Actually I don’t know why I like breasts. I just do. Always have, even before I realized I did.
My first realization that breasts were my friends flashed in my little boy brain at the age of seven. My elementary school had two lunch times and as one class marched out of the cafeteria down the hall, another class waited in line against the opposite wall. One day the principal’s secretary, Mrs. Lamb, stepped into the front office doorway and stood next to me as my second grade class waited to be let in to the lunchroom.
I liked Mrs. Lamb. She was always happy and waved to us kids when she saw us. So being so close to her skirt, I looked up to catch a smile. Couldn’t see it. Her face was blocked by a budging double canopy over my head.
That very moment I realized some mommies had bigger chests than other mommies. (When you’re a seven year-old boy, all ladies are mommies.) I also realized, Wow! Those really big mounds, they’re like…really big! And super mommy-ish. Then I though, Does my own mommy have mounds? I have to look when I get home.
I looked. They were much smaller that Mrs. Lamb’s and not particularly interesting. Apparently, at birth, I had been pre-programmed for Big Boob Mania and was set for life. Breasts were on my radar.
My next reminder that girl’s chests had a place in my life came with my crush on Mousketeer Annette Funicello. I loved Annette! So much so, I wrote for her picture and taped that autographed 8×10 glossy on the wall above my bed so she’d look down at me before I drifted into dreamland. I think I was nine and Annette was probably thirteen. Of all the Mousketeers girls, Annette had more chest curves than Doreen, Karen, Darlene and Sharon. I didn’t love Annette because she had budding breasts. Still, I was glad she had them, although the thought of touching her never crossed my mind. Tactile contact would have to wait until I was thirteen.
My first girlfriend was Sandy S.. Sandy was a shy, plain-Jane science-smart girl with egg-shaped thick glasses. And no, Sandy was not popular. I wasn’t either. I was shorter than average (until I caught up), nearsighted with homely glasses too, a stupid brush cut hair style and definitely outside the group.
Sandy and I were perfect for each other. Nobody ever suspected, not for one second, that after school, in Sandy’s bedroom (her Mom & Dad worked), we played Show Me – Feel Me. I remember that first time. This Nice Jewish Boy talked Sandy S. her into taking off her blouse, then her skirt, then her panties. Even then I had a way with calming words, like a doctor. My mother wanted me to become a doctor.
Anyway, we came together that way because Sandy really liked me and I liked her. We trusted each other. Although we had no concept about what comes after the exploring part, we still did lots of touching and talking and I knew she wouldn’t blab about it. The whole thing was about getting naked which we knew was naughty and that made our secret meetings exciting and very special, the closest thing to loyalty thirteen year-olds can grasp.
Sandy was a thin girl. Puberty hadn’t hit her yet and she was very sensitive about her looks. She didn’t need a bra and she wanted one, explaining to me that all the other girls were starting to get their breasts and she wasn’t. She asked me if that was all right, that she didn’t have soft things for me to feel and I said it was fine, that it didn’t matter to me.
It did matter to me, a little bit. I was programmed to love big breasts but I never, ever told Sandy that. I’m glad I didn’t. We “broke up” two months later. Lack-of-breasts had nothing to do with it. I stopped going home with Sandy because my early adolescent ego didn’t want Sandy talking, and maybe liking, another boy. And in class I saw her talking to another boy. She likes him more, I thought. So I punished my first girlfriend by ignoring her after that.
Sandy cried. And yeah, I felt really bad that I hurt Sandy but she hurt me too by maybe liking another boy more than me. That meant I wasn’t so important to her anymore although she said I was. Still, I wanted Sandy to feel like I felt – less important, and she did. So I got my revenge and regret it to this day.
Sandy, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry.
Okay, at thirteen my immature psychology and behavior was understandable. I grew out of it. It’s unfortunate though, so many adults have not.
I was bottle-fed as an infant. And my mom was very conscious about covering herself up once I was old enough to remember things. So breasts were always hidden treasures, a reward on a date. As I said, I don’t know why larger breasts pull my attention more than smaller ones, but I’m not alone in the Guy Club about that preference, which is not good news. Preferred body shapes put pressure on women to deliver what men desire. Although these aesthetics are cultural and change, it shouldn’t be that way.
But there’s good news about that too. Not all men like big breasts. I know one dude who doesn’t, but he’s Swedish and in Sweden, women generally are smaller breasted. So if you’re a gal living in Stockholm, maybe you’re exempt from big boob demands. I hope so. And I also hope men are exempt from having to grow big penises, big muscles and big bank accounts.
Who am I kidding.
As much as I love breasts and the whole experience of getting close to them, after a while, they’re just sort of there, like elbows and knees. As with anything that’s new, it’s great as long as it’s new and then it’s not new and something else that’s newer takes its place.
My wife’s breasts are not on that list. Nor is my wife. She stays new all the time by changing her interests, pursuits and goals. Lately she’s been immersed in political social media, writing emails to politicians, the President and leaving comments in online newspapers. She’s a kick! Next year she’ll reinvent herself again and that makes her all the more interesting.
So ladies, I’m about to say something you already know, ‘cause I’m the Reminder Guy. When it comes to your breasts, sure, men are attracted to them (as well as a number of other women), but not for long. Then it’s just YOU, not your body. YOU are object of love, as long as you love yourself.
Sure, sex for sex’s sake is great. And for me, hopping onto bouncing boobs is great too. But I understand that attaching too much importance to a physical frame has dismal consequences. Bodies wear out and no longer work as they did at prime – for sexual gratification, and as an object of desire.
But this is not bad news. Really. Because you’ve got something that never wears out – a playful demeanor, a caring heart and the trust to try new things. That kind of spirit NEVER grows old. It stays beautiful and attracts all kinds of wonderful people. And those who don’t see your intrinsic allure, well, you don’t want them anyway.
Okay… Just for the record, a healthy body is nice too. So maybe we should take care of it as best we can. Not just for looks, but for a longer life, and longer love.
Originally published on Curiosityquills.com.