"What are you doing?" I asked. She grinned and did it again.
"Please don't squeeze my boob." I said. I was met with her inquisitive "what do you mean, yours?" look.
I put her down with her toys and my mind wandered.
Are they mine?
I've had boyfriends refer to them as "theirs". I've had 3 babies claim them as their own while breastfeeding.
They certainly don't look like mine. My boobs are perky C-cups that sit where they're supposed under my tube-top, without the aid of a bra. I cupped my breasts through my t-shirt and pushed them up; they still didn't look right. I used to be able to go bra-less all the time but wouldn't dare now, at least not out of the house, with nipples that point down to the ground like a dog who's nursed one-to-many pups.
I went to Mardis Gras one year and came home with more beads than anyone would know what to do with. I even got a string of $15 blinking palm trees for free for flashing the street vendor. He could have bought lunch with that $15, but he took a 10 second flash of boob instead. I'm amazed at the power of the boob, able to keep a child alive and bring a man to his knees. There should be more female world-leaders so we could stamp out hunger and negotiate world-peace by wearing a tight shirt.
I'm fascinated by the mixed reactions we get over bewbies. Saunter around on the beach with little more than a Hershey's Kiss-sized triangle of material covering the nipples and everyone is tripping over themselves, wiping drool off their chins. Try to discretely nurse your baby under a cover and get kicked out of the restaurant/store/bowling alley you're in.
Turn on any TV channel, open any fashion magazine or walk through any mall and you are going to see boobs plastered all over the place, and not discreetly. Funny thing is, they aren’t being advertised for what they were intended for - nourishing offspring. They’re in underwear, bathing suits or covered only with the model’s own arm.