Hands off

In response to my sweet poetic self-satisfying boys...

Yes, it’s true, I am a woman. I wanted to mention it before we go any further, get it out of the way, get it off my chest. And while we’re on the subject of chests, let’s talk about my exquisite flesh-weapons shall we?

I begin this with a quote from one of Israel Horowitz’s more sacrosanct pieces of art,"First off, the matter of my mammary glands....my breasts...my tits...my boobs...my jugs...my knockers....my set....my funny valentines....my PERFECT LITTLE ORBS...they seem to be causing you some grief, my breasts. I can’t say I find them quite as...exciting as you do...lucky for me."

And boy is it luck for me! If my feelings towards my own breasts was anything like your obsession for them, I’d get nothing done. Stirring a pot on the stove would be torture as I brushed against them with each circular motion causing them to stand up and beg for the attention they deserve. Dressing would be impossible as each time I succeeded in securing a button, I’d be forced to tear it all back off for another peek, to indulge the cop of yet another feel.

No, sadly, I could not worship my succulent front the way that you do. This doesn’t, however, mean that I disagree with or dislike your attraction to them. You see boys, we’re aware of their appeal. We know the power these fleshy little mounds hold and for some of us it’s a victory when we notice you noticing.

And if you know you’ve been noticed noticing....ah how sweet the victory. For that night at least, we own you.

Truth is boys, f I were in search of "the keeper", I wouldn’t throw out the peeper or the tom. In fact, I’d be much more likely to bring him back for round 2 knowing full well that I own something he covets and with that comes a power that no woman in her right mind could resist.

Plus, having a man around to enjoy my irresistible poitrine means that I don’t have to do it. And maybe that will free me to return to work, to sleep, or to anything else that has been put on hold to satisfy my constant and unrelenting self fondling.

And when I die no one would be able to say, "what a pity she had breasts, poor thing. They did her in."