I’ve felt cursed by my breasts all my adult life. They got really big really fast, they made me feel terribly self-conscious in high school.
I got groped by old men I trusted.
And they made my back hurt.
They’re just breasts. Evolved to feed babies I never will have.
(Daily Kos crosspost)
Not all guys are obsessed with breasts. And not all women are obsessed with having large breasts and promoting them.
Breasts are about babies. Some cultures don’t even insist that women keep their breasts covered. It’s not a hot sexual issue for everyone.
I think one could make a strong argument that the breast fetish is related to men feeling powerless. That isn’t necessarily about women being mean. I’d say it was more about the world seeming to be increasingly out of control, and men feeling like they were supposed to keep all of that from happening, what with being the men and all.
My breasts are no great shakes. They sag down to my belly button. I buy nicely made brassieres from Decent Exposures up in Seattle, but they are not designed to make my tits point at anyone.
When I was younger, they made my back hurt a lot. I learned to work to beef up my shoulder muscles, and that helps a lot.
But still, they imbalance me. I can fall more easily because of them.
I see them as a fail, something that cripples me. It’s hard for me to deal with men seeing them as any kind of sexual plus.
I don’t have a problem with men being interested in my breasts, any more than I have a problem with their being interested in any part of my body.
But the breast fetish can get weird with some guys. No, I am not the mommy, sorry.
With guys, it’s about the penis; how big is the penis, how long, how thick.
But your penis will never help you to fall down and hurt yourself when you become slightly imbalanced. Your penis will never mess up your center of gravity.
Having about ten pounds of breast on one side of your upper torso can do that.
When I was a teenager, my first reaction to these breasts getting so large, was to try to hide them. I dressed in loose clothing. I can’t really remember how I felt about them. All I can remember is how I reacted, to try to hide them.
I worked to hide them. I assumed that it had worked.
Well, it didn’t. Guys were interested in my breasts in high school. I was working on having friends I could talk to about politics and listen to and play music with, and take acid and stuff. Y’know, like that.
It never occurred to me that anybody would be interested in my breasts. I really didn’t want anybody to be interested in my breasts.
I was more of a gardener. I was into growing pot. I was very good at it. That went over well.
Eventually, they got me, one summer night. School was just over. A dark room with crossbars was available. The mom was a bad drunk. The son was part of the gang. He didn’t set it up. He was just available. He and his clubhouse. We were all doing a fair piece of acid.
I thought they were my friends.
They got me in there and pulled the most ugly mocked up faux rape shit I could ever imagine. They let me out when I said yes.
They let the dumb guy insist on turning on the lights and taking me home (Love you always, Ashley! You knew what was right, even though you probably wound up cannon fodder)
No, I wasn’t deflowered then. That came later, in college, when I was 17, with some yahoo in a van who picked me up in the college bar, back when I still was so trusting.
But, you know? They haven’t killed my trust yet, all of those people. I’m still open.
That amazes me. I keep thinking I’m done with trust, but I’m not.
Seriously, I didn’t think I had it in me.