The Bride of Frankenstein
There is an evil wind blowing across our land, a vile force surging through our cities, a cruel unnatural wave rolling over our lush beautiful landscape. No , I'm not speaking of the republicans (evil vile cruel and unnatural as they may be) nor am I directing my complaints towards any of the monumentally greedy piggish corporations in particular (you may pick your own if you wish for there are far too many to choose from) and it is not my intention today to tear down the corrupt rotting facades that are organized religion and American politics (although bagging these two for the price of one is one mighty appealing bargain) no, no friends. Instead I hope to call attention to a cancer that is spreading even as I write these words in my most sincere desire to arrest this disease in it's tracks or, failing that, to at least shine the torch of candor on this dark unspeakable corner of our collective humanity. This vicious infection that screams for immediate attention is growing at a rate so alarming that I can no longer ignore its wicked proliferation, its insidious influence on all our lives and loves and so I am compelled to scream its unholy name, reveal its hideous face and pray that together we can stop this monster in its gluttonous tracks. That's right, Breast implants, I'm calling you out!
Can you recall, please, that glorious moment when you first placed your hand on a womens luscious breasts, will you ever forget the life altering pleasure of groping those sweet gifts from heaven for the very first time? Good. Let us begin there. What did that moment convey to us? I would suggest that it was no less then certified entrance into the mind blowing pleasures of the adult world itself. Beside the purchase and successful operation of your first motor vehicle, clearly the magic of copping some tits was the definition and supreme wonder of our initiation into manhood and long after cars become just another of life's headaches, titties just keep getting better all the time. Has there ever been a single moment in all your life when you weren't completely and utterly captivated by the glorious instant when she bends down and you steal a glimpse of her luscious cleavage and maybe a peek of illicit bra? And aren’t you still gratefully hypnotized by the precious gift of the pagan braless girl bouncing down the street, nipples beaming, or that holy grail of all arbitrary encounters with female strangers, the unexpected and glorious brushing of her glowing succulent bosom against almost any part of your body, shivering the timber. Doesn't that always and forever tickle your greedy little stick?
Sometimes when I'm feeling low just the sight of a strange woman's proud display of sensual femininity is enough to make me glad I got up in the morning, and then when I consider that quite often lovely ladies are more than willing to share their bounty with me for little or no reason at all- Well hell, I may not be the holiest man in the world but that has got to be one version of heaven on earth right there. Speaking just for myself I must reveal that there hasn't been a single woman or girl in my existence whose tits I didn't love and cherish and I've sampled them big , small and everything in between.
I love her breasts when she clothed, naked, brazziered, braless- I love when she lets me touch 'em, squeeze 'em, kiss'em, lick 'em, suck 'em,- I love 'em when she's shy, bold, horny, crabby, laughing, crying, walking, running, standing up, lying down or on the rag- I love'em when she loves me and I love 'em when she hates me. Her breasts are one of the very few wonders of this world that make me want to drop to my knees and thank whatever God I can for being so damn good to me. I have to confess that I don't really know if I ever, actually, want to fight for my country but man, I'll fight you over her tits any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Ladies I've got to tell you that honestly I do not think I am alone in this position. Trust me please. And it's not only breasts (and it pains me to use a phrase like "only breasts" as if that's the way I've ever felt) that we love about you (for the things we love about you are close to countless) but for the purposes of my diatribe I feel that I have to focus on just this single (double?) issue today, so please bear with me just a little further.
Where did it all begin to go wrong? How did this repulsive movement towards plastic boobs begin? Who is responsible for this abomination? I fear that we both, men as well as women, have to accept our equal shares of the blame in this malignant affair and once having done so, perhaps we can move to a solution that is mutually satisfying and healthy for all, or at the very least we can dream of the day when women are all woman and men are glad of it.
Often I am asked by an interested female, "So what's your type?". I never answer this question because I simply cannot. Oh I know the response that's expected, something specifically descriptive along the lines of - short, tall, thin, fat, rich, poor, black, white, brown, yellow, and then, sadly, she must inevitably extract that bit of information which seems so unduly important- Do you like big breasts or smaller breasts? Because, you see, the girls with big breasts absolutely must have them acknowledged as if it were some special talent that they diligently cultivated through long years of training and study, and girls with small breasts will not quit until they have their sexual femininity positively validated as though there were some doubt about their particular brand of allure, and girls who are in between just want to know if they should make 'em bigger.
