She is described – of course – as being tall and firm (can this be any more cliche?) and as she walks toward him her overlarge breasts heave and sway (ugh) providing juicy tantalizing visual delights while his cock stands at attention.
I click away from my most recent venture into Literotica, disappointed. It has, thus far, been round after round of letdown. And the incessant focus on breast size (Big is BEST!) is one of the reasons why.
The Big Bazonga Narrative is frustrating and objectifying and is just one more reminder that I don’t need that I am not the “right” shape; but more than that, reading descriptions like the one above are a personal affront because they make me want. They make me want for what I don’t – and physically can’t – have, and it makes me wish – in a nostalgically dichotomous Wish I could go back / Never want to go back way – for What Was.
It’s not that I want, in any *realistic* way, to have large breasts. I’ve known several women with large breasts and I don’t envy them their back pain, their inability to function without wearing a binding bra, or the constant reminders they have to make for people to look them in the eye instead of staring them in the chest. And unlike the realm of male fantasy writing, Real Life dictates that most women with large breasts are – shock! gasp! – large women. Unless she has implants or carries a particularly unusual chromosomal cocktail, a woman who wears a size 8 is typically NOT going to sport DDDs. Size 18? That’s more likely.
I once worked for a company that spent a great deal of time and money collecting data. One of the things they determined, from a random survey (if you’re a stats person, you understand that ‘random’ is, in this instance, something to strive for if you want quality results) of thousands of women of multiple ethnic backgrounds residing in the US, was that the average woman in the United States:
- weighs 165 pounds,
- wears a dress size US 12,
- a shoe size US 8.5,
- and has a bust measurement that fits a 36C bra.
According to these statistics, I am both above *and* below average.
Below average, as in: 36C, I am not.
I am broad-shouldered, straight-bodied, and proportionately narrow-hipped. (Key word: proportionately) I have no waist to speak of; my torso is shaped pretty much like a rectangle, my full-height figure like an inverted triangle. I am – to use my mother’s apt description – “built like a linebacker.” I am solid muscle covered in baby fat, and while my frame could easily support D’s, I have instead been
gifted granted cursed stuck endowed with wide-set barely-B’s.
Did you notice all the crossing-out of descriptive words? Can you tell I have mixed feelings about my breasts? o_O
At the best of times, I am ambivalent about the small wobbly appendages protruding from my chest. They serve no discernible purpose, but neither do they hinder my activities. Unlike women whose reproductive health is normal, I’ve never had to deal with period-related swelling or soreness. They don’t bother me, physically. And for the most part, I don’t bother about them. Physically or otherwise. I don’t like my breasts in any kind of active way, but I don’t hate my breasts either. For the most part, they are just there. They are like the mailbox at the end of my driveway. Not particularly attractive, but part of the landscape. Normal enough not to detract from the view, but hardly a focal point.
As I said: I am ambivalent about my breasts.
Except when I’m not.
When I’m NOT feeling ambivalent about my breasts, I am a jumble of emotions.
Because I remember what it was like to like them. I remember – before I got married, before I got pregnant (the pregnancy changed a lot of things, and carried with it many losses, beyond the loss of life) – when my nipples were sensitive. Responsive. When having my breasts caressed and nipples sucked during sexual activity felt natural. And right. I remember what it was like to have breast play turn me on. And, when I was close to orgasm, finish me off.
During my pregnancy, short as it was, I started having… Feelings. In my breasts, related to my breasts, about my breasts. My breast tissue swelled. I was tender. My nipples were hypersensitive. Sometimes to the point of pain, but the pain was somehow pleasurable for its purpose. Suddenly my breasts – everything about them – took on meaning in a way they never had before.
Then, in the blink of an eye, all of that was gone.
TO BE CONTINUED