Suck on these.

What is it about breasts?
This is not a trick question, it is an honest desire to understand why certain men obsess about fatty chest tissue.
I have large breasts.
I have had large breasts since I was 10.
At ten, it's not sexy, it's humiliating.
My first bra buying experience was painful enough for me to not wish to share it here, and for the next couple of years, the bra strap snapping, the sports day dilemma, and the swimming carnival Crucifixion were enough to set me up for a lifetime of negotiation with my mammories.
Basically it works like this, we can be friends so long as I get to decide exactly how they will be dressed on any given occasion.
I talk to my breasts. Our lines of communication are open and clear. We understand each other.
And if I put them away, it's for a reason.
There are thousands of photo's of me on the web flashing parts of my chesticles, and just as many with me dressed like a nun.
Good boob day/bad boob day.....and only I know the difference.
For all of my teens, and most of my twenties I remained slim and Dolly Partonlike in proportion.
At five foot two, guess where most men are looking when they are chatting with you.
For all those years I felt like I was standing there with my legs wide open and my knickers pulled down. After all, breasts make up one of three parts of sexual organs on a woman, where as men have only two, their balls and their penises (woman also get a brain).
In my serious years I took very real offense to being objectified by my tits. Then I gave up, and spent a few years getting them out- a kind of beat them/join them attitude.
These days I alternate, but I have blossomed into a more well rounded figure, which oddly enough means that my breasts are no longer the focus, and frankly, I am more comfortable this way.
Funny isn't it?
And you all thought it was because I was lazy.
When I was feeding my babies with milk- the surprisingly forgotten and much maligned reason for nature giving us funbags in the first place- I could have taken out and entire armoured division simply by entering the room, so large and hard were the mounds of milk maker attached to my chest.
I shall bore you now with a true story about me and making milk.
3 days post delivery of my first precious child, and with the milk 'in' as the maternity staff like to call it, I wandered down the corridor of my small community hospital, naked other than underwear.
My milk had been pouring- and I use this term in the literal sense- out of my plate sized nipples since lunch time. My bed was wet, all my clothes were sodden with curds and whey and the room I was in smelled like a yogurt factory.
Plus my tits now came up under my neck and were rock hard, and it fucking well hurt.
Convinced I would never be dry again, and that my baby would never love me and that I was a hopeless mother - the third day baby blues, so hysterically funny- I wandered into the nurses station bawling my eyes out and dripping milk like a badly routed Rubenesque Italianate statue.
A kindly midwife sat me down, stroked my arm, fed me Anzac biscuits and attached me to a pump.
I fed the premi babies in that ward for a week in one sitting.
The weirdest thing about the whole experience was that breast pumps only go on one boobie at a time, but my 'new-to-the-whole-feeding-process' boobies didn't know that, so as one breast released milk into the milking machine ( you see how charming motherhood is, it's just like on the farm), the other one took the hint and released the rest. It literally sprayed out at a hundred miles an hour in a kind of demented shower-head pattern, and covered the uniform of the now lactated matron sitting beside me.
Nursing is the saints profession.
There are other grosser stories about the eternal leaking of the spotty minefield of motherhood, but I shall spare you those for now.
And so, back to men and breasts, because I have a friend- and he knows who he is- who said to me the other day that he would love to get a 'titty wank' off another mutual friend of ours.
This lady is totally racked up. And totally barking.
This appears not to be a problem for our friend. He is not looking to move in and assemble Ikea bookcases with her, he just wants to use her breasts as friction posts and her cleavage as a penile water park.
"Yeah", I said, because what else could I say?
"What's wrong with your hand?" came to mind, but then I thought better of it. After all, he is not The first man I have met who thinks this way, and he will not be the last.
Men have come out and said the same thing to me. And not just single men, but married men, and more than a few gay men have all expressed the desire to use my tit's as adventure playgrounds for their genitals.
I guess I should be flattered.
Strangely in 40 years, I have never heard a of a woman approaching a man and saying the same thing about his soft fleshy round bits.
" Jesus, I would LOVE to rub my clitoris in between your balls" is not a term commonly heard in either good or bad company.
Of course this does have something to do with the physical practicalities involved, but to be honest, man bits- though useful- are not always beautiful.
Whereas breasts- apparently- are.
And worth obsessing about, and not just that, but worthy of an array of industries of their own.
Enhancement- in the form of surgery/pills/creams/teas/exercises/diets/hydraulic clothing.
Reduction - in the form of surgery/pills/creams/teas/exercises/diets/hydraulic clothing.
Plus there's porn, even the stuff that's so soft it's barely there, which focuses on breasts far more than any other part of the body.
Like they are some kind of exciting secret.
Which leaves me bamboozled.
I spent 2 hours in Marks and Spencer's the other day trying on bras.
Not that there was a lot of choice.
In Hong Kong having a chest my size is like being blessed with an extra head.
"WOW- your boobs are SOOOOOOOOOO big".
Why thank you helpful Young size 4 Chinese shop assistant, I hadn't noticed.
"We don't have anything in your size, Hey Wingki, come and check out this Gweipo's huge tit's".
Um, Wingki, lets not.
Or maybe I should have invited Wingki in, and charged a dollar.
After all, if these puppies aren't going anywhere other than south, they may as well earn their keep.
The free ride is over boys ( my boobs are boys- I don't know why- ask my therapist) and from here on in, if you want to continue to live swaddled in imported silk and lace, you had better start paying your way.
Either that, or get ready for a whole new career involving tubs of Vaseline and family packs of tissues.
Strap in lads, this could get messy.