Toronto
3 min

Mad about breasts

One woman's cleavage obsession

My purpose was to enjoy breasts and my mission was to share this passion. Credit: Xtra files

I first started to notice that something was up when I was in the elevator in of my grandmother’s apartment building. I must have been about 12 at the time and I found myself looking at the breasts of a woman sharing the ride.



I had the kind of thought that’s so embarrassingly typical of the adolescent mind – I was doomed to grow up and actually be an adult. The thing that triggered this staggering revelation had to do with my own inescapable perception of the changes in my body and the realization that the most visible sign came in the form of breasts.



I’m not talking about the kind of realization along the lines of, “Oh my God, I’m no longer one the boys.” It had more to do with the question of how do I fit myself into the breast-bearing members of the species?



At the time, I was blissfully ignorant of the ways in which breasts would become meaningful to me. At that point they were merely a symbol of something powerfully elusive.



I should probably acknowledge at this point, that I did not become a successful teenage girl – which is to say that my acquisition of the usual feminine skills was neither timely nor thorough. I had vague notions about what I ought to be doing and feeling in the girlish department but it seemed so challenging. Granted, it was challenging for everyone and most of the girls I knew felt massively insecure about their bodies and how they looked. The difference was they actually thought they could do things about it.



My lesbian career began when I was in my 20s and I started to realize that breasts seemed to play a significant role in how my desire was organized. I discovered what a huge turn-on they can be. It was as though I found my calling; my purpose was to enjoy breasts and my mission was to share this passion.



Now at this point you’re probably thinking, “Yeah right, she’s got a thing for big tits – so what?”



But the truth is, I’ve a got a thing for small breasts, although I wouldn’t hold it against someone if she happened to have more in the breast department. Honest, it’s not about size – it’s about attitude.



When I think about women and their breasts it’s possible to reach a couple of conclusions. There’s the obvious one where everyone longs to have something other than what she’s got, whether that’s about size, shape, bigger or smaller nipples, more or less active nipples. It doesn’t seem to matter. Even the most apparently well adjusted among us have an issue or two. But I try not to let that get in the way of my personal campaign.



I’ve often wondered if it’s a coincidence that most of the women I’ve been attracted to in the past 20 years happen to be small breasted or if it’s a truly unconscious selection process. In any case I feel that’s where my expertise lies. I’ve only once or twice encountered women who have thought that smaller was perfect. And it can be hard to convince some women that small is exactly what I find attractive. However, I’m happy to put in the effort that’s required to convince them.



Then there’s the thing about naming and I’m not thinking of pet names here, although I’ve heard of that sort of thing, It’s all those euphemisms that get thrown about. Tits and boobs being the most popular and let’s not forget the quaintly old-fashioned term, knockers. Bust has fallen by the wayside as well and I don’t know anyone who would use hooters to describe hers.



The same goes for rack, although it does convey a lot. I’m inclined to be formal in my preference for the word breast, but it’s because I take my mission seriously.



One of the most revealing things about relationship between a woman and her breasts is how she touches them when she thinks you’re not looking.



As we all know, this is quite different from how she touches them when she thinks you are looking. I’m thinking in particular of that small gesture that most women perform when they arrange their breasts ever so slightly in a bra. Is there anything sweeter – or sexier, for that matter?



There are times when I still feel like the 12-year-old girl in the elevator; it’s just a reflex to notice a woman’s breasts. I try to believe that it’s a casual kind of admiration along the lines of noticing a particularly nice sweater, a shapely ear, a great pair of shoes or an attractive set of teeth.



And I like to believe that I don’t get caught looking – but I can’t be certain.