Having Breasts

The other day an underwire bra saved a woman's life. A bullet hit the wire and bounced off. No getting around it, having breasts saved her life. But I'll bet her tit was sore later on that night. Other than that one instance, though, I can't think of a single advantage to having breasts.

For one thing, I am sick and tired of strapping myself into a bra every morning. The damn thing is tight and uncomfortable. And breasts are definitely in the way when you lay on your stomach. You have to check constantly for lumps, and the annual mammography is just plain nasty. And no matter how diligent you may be about checking, breast cancer is an ever-present threat, which incidentally gets worse with age. The entire reproductive system is this way. When you stop using it to produce babies, it turns against you.

And after all, what are they? They are mammary glands. Considering you have to put up with them for your entire adult life, their functionality is really quite limited. I remember being a young mother with a baby at my breast. Frankly, it was painful when the baby was suckling, and being engorged was decidedly uncomfortable the rest of the time when she was not. Other than that, they're useless, bulky and consist almost entirely of fat.

Guys, of course, love them. I remember being a skinny 16 year old in a t-shirt. I felt inadequate, unattractive, deficient because I didn't yet have breasts. I looked like a boy. I felt cursed, left out, deprived. And you can bet, the boys wanted nothing to do with me. And when I finally got breasts, the guys noticed immediately. Sometimes, it seemed like they were so busy noticing my breasts, they didn't have time to notice the rest of me. Even when I was talking to them. Or when they were talking to me.

During the sixties, when I was in my twenties, I had perky little breasts. They were perfect 32 B's. In the spirit of the times, I threw away my bras. I wore peasant blouses and pocket t's, and tried to ignore that the men were mesmerized. But being liberated wasn't all it was cracked up to be. I couldn't help but wonder if all these breast-fixated guys respected me as a person. If I could get them to look me in the eyes, maybe I could ask them. But even in the bedroom, there wasn't a lot of eye contact. I mean, one day I realized I was making love to the tops of their heads. What the hell were they doing down there, anyway?

Eventually, I got tired of that particular kind of attention, and I bought myself some bras again. Like magic, men everywhere began to hear what I was saying. I could tell because they were answering me again. Just like in the old days when I was flat-chested. Well, almost. Unless it was cold out, in which case my nipples would get hard and then all bets were off.

But hey. The world has a way of evening things out. After all, men do have breasts. They are called "pecks." And yes, they too sag.