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Tag Archives: self esteem

I tried taking nude selfies today for the first time in… six years maybe?

Dick pics don’t count here. Those are easy. There’s a reason dick pics are what flood the dating and hookup sites, because they’re easy to take. But let’s face it, unless you have a really charismatic penis, they’re not all that fun to look at most of the time. (And really, what the hell qualifies as “charismatic” in this case?) At least in my case, though I would certainly be interested in the guy’s package, I want to see a lot more than that. I don’t need a six-pack, but I’d like to be able to see that he takes care of himself. I understand keeping your face hidden, but give me a glimpse of whether you have a beard or not, or any interesting tattoos. Unless yours is the cock of a true hero (whatever that means), I highly doubt a dick pic will allow you to stand out in the sea of schlongs that is the internet.

Put that on the burner, I’ll get back to it in a second.

Since my return from my lengthy hiatus, I have resumed regular conversation with a couple of people who were around from the beginning of this little endeavor. They frequently remind me why I like this community so much. And this morning, as I got out of bed and threw on my gym shorts, I was struck by a sudden urge to show them what I look like. Unusual for me, since my first impulse here is to remain hidden and maintain anonymity. But I feel remarkably comfortable and safe talking to them, so I figured, why not?

So, I busted out the smart phone and set to taking pictures. Here’s what I learned.

1) Touch screens are a real pain in the ass for taking selfies. Especially if your phone has a flip cover. Seriously, how the hell do kids do it?

2) I really need to buy a full length body mirror.

3) I really hate my body.

Now, back to my earlier point.

For a lot of guys, dick pics are a way to hide the unpleasant truths of their bodies that they would like to conceal from others–love handles, stretch marks, scars, excessive body hair, and what have you–while still showing off their masculinity. It’s terribly unfair, and I could spend hours waxing philosophic on body shaming and loving yourself exactly as you are, but I won’t do that here. Suffice to say that we, and by we I mean both men and women, have been conditioned to believe that we are naturally unattractive. I try to coach people on this all the time, Ashley and Tina most often because neither has a very positive self-image, but I admit that I am particularly guilty of hating my body. At 32, I am not the svelte young gazelle I used to be.

Sure, I’m still fit. I lift regularly, I eat a primarily whole-foods vegetarian diet bordering on vegan, and I’m quite active. But my six pack is long gone and has been since I got married because who the hell has the time to maintain a six-pack in grad school. The excessive traveling I did prior to my return here caused me to gain between 5 and 10 pounds, which is now stubbornly sitting right below my navel and above my hips. A recent surgery has left me temporarily without hair while the wound heals, and the bald pate doesn’t jive with my beard. I have scarring in sensitive places. And to top it off, the winter was long and hard, so I am a much lighter shade of Caucasian than I would like to be, which makes stretch marks more noticeable. My body has been through a lot over the years, and I feel like it shows, and not in a good way.

I told you before, I only seem confident and put-together. Deep down, I am an absolute wreck.

So, I took about ten pictures. Only three of them are anything close to good. But I can’t bring myself to send them along because dear lord, I wouldn’t fuck me. I am surprised at my inability to take my own advice. I know that the flaws I see are incredibly superficial. Ashley insists I see them only because I know what I’m looking for, and Tina’s reaction to my appearance is always one of envy (“I wish I looked that fit.”). But I just don’t see it.

I would say that we need to be less concerned about what our bodies look like, and more concerned with what we can do with them. But that would be disingenuous of me. I’m a vain human being, and I want to look my best, not just for my wife and lover, and the few people I want to reveal myself to, but for myself. And I’m just not there anymore. I look at my body in the pictures, gym shorts pulled low, shirtless, tattoos showing, and I think, at one point, I looked a lot better than that.

I should really work on that.

Think I’ll hit the gym early.


First and foremost, I appreciate the concern I’ve received from so many of you.  Numerous comments and dozens of e-mails inquiring as to the state of my mental and physical well-being, statements that my absence has been noticed, requests that I return to writing.  Even a text message or three checking in on me.  Thank you, one and all.

I know I don’t have to explain myself, so please don’t interpret the following as justification for my absence.  As per the usual, I’m just writing to get things out, to let spill the tide of various emotions I’ve been feeling for a while so that I may think more clearly.  I don’t want anyone to have the impression that I’m not okay.  I’m always okay.  I just have those moments.  The past month and a half has been a particularly long moment.

