On the subject of breasts...

Okay, that got your attention. No, really, the subject has been tossed around in some of the other NAW journals, and I figured I'd throw in my two cents worth. The trouble is, you're really only "allowed" to talk about breast size if you're less than well-endowed. If you have ample breastage, it's considered crude and snobby to speak of how happy you are with your breast size, and it's considered downright obnoxious to complain about the drawbacks of having bigguns. "Oh yeah, cry me a river," the smaller-breasted women say. "Your life is so darn tough."

So, those of you who've met me in the real know that I have bigguns. And, like the other women who've proclaimed their contentment with their breast size, I too am quite happy with the size of them. I'll be the first to admit that I was blessed genetically in that area. My husband used to say I had Playboy tits. They're nicely proportioned, well-shaped, quite symmetrical, and I didn't even have to go buy them.

But there are drawbacks to having big knockers. The physical ones, for starters. I can't go braless. Ever. In fact I have a helluva time buying bras. Anything that will give decent support without looking like an architectural nightmare costs at least $30. For one bra. Sports bras? When I go running I have to essentially wear two. I wear one super-ultra spandex creation that smushes everything into one shapeless lump, and then I wear a spandex unitard with a built-in bra over that. And they still bounce around pretty dangerously.

But beyond the physical, there's the emotional. Or rather, the perceptions of everyone else. Any accomplishment I make is obviously due to the fact that whatever male in charge liked my tits. It doesn't matter that I might be very good at my job or whatever--it was obviously my tits. Or, going a step further, since I have the big hooters, I probably am the type to have slept my way to where I wanted to be anyway. Girls with big tits are like that, you know.

I have to put up with more crude comments than you would ever believe. And you simply can't get mad at every one, because most of the time the men making the comments are "just kidding around" and assume that you're okay with that sort of thing. After all, if you have big breasts, you're pretty much inviting it! And you also can't get mad, because it happens all the time, and often from men who have some sort of authority over you. Sexual harassment? Well, sure. But if you cried sexual harassment at every comment, you'd soon have a reputation as a troublemaker. And there'd be no men left working at the company.

And just once I'd like a man to look at my face instead of my chest when he meets me. "Hey, pal, what color are my eyes?"

Oh, don't get me wrong. I love 'em, and wouldn't give em up for the world. But if you think that having bigguns is an instant and automatic ticket to succes, wealth, popularity, and fame, you're sadly mistaken. I was an Outcast in high school. It wasn't until college, when I developed an interesting personality, that I gained something akin to popularity. All the breastage in the world won't help you if you have no social skills.

And I actually can relate somewhat to the smaller-breasted women. I was a late bloomer, and didn't get tits until I was 16 or so. All through junior high I was teased unmercilessly for being flat-chested. I was dubbed the president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee.

Then I developed. It's justice, I tell you. Justice.