Pornography,
pornography!
You’ve
got a lot to answer for.
You’re
probably the reason why
I
like it when girls call me whore
and
grab my hair, and slap my face,
but
more than this, much worse than this,
you’ve
spread misinformation
on
the topic of our tits.
And
I don’t mean just the tits of trans girls,
though
you’ve got some odd ideas
of
how we get them, call them ‘fake’
-
but have a feel: no implants here!
Or
are they artificial as they
sprung
up after hormones?
Well,
tell me, please, exactly
how
your girlfriend’s girls were grown?
No
– this breast-based boondoggle is a bane
to trans and cis,
and
the thing that really bothers me is this:
ask
a fella if he’ll draw a dame without her vest
and
see what shapes he uses
for
the front part of her chest,
and
what will you see? Beach-balls! Spheres!
That
white thing from The Prisoner
twice
over, faceless back-up heads
too
big for any milliner!
But,
just as perfect circles
aren’t
found anywhere in nature,
I’m
afraid I have to tell you boys
there’s
far more variation
in
the contents of our bras than are
allowed
for in your narrow chest-aesthetic,
that
reduces what’s near-infinite
to
mere dialectic
between
‘pert’ and ‘buxom’. But:
no
blame. It took me time to get it,
and
if I’m honest, guys,
I
never really got it ‘til
I
rubbed gel on my thigh,
and
found that, where I used to glance,
I couldn’t
keep from staring:
only
now I wasn’t ogling or perving
but
comparing,
seeing
how I measured up,
and
I won’t lie: I’ll tell you
from
the bottom of my B-cup,
I’m
not on the winning side.
I’m
still a noob to boobs! A chestal virgin! Not well-versed
in
how to lift and separate
or
generate
a
cleavage, I’m
intimidated
when
a bosom’s heaving,
and
I envy women who are blessed with great big
aurioles,
while mine just skirt my nipples
like
a pair of poxy holes...
but
knowing mine aren’t perfect
has
made me much more aware
of
all the imperfections I
and
other women share.
We
women feel the same way
when
we’re checking out each other:
the
girl who’s firm and perky knows
that
she will never smother
faces
underneath her chest:
while
the one who’s more endowed,
that
that lass reckons favoured,
is
wishing for the freedom
of
a bra less engineered,
a
back that aches less, and that guys
might
maybe, just occasionally
look
her in the eyes,
or
at least, if you must look
so
clearly at her chest,
then
don’t let the sole criteria
by
which each breast’s assessed
be
where her pups are placing
on
the Jordan-Moss Continuum,
and
whether, in a centrefold,
they’d
excite your residuum,
but
look at them! Just look at them
as
if you’ve never seen
the
inside of a strip club
or
a line of beauty queens,
appreciate
we’re
not one shape,
we’re
loose and tight and pointy,
a
variable phenomenon
to
baffle Merleau-Ponty,
some
bounce around Space Hopper-style,
while
some are far from jumpy,
(and
whatever shape they are,
be
sure to check them if they’re lumpy)
spheres,
ellipsoids, cylinders, and I will even swear
that
I’ve seen some whose strawberry creams appear
to
be square – and that’s alright! It’s great!
Don’t
you boys dare to be disgusted,
because,
sirs, I implore you to recall what Cornershop said,
and
if you accept the premise the best pillow is a bosom,
look
at a woman’s bed and you’ll find every kind
of cushion,
because
we know that sleep is better
when
there’s comforters and bolsters,
and
you’ll find as much variety here in our boulder-holsters,
so
let’s hear it for the wobbly ones, let’s hear it for the tubes,
let’s
hear it for the loners, and the chests with both removed,
and
let’s hear it for the pot-pourri, the glorious plenitude
the
motley mammary miscellany, the majesty of boobs!
Wonderful.
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