Christ, has it been that long?  Anyway.

A day or so after my last post, Pretty Grad Student and I had a nice sit-down about our affair.  It had become obvious to me that she was developing some pretty serious feelings for me, which she confirmed over coffee.  I had to explain to her, as gently as I could, that while I certainly shared the emotional connection with her, it could never replace the emotional connection I share with Ashley.  That I firmly believe it’s possible to have intense feelings for multiple people, but that acting upon them by committing to some form of exclusivity can be risky for everyone involved, particularly when one or both parties are already participating in exclusivity elsewhere.  (That’s scientist speak for, “Yeah, I have feelings for you too, but I’m married and that ain’t changin’.”)  This led to an intense discussion (not a fight, but a sincere, gin-yoo-wine conversation) about my feelings for anyone–her, the numerous other women I’ve slept with, Ashley, and even myself.  She ultimately suggested that I may be depressed and need to seek some kind of counseling or otherwise attempt to right the wrongs in my immediate universe.

I value Pretty Grad Student’s opinion more than most.  She’s a sharp cookie, very perceptive, exceptionally sympathetic.  So I took some time off from everything but work, with the intention of examining what, out of all the things I’d excluded, I missed the most.

It didn’t quite work out like that.  Sure, I spent a lot of time at work, and just as much time at home with Ashley.  But I found that, the more I isolated myself from everything, the less inclined I was to come back to it.  I found myself thinking, “Hmm.  I could do [insert activity here].  But I don’t know if I want to.”  That indecision stopped me from doing a lot of things, including writing this blog, and I saw no measurable difference in my happiness.  Effectively, I spent a month and a half treading a fine line between depression and apathy.

And that pisses me right the fuck off.

So this morning, as I stood comfortably in Virabhadrasana for the first time in weeks, watching the sun creep up over the hill, I decided, at least for the time being, to embrace who and what I am.  Fuck if I know where things are going, or what will happen in the near future.  But I’m tired of fighting it, of trying to justify it, of struggling with something that is as deep a part of me as anything can be.  So I ran with more purpose than I’ve felt in months.  So I worked harder, wrote faster, thought more clearly.  So I left work early and fucked Pretty Grad Student with all the intensity our bodies could muster.

When we were done, she rolled onto her side, pressed her bare body to mine, and said, “It’s good to have you back.”

All I could say was, “It’s good to be back.”

This happened approximately 15 minutes prior to the time this was posted.  I can’t make this shit up.


“I know I have a low average in this class, but I really need a high grade on the final.”

I sit behind my desk, gazing over my reading glasses at the young, ponytailed co-ed seated across from me.  She looks awkward, excessively inflated in her faux-down pink North Face coat, with a head too tiny for her exaggerated torso.  That’s why I hate those “puffy” jackets–they remove all shape from the female form.  Hers looks particularly ridiculous coupled to her black yoga pants and puffy pink overboots, and the lack of a feminine physique renders her otherwise average appearance slightly more unattractive than she likely deserves.  It’s the very definition of trying too hard to fit in.

I look down at the grade sheet I printed for her.  It’s a sea of C’s and D’s, with more missing grades than letters.  She’s obviously not put any effort into this course, and has waited until the end of the semester to actually give a damn about it.  She has no hope, but I have to be political.

“Well,” I tentatively begin, “I’m seeing a lot of missing grades here.  Is there any reason you missed so many of these?”

“Honestly?  I was drinking a lot this semester.”  She puts on her most self-deprecating smile.  “You know how it is, right?”

“Not really,” I answer flatly.  “Well, it’s not looking very promising.  Your average is just too low right now.  Have you considered retaking the class next semester?”

“Oh I can’t!” she says, clearly dismayed.  “This is my last semester, and I’m applying to medical school!”

Sure wouldn’t want you operating on me, I want to say.  Instead, I say, “Well, I’m afraid it doesn’t look like you’ll be able to do that.  Your grades just aren’t high enough to get a passing final grade in this class, short of earning a perfect score on the final exam.  I know how badly you want to graduate, but maybe you should consider giving this one more semester?”

She’s quiet for a moment, then she says quietly, “Please.”  She leans forward, looks me straight in the eye, and says, “I will do anything to pass this class.”

