Breasts: 3 Essays on the Mystery and Utility of Women's Breasts

Okay- let's get this out in the open. I'm not a big fan of large breasts. I mean, if they're attached to a woman that I otherwise like, I am capable of accommodating, but she better have some really good other selling points to compensate me for having to take on her breasts in our relationship.

Certainly, I find breasts intriguing; they all look so different and there are all of the optional features like nipple shape/size/placement and areolas- what are they gonna look like? Do they sag, are they perky, do they have rivets from stretch marks? Are they tatted? Do they smell a little funky in the cleavage area? Are they bumpy, or gushy, or firm?

"Can I touch them? Oh- okay. So, what do you want for lunch, I'm in the mood for Thai."

Men with breasts are just as intriguing to me. (My barber likes to call them "Mitties".)

"Hmh? Can I touch them? Cool, thanks. Wanna go play pool?"

I'm intrigued and fascinated just like I am when someone has a big nose, or really defined calves, or really hairy arms, or people who are really tall. There's a sense of awe and wonder, but there's nothing sexual to it. (Maybe it's analogous to what white people feel when they want to touch Black people's hair?)

I say all of that to say that my fascination with breasts is probably because they're covered and you're not suppose to look at them, but they all look so different. What does that mean? It means that I've had some gaffes. A quick story about the most uncomfortable moment I've had with my breasts, and then 3 brief essays on my missteps with others'.

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I was a freshman in college living in the dorms. Every dorm has some older guy living there who's a bit developmentally delayed, and thinks that he'll be able to scam on the "fresh meat" since his age contemporaries aren't interested. Our dorm was no different.

So, we needed some beer, and it was my turn to talk to "Bones." Luckily, liquor stores around my college wouldn't sell to you unless everyone in your group could produce an ID, so that made for a great excuse for why I couldn't be bothered to ride with him to pick it up.

He called me when he got back to the dorm, and I went down to his room to grab our beer, or vodka, or tequila, or whatever the hell we were throwing up on that night. And, not wanting to be a total bitch, I sat down and chatted with Bones, evading all requests for him to join us.

"Oh- I don't even know what we're doing tonight. We may not even be drinking this tonight. Tasha doesn't feel well, so we don't even know. Hell, I have an exam on Monday, so I may just study tonight." (That kinda shit.)

So, after a few minutes he turns the conversation to sports and how much better it feels when his body is in good shape and toned. And then comes...

"It's like breasts, ya know? What good are breasts? All they are is fat, right? That's pretty gross. Nah, I don't like women with large fat breasts. Ew. I like a woman with a soccer player's body, with small breasts- like you."

WTF?!?!? Did he just put his hand on my thigh??!?!?!?

[Bolting upright] "Uhm- thanks Bones. (That was kinda gross) Well, I'm gonna head upstairs. Have a good night."

I must have told that story 15 times that night! For weeks afterward someone would pass me in the hallway and say something like, "Hey, I really like your tiny soccer tits."

"Well, thank you for noticing them."

"I'm quite proud of them myself." or

"You know, they're not all fatty like the big ones." were my standard responses.

1. Sorry. I Thought You Were My Partner

2. So, Uhm...Do You Work Here?

3. One Day at the Y.