This piece is erotic literature, meant for readers 18+.
i hope to goodness that i have the balls to write an essay about titties at some point
I love breasts. I love boobs. I love tits. I love titties. I’m a big fan.
They are easily my favorite part of the female body. I think about breasts all of the time. I love them so much.
I love big tits. I love small boobs. I love medium-sized, Goldilocks breasts best of all—breasts that you can get a handle on, squeeze and touch and caresse, but aren’t overly large.
That said, I also love huge breasts, and small, tiny breasts, those itty bitty titties. I love them when they sway and swing while you’re fucking, and I love them when there’s not much there at all. If you have a pair of boobs, you can’t go wrong, as far as I’m concerned.
I suppose I must have been very interested in breasts when I was a child, specifically my mother’s breasts—I never confirmed this with her, and I never really wanted to ask, but she must have breastfed me, given my Freudian fascination with tits as an adult.
If there was a graph with time on the x-axis and my interest in breasts on the y-axis, it would have a huge dip from “toddler” to “teenager.” I remember my interest in breasts rebounded with a vengeance as a prepubescent teenager. The girls around me started sprouting breasts, some before our balls dropped and certainly before we boys grew beards. And this was a development of much interest.
In the eighth grade, I became interested in philosophy, which is to say I was fascinated by the question of free will, which is to say obsessed with the tragic contrast between the constant ability women have to touch their own breasts and my constant inability to do the same, the tragedy that women wouldn’t be turned on by touching themselves in that way but I would.
At the time, everyone chatted on AOL Instant Messenger with each other after school. For a while, I had an acquaintance who I chatted with, and the mainstay of our conversations was discussing breasts, breasts in general, breasts of specific girls at our school, and coming up with hyperbolic descriptions of how large and incredible their breasts were.
In high school, one girl, a friend, told me that I could look at her breasts any time I wanted to. I wonder what motivated her to say that. Pride? Arousal? A desire for validation? I wonder how she’d feel about having said that now.
Once, at a college party, a girl told me that she’d flashed us while I wasn’t looking. I felt such sadness and regret at having missed out. Be mindful, boys—you never know when you might see a pair of tits in the wild.
Women’s fashion works a difficult, sexy paradox: advertising the goods, while maintaining discretion and plausible deniability.
I want to touch breasts. I want to run my fingers over them. I want to slide my fingers down her shirt. I want to stare at her tits. I want to lick her nipples. I want to slide my cock in between her breasts. I want to slap my cock on her nipples. I want to lay my hands over her shirt lightly, or squeeze firmly. I want to tug gently at her breasts, or squeeze at them with all my might. I want to watch her tits bounce up and down as she rides my cock. I want to bury my face in her bosom and close my eyes, sighing with contentment or quietly sobbing, sweating out the remnants of sadness in my body. I want to feel her breasts right under my chest while I make love to her, her inhale and her exhale and her moans and her pleasure moving her whole body and also her breasts.
As I’ve developed an interest in humor, one of my go-to forms of humor has, predictably, become boob jokes.
happens to the breast of us. and you are the breast of us
neither an ass man nor a third more complex thing but a first, simpler thing
if you want me to fall in love with you it’s shockingly simple. just have boobs and I’m a goner
i know i live a blessed life because the most difficult decision i tend to face on any given day is whether to draw trees or titties
If I ever stop making jokes about boobs, take me out back and shoot me.
I’m not sure why it surprised me, but it did: when I started drawing and making visual art it didn’t take very long for me to start exploring erotic art, romantic art, devotional art. What surprised me even more is how powerful it has felt spiritually, mythically. How tapping into my love of breasts and sexuality and eroticism, my adoration for cute girls, my devotion to Quan Yin, helped me to feel my feelings, to understand myself, to heal old hurts, to bring up deep questions about myself and the universe. How the warm, sexy, spicy visual draw of erotic art would feel right at home next to my grievances with the universe, the griefs on my heart and my deepest doubts about the world.
breasts are soft, loving, maternal. somehow they symbolize unconditional love, the basic goodness of the universe
i am good, the universe is good, god is good, love is good, it is good for me to be happy and joyful and filled with pleasure
breasts are how I know God exists