The finality of that statement hangs in the air around us.  She keeps looking into my eyes.  I know precisely what she means.  But I can’t believe what she’s offering.

More importantly, I can’t believe I’m considering it.  But my erection doesn’t discriminate based on student status.

After a moment, I sigh and rub my temple with my thumb.  “Look, I’m sure you would be willing to do all the extra credit possible, and I’m sure you would redo the assignments you missed, if I asked.  But there’s just not enough time for you to do them all.”

“No, I’m telling you I will do any–”

“And I’m telling you,” I interject forcefully, “that there is absolutely nothing more I can do, or would be willing to do, to help you in this matter.”  I stand up, move to my office door, and open it wide.  “I encourage you to study hard for the exam and hope for that 100%.  Otherwise, spend some time thinking about your future, what you want from it, and what you can reasonably achieve.”

She stares at me in surprise for a moment, then hastily collects her bag from the floor beside her chair.  She ducks past me with a whispered, “Thank you for your time,” and walks briskly down the hall.  I watch her go.  The yoga pants really do look nice on her.

My phone rings suddenly.  I check the screen–Ashley.  I smile and slide to answer.  “Hey honey.  You’re never gonna believe what just happened.”

I sometimes wonder if I’m really happy in my marriage.

Obviously, Ashley and I have issues.  Every married couple does.  If you’re married, and you don’t have issues, then I posit that you’re merely turning a blind eye to something that will, one day, bite you in the ass.  Every marriage is a constant game of give and take, compromise and negotiation, a miniature U.N. Security Council meeting wherein you know SOMEone is going to veto your idea.  (Probably the U.S.  It’s what we do.)

Our issues, however, seem to be less obvious than other marriages I’ve known.  For instance, most people constantly bicker about this or that.  Who’s going to do the dishes, or the laundry.  Whose turn is it to cook dinner?  Why am I the only person who does any housework around here?!  That sort of crap.  It always seems to revolve around a sense of being disrespected by your partner.

And that’s really not the case for Ashley and me.  On the surface, we are what most people consider to be the perfect couple.  People regularly comment about how jealous they are of our relationship.  We laugh substantially more than we bicker.  When we do bicker, it’s something minor–you went to the gym without me, and I had to go alone, so I’m a little miffed.  That sort of thing.  We play video games together, watch movies, go jogging, do yoga… whatever.  We cuddle in public, still hold hands and walk with our arms around each others’ waists.  We are each other’s best friend.  And it’s great spending your life with your best friend, someone with whom you can do and talk about almost anything, who gets you.

However, that level of happiness is… kind of boring, actually.

I think fighting brings people closer.  Not those ridiculous fights, born of jealousy or resentment or just pure spite, but true disagreements about things.  Verbally sparring from time to time with your cohabitating partner keeps you on your toes.  It’s a necessary component of an engaging relationship.  Not having that is just, somehow, unfulfilling.

Maybe that’s what it is.  I’m not unhappy.  I’m just fucking bored.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m easily distracted, and I quickly become disinterested in most things.  This is why I engage in so many activities, why I’m at least passably proficient in numerous different skills.  I need to be challenged, physically and intellectually.  I need someone to stand up to me and say, “LOOK HERE, MOTHERFUCKER,” then lay down their version of the law.  I need Ashley to disagree with me.  But she doesn’t, because we each agree on just about everything.

Perhaps that kind of peaceful relationship is ideal to most people.  Maybe that’s what they’re looking for, and what they’re so disappointed that they can’t find.  But as idyllic as that may sound to you, dear readers, I promise you, it becomes old.  Stale.  Stagnant.  Nothing changes.  Every day is the same, hour after mind-numbingly similar hour.  You fall into a routine.  All spontaneity is lost to the machinations of comfort and harmony.  Then the monotony begins to creep into other aspects of your life, until you realize that you have become a machine, operating on a regular clock, waking up without the alarm, eating the same boring bran flakes for breakfast, trudging to work, trudging home, trudging through everything you do because it’s all that you know anymore.  You forget what it means to be alive, to explore, to experience, to connect with other people and the world around you.