But the real question I know that she must have an answer to, is literally burning to know, although she will not ask is- Are my tits big enough? And this is the absolute crux of the issue because ladies, I beg you to listen, the answer to that unspoken question, for me at least, is and always will be YES YES YES YES YES!!! And while we're at it please allow me to prove it to you, to demonstrate, to sample.
There isn't anything I like more on a hot summer day than digging my face into a big juicy watermelon and the sloppier it gets, the better I like it. Unless it's the sweet slippery pleasure of a perfectly ripe mango peeled and sucked straight into my mouth with my tongue licking away at every last bit I can find. And sometimes there's nothing more satisfying than a deliciously red ripe tangy strawberry pressed against my lips until I bite, lick, suck and inhale that sublime ambrosia and if I got a little whip cream to dip 'em in, watch out 'cuz I might be there awhile. Now if you asked me which fruit I like best I'm terribly afraid that I just couldn't tell you that with any degree of accuracy. It depends on how I feel that day, what I'm craving at that moment, what I have a taste for, and no, I don't want watermelon every damn day although it's alright if some guys do.
But what I can tell you is that a watermelon ain't no better than a mango or a strawberry or a kiwi or a grape or any other damn fruit. It ain't the size it's the sweetness. The other thing I know is that a strawberry is a strawberry and some lunatic agricultural scientist can probably pump it full of chemicals and hormones and make it as big as a watermelon but that ain't gonna make it any sweeter and I like strawberries fine just the way they are, and I like watermelons just the way they are too. When I go to a fruit market I'm awed at the vast range of sizes and colors and tastes and delighted by the varieties of textures and scents and freshness', that's exactly the thing that makes it great and I'm grateful for it. If I just wanted something that only looked good I could buy a bowl of some picture perfect plastic fruit that might last forever, gathering dust, inedible and untouched because I damn sure don't want that phony shit in my mouth.
I want something to put my mouth on, not stare at, so what the hell good is it? It’s just as simple as that.
I'm not one of those elitists that claim there isn't anything worthwhile on television, or that movies just aren't as good as they used to be, I think there's a lot of compelling programming on the tube if you look around and there will always be great films to watch but I will tell you one thing I'm completely sick and tired of looking at on screens both small and big- Grown women with comically massive torpedo chests that make them seem like some alien barbie doll dropped on earth with orders to confuse and unnerve me. I mean those knockers that are so bulbous, fake and unforgiving it looks as if you could bounce a brick off 'em with no ill effect to the owner.
What exactly is the fictitious contract that I'm supposed to enter into with those cyborg women? Am I supposed to pretend that I don't know those stiff plastic balloons on your chest are counterfeit or are you the only one who is obligated to entertain this charade? Or perhaps you don't feel any such obligation and are expecting me to ignore this entirely false and totally obvious deception in which case I have to state clearly, unfortunately- Sorry sweetheart, but I cannot make that trade. Because in order to do that I would necessarily have to deny the beauty, bounty, and sensuous wonder of all natural breasts and all the infinite pleasures they provide along with the women who provide them. Now that way lies madness.
The truly insidious aspect in the viewing of these sci-fi purchases on television however, is that like everything else on tv, when women see it they want to buy it. For all those girls who have never felt adequate, suddenly they have hope- I too can have a huge rack just like her they begin to think, and why not, because it appears as if every third female on the screen is sporting those rigid accessories and if they're not, just wait a little while for she soon will be. What else does tv do for the idle masses but tell them what to buy, what to wear, how to live, how to look. And recently I've noticed an even more invasive, deeply disturbing trend. The straightforward, no nonsense, direct marketing of these synthetic guns in the form of friendly commercials and helpful print ads assuring girls that they too can look like the women in the movies and on tv for just a low low price with easy financing readily available- Hey! Maybe we can get your insurance to cover it.
The horror.
