Confessions of a Boob Man

When patriarchy collides with feminism, the collateral sociological damage can be significant. The power struggle –as it concerns sexual perception and reality– has created certain colloquialistic compromises, if not sexual concessions. Indeed, these are lasciviously confusing, if not sex-o-phobic times in which we live. The result of which is often a politically correct –albeit incorrect– presumption of one’s libidinous inclinations.

And as with any other form of political correctness, it comes at the expense of honesty.

As such, the travails of boob-men are many. Denounced by the estrogenic body politic as lecherous and insensitive, those among the Y-Chromosome masses who find themselves inexorably drawn to a disproportionate female facade are often painted with the same broad brush stroke as public masturbators. Depicted as social pariahs –incapable of emoting beyond an awkward grope or an insincere motivation– men who are wired to erect at the sight of a significant mammalian cantilever have had to deny the nature of their genetic predisposition, and pretend that a woman possessing a sensationally superfluous stack is of no more carnal interest than a can of tuna fish.

But we all know that is bullshit.

For in a purely social setting, the American male is permitted by the gynecological elite to acknowledge a beautiful pair of eyes, but not a formidable pair of projectile intumescences. It is socially acceptable for a man to approach a woman and comment on the way the moonlight glistens off of her hair, but not suggest an equal affection for the pleasant aesthetics of her preposterously prolific pontoons. What makes eyes or hair a more compliment-friendly body part than her squeezies? Does this strike no other as hypocritical, when everyone involved in this perfidiously interactive fiasco is painfully aware that it takes every ounce of self restraint a boob aficionado can summon to maintain eye contact?

In a world committed to truth, and sexual equality, the conversation should go more like this:

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice the gravity defying slope of that majestic rack you’re so proudly displaying via the textile limitations of your sweater. I’d like to buy you a drink, and if the evening progresses thusly, it is my sincerest wish to have my face buried therein sometime in the near future. Although I would not be so bold as to suggest a proper time-table, I do so find your copious silhouette extraordinarily attractive. And should you be so inclined to not view me as a less than suitable candidate for your affections due to my candor, and would have preferred that I pretend not to have noticed the gigantic jumblies jostling under that woefully inadequate –albeit extremely revealing– top your wearing, I’d truly appreciate it. You see, it’s not that gargantuan gazongas are the one and only qualification I’m seeking in a potential mate, however they are no less important than any other feature that one might find attractive in order to make initial contact. So if you’d rather acquiesce to the truth about the nature of my libido, as opposed to the pre-existing nonsense that says that I must pretend to not be who I am, well then what’ll ya have”????

Yet for some inexplicable reason, the over sensitive sexualizing of the female breast has become ground zero for striking back at years of patriarchal subjugation. It’s almost as if the gynic matriarchy has decided that “boobs as a no-ogle-zone” are proper retribution for centuries of male domination. Verboten mastoids as a means to strike back at men. And all it really accomplishes it to perpetuate the patriarchal, sexual double standard that most women hope to escape from in the first place.

But to make matters worse, women are often their own worst enemies where it concerns preserving the sexual double standard. Insofar as women “slut-shame” one another for having the audacity to indulge their sexual inclinations –as opposed to the bronze-age perception of chastity as a function of gender– many do the same with gals who posses overly endowed orbs. In what I can only assume to be sexual repression expressing itself as petty jealousy, a significant amount of women “boob-shame” their glandularly gifted sisters.

Even more hypocritical is when women make the distinction between nature and cosmetics. For when it comes to superficiality, it is only surgically enhanced spheroids that women denounce as something lewd. “Look at those fake tits on that bimbo, mine are natural” … as if one had to accomplish anything to grow them. Call me crazy, but I think that there is something to be said for a gal who plunks down a few grand and says “Gimme the big round ones from the top shelf.” As opposed to someone whose heredity makes them D-cup predisposed.

But still, boob shaming –especially where it concerns an augmented anterior– is all too common. Where it applies to cosmetic enhancements, the pseudo- feminist boob-hypocrisy is staggering. Is that perfume? or are we to believe that you actually smell like flowers blooming in Spring? Is that make-up? Or are we under the mistaken impression that your eyelids are naturally blue? Is that a perm? Or are we to believe that your hair began to curl on its own last week? Oh, and nice roots, Morticia.

So truth be told, I love tits. The bigger the better. In particular, I enjoy a globular pair of cartoon proportioned volleyballs acquired in an afternoon of cosmetic surgery. And although mams of extraordinary magnitude are neither a deal breaker, or a singular qualification for a woman to posses for me to be sexually attracted to them… it sure as hell helps. A great ass, and the cognitive ability to form a valid opinion are important too. But for an afternoon of frolic, the funbags’ll do.

Sorry, that’s what turns me on. I have no control over it. And if feminists don’t want to be viewed as “sexual objects”, well that’s just tough. We are all sexual beings. Perhaps we should stop telling one another what we are and are not allowed to find appealing. Maybe then the sexual double standard might begin to disappear.