I don’t want blissful happiness.  Therein lies entropy, atrophy.  I need something more dynamic.  That need feeds my urge to dry hump everything I see into submission.  Ashley’s returning disinterest in physical intimacy agitates this thing that lives in the back of my brain, that threatens to drive me insane if I don’t feed it.  It reminds me that fucking someone else gives me the change I’m looking for, that element of risk, of discord.  It gives me something to focus on so that the monotony of my daily life doesn’t consume me.

Now I sound like a husband in a television drama.  The mid-lifer who desperately searches for something new.  Kevin Spacey and his fish-faced teenage lover in American Beauty.

That’s precisely what I do not want to be.  A trudger, playing at dynamism, testing the waters like a five year old contemplating the deep end, skirting the edges of danger while telling myself that I could do that, if I wanted.  That’s not who I am, who I have ever been.

And I feel like, maybe, that’s who I run the risk of becoming.

If you’ve ever read my pages “Players on my Stage” or “What the Categories Mean”, you’ll have noticed that I talk a lot about Kelly as being a major contributor to who and what I am today.  The following memory is an example of why I think so.


My cell phone vibrates beside me, the sound of plastic rattling against my wood desk drawing my attention from my writing.  I pick it up and look at the screen.  My heart skips a beat.  Slowly, almost cautiously, I flip the screen up and hold the thing to my ear.  I try to sound natural.  “Hello?”

“Hey!”  Kelly sounds happy, an uncommon occurrence since our break-up months ago.  “What are you doing?”

“Oh, writing a paper on insulin-like proteins as growth factors in fruit flies,” I respond.  It’s hard to sound nonchalant when you talk about neurobiology, but I think I pull it off nicely.  “What are you up to tonight?”

“Cleaning my house,” she answers.  “I’m trying to move my furniture around too, but my piano is too heavy.  Can you maybe come over and help me out a bit?”

She needs my help.  Figures.  “Oh, well… I’m kind of busy right now.  I have to get this paper finished before Friday so I can work on my capstone reading over the weekend, so I don’t think–”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”  Kelly’s voice takes on that tone.  Husky, almost raspy, but full of promise.  It sets my stomach turning in eager anticipation, and my breath catches.  She knows that got my attention, and I detect a hint of victorious smugness when she says, “The sooner you get here, the better.”

I swallow and find my voice again.  “I’ll be there in twenty.”

Kelly still lives in our old apartment.  I moved out when she broke up with me, but she decided to stay and “make new memories”.  I pause at the door and consider the nature of those memories.  After we parted ways, Kelly gave herself over completely to her baser instincts, not because she wanted to explore them, but, I suspected, because she wanted to hurt me.  And she did.  Often.  Calling me while she was being fucked by a stranger, just so I could hear her moaning.  Sending me pictures of her sucking another guy’s dick.  Bragging about her raunchy encounters with multiple partners when I show up at the bar, then laughing when she sees the pain on my face.  Even her best friends apologize to me for her behavior, assuring me she’s only doing it to make me suffer, and she doesn’t talk about it when I’m not around.  I know Kelly is only concerned about making me as miserable as she’s become over the past year, and I know that doing what I know will inevitably happen tonight will only drive me deeper into the ground.  Yet there I stand at the door, knocking lightly, waiting for her to appear at the door.

And when it finally opens… holy shit.

Kelly swings the door wide.  Her dark hair is pulled back into a working bun, and she has her librarian-styled reading glasses on.  And that’s it.  From head to toe, she is completely nude, and she leans against the door in such a way that every muscle in her dancer’s figure flexes tantalizingly.  She must have just shaved every inch of her body in preparation for my arrival, because her skin looks even more smooth than usual.  I can plainly see how moist and swollen she is, even from here.

“Hey there handsome,” she greets me cheerfully.  “Come on in.”

I just stand there and gawk.

Kelly quirks an eyebrow and smirks at me.  She steps out of the apartment and stands no more than an inch away from me, in clear view of anyone that might happen to walk by.  “You gonna make me stand out here naked?  Because you know I’ll do it.”

Wordlessly, I let her lead me inside.  She walks away from me, swaying her hips more than her stride would dictate.  Her ass is truly heart-shaped, toned from years of dance training, and she continues to smirk as she watches me stare at it.  “When you’re done ogling my ass, I’d appreciate it if you would move the piano so I can vacuum under it.”

