Breast Obsessed

!!!WARNING!!!

The following is intended for nonjudgmental and not easily offended adults ONLY!

“I imagine the soft curve of her breast as it disappears into the soft lace of her undergarment, whispering the secrets of her goddess, beckoning like a lost invitation…”

Boobies are the greatest invention ever. I am obsessed with them, and I don’t know exactly why. Sure, if I wasn’t supposed to look at them, women wouldn’t have them. One theory is that evolution endowed human females with this sexual dimorphism as a sign of her ability to procreate. They feed babies (wow. just wow.). They have been worshipped since humans could express abstract thought, from stone age fertility fetishes, to Greek statuary, to film noir strategic shadows. One thing is for sure, however you think about men’s interest in this most feminine of physical presentation, across history and across cultures, they are that to which men respond.

So I don’t feel my interest is misplaced. Too much. Sometimes.

I notice boobs first. Always. I don’t form an opinion of a woman based on first sight, but it is as if my eyes and my brain are temporarily stunned and drawn into their mammalian gravity well. Small, large, dark, pale, boyish, or voluptuous, I am entranced. Add a whiff of vanilla perfume, or a stray wisp of hair, or freckles, or an Irish accent, and I am yours for that moment. Whatever you want. For three seconds, I am your obedient puppy, willing to write bad checks on your behalf, wondering and believing that the male in me is worthy of just one peek.

Then I snap back to reality, and feel like a stupid prepubescent who has just noticed the girl next door got a bra over winter vacation. I swear I will be intelligent and mature next time. Next time comes, and I’m just as ridiculously enamored as before.

I’ve had dreams about boobs. Sometimes lascivious, sometimes mysterious, sometimes frightening, sometimes comforting. But whenever I have one of those dreams, I know I have tapped into something primeval.

One of my versions of heaven is a high alpine lake, silent and serene, where I spend eternity in a boat lined with boobs. And one of them dispenses beer. Or maybe it’s a football field of boobs, and I just roll and roll and roll.

I am particularly smitten when they are hanging in front of my face, the feel of her fur against my stomach. THAT, my male comrades, is truly worshipping at the Oracle of the Divine Feminine.

I could play with boobs for hours. For hours. Observing the curves, seeing the way they can change shape depending on her position, watching the gradation in color from flesh to areolae to nipple, absorbing the warm woman smell. It’s a fascination that transcends the sexual or physical. For hours, like a starving infant, or a dog with a favorite bone, or someone engrossed with their latest obsession. I can’t explain it. I don’t understand it. I can’t help it.

When, in my life, I have been allowed this privilege, I am ecstatic. For a few moments. Then I realize she is just putting up with my infantile behavior because I enjoy it. Then I feel selfish, ashamed, stupid.

What’s up with that?