Naughty thoughts

Inspired by interaction with a friend:

I have breasts.


Yep. I even have two of them. They sprang into being when I was about 10 or 11 years old. Possibly sooner, but my earliest bra memory that I can tag with an age is packing bras for Sixth Grade Camp. Training bras, so I couldn't have been developing for very long.

Breasts were always interesting to me. My mother breast fed the lot of us, so I saw hers on a semi-regular basis. I remember that when the ol' hormones kicked in, I was excited by looking at breasts... and anything else normally covered by underwear. Even before I was even remotely aware of my bisexuality, I was fascinated by them.

I worried:
Would they be big enough? Were they already too big? Were people staring at them? Could anyone see my bra? Would my friends make fun of me if they were too big? Would guys like me if they were too small?

I have a very silly picture from when I was about 10 or 11 (I think that by then I was "developing") and my best friend and I stuffed water balloons into our swimsuits and had my mom take pictures. I remember being excited about having them, and being frightened of leaving my childhood behind.

I remember trying on bras at the store with my mom, who didn't have the good sense to have me measured, we just tried different things until something fit. She was shocked the day she bought me a D cup. She called my grandmother and told her, which I found to be mortifying for some reason. I learned how to measure myself from my magazines, and started figuring out what kinds of bras I liked.

See, I have silly putty breasts. They're malleable. I can pick how they look based upon my undergarments. If I want a 50's lift-point-and-separate figure, all I have to do is find a bra with that cut. (I normally hate that look.) If I want something discreet, I get something with a more matronly cut. If I want something cute, I buy crazy colors and panties to match.

If I want to look hot, I spend some money. Underwire bras shouldn't be painful unless the wires escape the bra. I find that some of my most comfortable bras were the push-ups with flying buttresses of support.

But going without a bra? Horrors!
I was not happy with their shape for many years. Silly putty does not mean "upturned teacup" the way the things are drawn by even my favorite comic artists. These things were designed for feeding a baby in my lap, not twirling a tassel in a club. This made me self-conscious about them. I didn't like to be seen out of a bra. Panty-free? No problem. Braless? Eeek!

Then I had my opportunity to play with somebody else's breasts.
Sigh.

It is hard to imaging NOT liking them. Who the hell wouldn't want to play with them? They're FUN for crissake!

And yet, it seems like too many women hate their breasts!
I met a woman who had the most amazing, gorgeous breasts. Upturned teacups, I swear, even two kids later. She complained that they were "saggy." Even her husband made an offhand remark about how they weren't set as high as they used to be, not in a derogatory way (he thought) but I had a hard time taking it any other way...
Met a girl who was nervous about them because they were big. High-placed nipples, too. I tried to help her come out of her shell. It worked pretty well, actually. And hers were an awful lot of fun to play with.
I met a girl who was so depressed about her c-cups that she got drunk at a party, flung off her top and snarled at everyone to look at her "Ugly little titsssss!" This actually happened. It was recorded.
I had a girlfriend who told me that she always thought hers were 'wrong' because her breasts didn't look like the ones in the porn mags she snuck peeks at as a child. Her nipples were pink instead of brown. Horrors!
(Oh, yeah. Mine are pink, too. It was one of the things she really liked about them...)
I knew a girl who really felt that she had been left out in the breast department. She seeks a sugar daddy who will buy her a new pair. Her boobs? Gorgeous. And don't get me started about the legs that go up to her neck.

Between noticing this trend and hanging out at hippy festivals, I started to re-evaluate my own pair.

I remembered changing for swimming lessons at the YMCA, and seeing the adult women getting ready for the adult swim that followed my class. I remembered walking around in the sunlight at a festival and seeing women and men walking around shirtless without any strangeness in their manner.

Breasts are as varied as faces. Just like faces, they are all carrying sublime beauty.

So I started to shun the bra, under some circumstances. Oh, I wear one to work. I wear one whenever I know I'm going to be doing physical work, to keep them out of my way. I still have push-up bras of amazing lift and power (for those special outfits that need it), and I still keep the matronly ones around for most everyday wear. However, I learned that if my gown would hold me nicely, I could ditch the bra under it. I learned that at the festivals, I could walk around and feel the sun on my nipples. I learned that a bra isn't strictly necessary for my breasts to be beautiful, any more than clothes were necessary to make all of me beautiful.

Breasts are marvelous. I love my set, and I encourage everyone who owns a pair to look at your own and learn to love them if you don't already. I implore you to learn not to feel "weird" about them. They might not be the ones you wanted when you were picking out your training bra, but they're YOURS and they're YOU.

Now, before Valentine's Day, I challenge each of you to tell a woman that she has lovely breasts. (Some of you do this practically for a living. Pick a woman you *haven't* already told.) This can be done as a simple compliment, as a come-on, or as an affirmation. I don't care how you do it, only that you do it.

And all of the ladies reading this?
You have magnificent breasts. This is me, worshipping them from afar.