I move the piano as instructed.  And the dining room table.  And the entertainment center.  And the couch.  It’s hard work by yourself, but every time I move another piece of furniture, Kelly rewards me by cleaning in the most erotic manner possible.  She pushes the vacuum farther than necessary, stretching her legs and torso, bending at the waist to give me a clear view of her pussy.  She stands almost on point to remove the cobwebs at the corners of the ceiling, her calves flexing, ass tightening, chest jutting forward.  She purposely spills water on her breasts and stomach as she washes the windows, again exposing herself to the outside world.  All the while, I watch, and work.  I feel almost drunk, my mind is so foggy, not thinking, just absorbing her every movement, her every command.

Several hours pass, and the apartment is spotless.  Kelly sighs and stretches languidly as she admires the room.  “Much better.”  Then she looks catlike toward me.  “I guess you want your reward.”

I’m so lightheaded I can’t find any words.  Kelly walks to the piano, pulls the small bench out, and straddles it.  As she spreads her legs open, her lips part, and she’s so aroused that, when she sits on the bench, she leaves behind a faint line of moisture.  She notices the line and smiles wickedly, then leans back against the piano and says, simply, “Clean that up.”

I move toward her and obediently fall to my knees before the bench.  I reach toward the moisture with my hand, but she grabs it and pushes it away.  “I didn’t say you could use your hands.”

I consider this as deeply as my befuddled brain will permit, which is to say, I don’t.  Instead, I lean my face toward the bench, no more than a breath away from her center.  I can smell her wetness, and feel the heat radiating off her.  I run my tongue across the bench, tasting first the sharp, acrid tang of polished wood, then the salty sweetness of her, the residue she left behind when she sat.  I do so slowly, not because I want to be sexy, but because my body will simply not work any faster.

I hear her say, breathlessly, “Very good.  Now clean me up.”

My face lifts, and I run my tongue across her.  I keep my hands on my knees as instructed, using only my mouth to pleasure her.  I trace the shape of her with the tip of my tongue, then lick heavily from anus to clit.  I lap up every drop of moisture she has.  And I keep going.  Heavy strokes of my tongue from bottom to top, slowly, methodically.  No variety, no deviations, I just do precisely as I’m told.  She makes no sound, no movement, nothing to suggest that she enjoys any of it.  So I am caught off guard when I feel her spasm beneath my tongue.  I look up toward her and see her eyes half-lidded, her mouth open in a wordless moan, as she cums harder than I’ve ever seen her before.  So hard she bends at the waist, curling in on herself.  So hard she even squirts a little, filling my mouth and covering my chin and shirt.  And I keep going, swallowing what she gives me as she cums again, licking her deliberately, until she finally gives in and pushes my head away from her.

Kelly breathes heavily, still leaning against the piano.  “Fuck you’re so good at that.”  I smile a little and start to remove my shirt, but she grabs my hand.

“Sorry honey, but no sex for you.  I’ve got Tony coming over in a while.  But thanks for getting me ready.”

Wait… what?

“I’ve got to take a shower.  Run along now, little doggy.”  Kelly climbs off of the bench and walks to the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the floor, covered in her juices.  I hear the shower activate and realize she’s serious.

I was right.  She just wanted to hurt me.  And she knew exactly how to do it.

I should be angry.  Fuck, I am angry.  But instead of confronting her, I simply stand up, put on my jacket, and leave the apartment.  It’s an all too familiar sensation, walking out of that place, knowing what she will be doing in a few hours, and being completely powerless to prevent myself from feeling betrayed, and used, and hurt.

“Serves you right,” I say to myself.  There is no bitterness in the words.  Only objectivity, as if I truly deserve to feel this way.  And on some level, I think I do.

I like to think I’m good at spinning a yarn.  I’m a storyteller at heart, completely at home when I’m in front of an audience.  Once I get into the zone, Henry Rollins ain’t got nothin’ on me.  It’s probably why I enjoy, and am rather good at, teaching.  Undergrads frequently compliment me on my flamboyant teaching style, how I flail my arms and bounce around and crack jokes and chuck chalkboard erasers across the room.  I’ll do anything to capture and hold another person’s attention.  Their adoration sustains me.

