tits are for kids
As a young boy, an unlaid boy, a bottle-fed ex-baby boy, I'd often find scraps of 60s and 70s porno mags strewn through the mossy woods near our tract home. Having led a tit-free youth in a titless world where tits were even more oppressed than Negroes, these soggy paper boobshots were religious documents to me. Tits fascinated me. The bigger, the better. Down to her knees—the best!
But then my testicles descended and my groin sprouted hair like a Chia Pet. My voice got deeper and I was able to shoot applesauce from my wiener. Like they say in the Jewish religion, I became a man. I got myself some pussy and realized that tits were for kids. It's not that I dislike them, it's that they're about as sexually useful as kneecaps.
With an adulthood pockmarked by scandal and infidelity, I've often had gals—with their boobs jutting toward me in the post-coital motel-room haze—ask me why I don't pay more attention to their breasts. Don't you like them? Are they misshapen? Should I get a boob job? Should I get another boob job? Should I get a breast reduction and then get yet another boob job?
No. Shut the fuck up. I don't want to suck on your boobs just like I don't want to wear a diaper. I bang you like a jackhammer and go down on you better than a dyke—you don't need me to slap your tits around.
Funny how they're never so hung-up on their vaginas, which is where most of the aesthetic atrocities occur.
Any adult male with a breast fixation still wants to suckle milk from his mother's teats. You have a problem with that? Take it up with your mammy, titboy.
