.