But mine is a face-to-face talent, forged in poor self-esteem, tempered by a desperate need to be accepted, and honed by the overwhelming desire to mate with every conscious female I meet.  It requires eye contact.  Feeling the energy in the room.  Recognizing what the listener wants and finding a way to deliver exactly that.  Some people can’t do it, but I pride myself in knowing that I can, for better or worse.

This skill, however, does not necessarily equate to prose.

I want to be a good writer.  I have no desire to write professionally, with the exception of the scientific publications required by my career, and even those I can do without.  I want it for my own satisfaction.  I believe, deep down, that I am at least above average in terms of written proficiency, and I want that belief to be validated by the glowing positive comments I sometimes receive here.  Unfortunately, I find it difficult at times to produce something I find worthy of submitting to public scrutiny.  They say you should write about what you know, but most people don’t want to hear about science and field work, and it takes a special set of circumstances to produce a riveting field story (reference “Back Road to Crazy” for some rare examples).  Besides, such stories fall outside the purvue of this blog.

The only other thing I know is sex.  And fuck is that hard to write.

I have so much respect for those of you who can write about sex.  The best examples that immediately come to mind are Gillian of Black Door Press, and Hyacinth of A Dissolute Life.  I admire their writing more than I can describe.  I am constantly amazed by the openness and honesty in their writing, and I am envious of their creativity and command of sexual vocabulary.  They can describe things in ways that I just can’t.  They don’t reuse the same words and imagery.  Nothing is recycled.  Everything is fresh.  And I pour over their writing, not because it turns me on (it does, but that’s not the point!), but because I want to absorb their style.  I want to be able to write about myself the way they do, with that same intensity and flair and disregard for societal niceties.

That’s my biggest issue, I think.  Sure, I have a hard time coming up with new ways to describe things, or different words for the same thing (I am not a sexual thesaurus, despite whatever persona I attempt to put forward).  But I get nervous talking about things.  It’s hard for me to be honest.  Much of it is out of concern for being somehow discovered by Ashley, reinforced by the decades-long drive to hide who I am.  But some of what I write here still strikes me as taboo.  I’m afraid to describe a vagina as being a “pussy” or “cunt” because I am afraid it will come across as crass, or even misogynistic.  We aren’t supposed to say things like that in public.  In the bedroom, sure, all bets are off, but in public?  No way champ.  Not without making the people who read this think, “Whoa, this guy is a complete and total prick!”  Then the mighty Index Finger of Rightousness descends upon the DELETE key with a finality usually reserved for an executioner’s switch, and I have earned another not-gonna-follow-this-shit-anymore.

I really need to get over that.  This whole thing began as an experiment with honesty, and censoring or otherwise altering my vocabulary seems to fly in the face of this blog’s intended purpose.  I shouldn’t care about earning followers.  I should care about putting what I think and feel on paper.  (Or on keyboard.  Or monitor.  Shut up.)  But, now that I have earned many regular readers, I am afraid of offending you all and sending you running for the hills.  It’s the same fear that leads me to lie and hide my feelings.  And I don’t want that to happen here.

Doesn’t mean I can’t work harder to improve my writing style, though.  Gillian and Hyacinth, buy a plane ticket to <REDACTED>.  We’ll meet up in a pub or cafe and talk style.  Make it a convention or something we can put on our resumes.  “Eroticon: Writing Your Way Into Your Partner’s Pants”.

Not really.  I’m not a creeper.  (Least I don’t think I am.)

I know, I’m a bit pathetic.

I’ll have another post up soon.  Question is, what the hell am I going to write about…

The lovely MsTitty recently invited guest posts from her regular readers relating to breasts (the focus of her blog).  I was more than happy to write something up from the male perspective, but I also figured, since our readers may not be the same people, I would post this on my blog as well.

I think men don’t fully appreciate the effect we can have on the fairer sex.  We objectify them as something to be fought for and won, the Homo erectus in us driving us to dryhump anything that looks remotely feminine (or not, as the case may be).  It’s hard to argue with biology, millions of years of evolution working against our recently developed sense of logic and reason, always whispering in the back of our minds, “Man, those are some nice titties.  You should put your erectus between them.”  It’s not always right, but damn if that whisper doesn’t sound awfully convincing at times.

