I'm thrilled to be a contributor to the boob files. This is
the first,
and perhaps last, boob-related honor of my adult
life, and I would like
to thank everyone who worked so hard to
make this possible.
However, one thing that many people don't realize is that the
word
boob
does not apply to all
of us. The word boob calls to
mind an over-full water balloon stretched to the breaking
point,
a Bazooka bubble blown past opaque to iridescent. And
so, while I stand before you as a member
of the boob tribe,
I
need to make it clear that I do not possess any
boobs.
If there is anything on my chest at all, they would have to be
called
breasts. The kind that those old French champagne
glasses were designed
to hold. Only smaller.
Some days my breasts are HUGE.
Which is like saying that on some nights, the
moon looks
really close. It doesn't really change anything. The moon is
still
impossibly out of reach, and my breasts are still quite
small.
But some nights,
while you stare up at the night sky, I
will be staring at my breasts in the
mirror, both of us
imagining what it might be like to live in another world.
There's nothing particularly humiliating about having small
breasts.
I don't mind spending a sweaty hour in the sunset
satin-walled dressing
room of Victoria's Secret, only to walk
out empty-handed.
They've saved
me lots of money, these
breasts. I never minded being
mistaken for a
15-year
old boy
on the London busses. Child fare is
cheaper, you know.
Forsaking all cleavage, these breasts have challenged me to
trust that
my voluptuous personality and mind are my most
winning assets.
Never
floppy,
bouncy or squishy, these breasts
have encouraged me to be
firm, athletic
and strong. Like an
iron shield, they stop bimboys
in their tracks.
My breasts are the espresso to the double cappuccino boobs of
this world.
They may be little, but they pack a punch.