The worst is yet to come, I'm afraid, and that's why I feel compelled to act now because the sad fact is that the repulsive promotion of these inhuman appendages appears to be flourishing. Now it seems difficult to me to last an entire day at the beach or on the street or in front of the tube without being subjected to some brazen display of the scientific undead. I don't dare to let men escape culpability for their part in this imbroglio because, shameful as it is to admit and more disgusted with my already childish gender I've never been, many men (and I use that term very loosely) applaud the purchase and flagrant flaunting of this wholly unnatural equipment and indeed I fear, although I personally don't know any of these cretins, that some males encourage and even finance their wives and girlfriends in this twisted endeavor. Kind of similar to those fat old bald guys who buy sports cars and drive around with lecherous leers on their craggy faces hoping to snag an unsuspecting hottie somewhere around their daughters age. Maybe not quite that mature but almost.
If old boy got money like that to throw around, ladies, please make him buy you the car or at least a fat shiny diamond and keep your tits right where they are until I get there for appraisal. Because what is it that these men want? It seems clear to me. They want to buy some phony object that will temporarily quell a deep seated inadequacy within themselves so that they might maybe feel a tiny bit superior to their less prosperous brethren by displaying their rightful ownership and mastery of this object of supposed opulence. I'm here to inform you that most men may indeed want the sports car, but just as many of us (the ones that really love you) do not want hard plastic knockers poking us in the eye. What we do want is the sheer joy of your soft bosom in all it's natural, wondrous glory and a fair chance to demonstrate how much we want exactly that with no substitutes.
Finally you may be asking yourself if I'm speaking hypothetically or if I have any actual practical knowledge about this dreaded situation and so I must confess that, unfortunately, I do.
Her face was so lovely, luscious lips and smoky eyes, a perfect elegant nose, lustrous flowing raven hair, long lean sexy legs and a booming caboose bringing up the rear, yes she had curves like a mountain road but that one mound up top looked to me to be just a little unnaturally, how can I say it, huge and pointy.
Well now let's not judge until we've sampled the merchandise I thought to myself at the time, let's not be rash, perhaps this goddess has just been bountifully blessed and I'm in for a real treat, let's give her a chance. So I did.
We came to that time of the evening and we kissed each other close and slow, she wasn't the slightest bit shy and urged me wordlessly to continue, I didn't need much encouragement. I slid my hands eagerly up her hips to her chest and she just as eagerly helped the proceedings along by slipping off the straps at her shoulders and sliding her tight top down to her waist with a smile on her face that was full of invitation. I slid one hand over one of her tits and stopped dead in my tracks. Frozen. I didn't know what the hell that was in my hand but it felt as hard as a beat up softball only not quite as fun. I immediately grabbed the other one only to confirm my findings. Those things felt nasty, and I don't mean in a good way either! Just the thought of placing my mouth on those flesh covered beanbags made me a little queasy. My heart dropped through my shoes and my cock dropped right behind it. I was instantly forced to understand that for some unknown reason this beautiful girl had decided to turn herself into the scary movie monster of my childhood nightmares- The blank faced bride with her grisly collection of inhuman body parts and the scars to match. The walking talking undead, escaped from the laboratory, hungry for my flesh connection, eerily desperate for human congress. All she was missing was the four foot beehive with the racing stripe. What a waste.
I wanted to ask her why she did it but I was afraid her answer would be as fictitious as her tits and I realized disgustingly that I didn't really care anyway. I found the door in a hurry. But I must thank her because that night I learned a valuable lesson.
I learned that I love women in all their natural splendor and only their natural splendor. Women ain't cars and I don't want to fix 'em, don't want to tear 'em down or soup 'em up or make them be something they're not even if they might want to be, especially if they want to be. I’m no mad scientist- I'm just so damn happy that they're here. I love how they smell and feel and look and taste, how they laugh and talk and move and kiss. I love what it means to have them love you even when you look like me, or especially when you look like me. Because they know how to love and give and be sweet and cool and sexy and smart and that's the way I want 'em. I don't want or need anyone else's dumbass idea of perfection or sexiness, I want them the way they are, or at least the way they should be. Just give me all you got, not what you bought and I can promise to do the same. So what do you say boys and girls? Let's stop the madness and give each other a chance.
We might both be worth it.