This in turn causes some women to develop a bit of a complex about their bodies.  Those particularly gifted between the pelvis and clavicle often bemoan their situation–back pain, difficulty finding clothes that fit, and of course, the street catcall.  (The most creative I ever heard: “Quisiera fueras sartén para estrellarte los juevos.”  Translated, “I wish you were a pan so I could bust my eggs on you.”)  I can’t imagine what it’s like being the subject of constant sexual attention, but I suspect it’s a terrible burden at times.

On the other hand, many women I know (not all of them, but many) who are not particularly equipped above the navel are jealous of their larger-chested compatriots.  They don’t see the downside to it.  They don’t live with the back trouble, or the nasty names and unwanted advances.  They just want their share of the attention.  Hence the proliferation of the boob job.

This lengthy intro leads me to my point: natural breasts, of any shape and size, are better than medically augmented funbags.  And I do differentiate between the two.  Breasts are real.  They are what women develop on their own, small or large, perky or saggy, narrow or wide cleavage.  Funbags are fake breasts, skin filled with a big bag of silicon or whatever new substances they use in them.  They may look fun, my friends, but let me assure you, they will never, ever compare to breasts.

Case in point.  A woman I knew was rather poorly endowed in the chest, and she always talked about having her girls augmented.  It was the method by which she would finally attract The Man of Her Dreams, stealing Him away from all of the naturally large breasted competition that populates our home town.  After being away for a few years, I came back to find she had finally gotten the surgery she always wanted, jumping from an A to a hefty D.  I had never before known a girl pre- and post-augmentation, and admittedly, the difference was astounding.  Where she had once worn more concealing clothing, presumably out of some strange notion that her small breasts made her unattractive, her wardrobe now includes nothing but camisoles, low cut shirts, and revealing summer dresses.   Her soft-spoken, almost paranoid demeanor has given way to an assertive, confident, outgoing socialite.  It’s almost as though her newly purchased chest came with a free shot of charisma.  (I wonder where such an injection would be administered.)  She became much more appealing when she wasn’t tucked in a corner, hiding from the rest of the crowd.  Not because of her new breasts, but because of her newly discovered confidence in herself and her body.

So, that night, we fucked for the first time.  I had never actually touched a pair of augmented chesticles, but I was excited to find out what it was all about.  They were pretty enough when her clothes were removed, if a bit too round, the usual surgically enhanced look with which pornography had acquainted me so long ago.  I assumed they would be soft, more squishy or bouncy maybe, because of the silicon.  Oh no.  No, no, no.  They were like freaking rocks, two large, uncomfortable lumps of unrelenting firmness that actually hurt my chest to lay on for too long.  I couldn’t imagine how she could be satisfied with them, but I didn’t say anything.  (After all, sex was involved, and much like coffee, it doesn’t really matter what the flavor or texture is, all that matters is, you have some.)  I just adjusted my approach and style to accommodate staying as far away from those pointy, unpleasant things as I possibly could.

Afterwards, we spent a great deal of time lounging around her house in the nude, drinking wine on her fenced in back porch, enjoying the cool night air on our bare skin.  After a bit of chitchatting, she asked me what I thought of her new purchase.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her how unpleasant to touch I found them, so I focused on the positives–their appearance in clothing, and how they seemed to have bolstered her confidence.  She never caught on to my distaste for them, and we ended the night on a positive note (after two more rounds of rather intense fucking–I’m nothing if not tenacious).  But that experience left me with a newfound appreciation for the natural breast.  The softness and fullness of the thing.  The give under your touch.  The sway as a woman moves.  The bounce as you… well, yeah.  Suffice to say, a surgically altered pair of breasts is never going to be as enjoyable as those served au naturel.

Personally, I blame my own gender for this.  Breasts, regardless of size, are beautiful (reference the work of one Ad@m if you doubt me), and it’s a shame that so many women feel they have to change their own beautiful, natural bodies to mimic some oddly idealized Platonic Form of Woman.  Speaking on behalf of sensible men everywhere, I would encourage women to find pleasure in their bodies apart from measurements and sizes.  Small breasts do not make you ugly.  Large breasts do not make you a bimbo.  You are all beautiful, even if you don’t see it.

I wish I could come up with a clever closing to this entry, but unfortunately, I seem to be all creatived out.  Instead, I will leave with the final stanza of a poem from the reliably witty Ryan Sohmer:

Whether you think I am crass or perhaps rather witty,
Allow me to be clear here–I likem dem titties.