Truth: Fake Breasts are AWFUL (...unless we can't tell).

I've looked at a lot of porn in my day. All sorts. Everything from gang-banging fisting-fests to granny-fucking horse-love. Sadly, most of this has been witnessed by accident as I scoured the internet for pictures of giant titties and the curvaceous girls that are blessed with the magical orbs of justice. Walking through the gauntlet of terrible things that is the internet (and porn IS the internet, don't fool yourselves...all else is by-product) has been worth it, though, to find more and more amazing NATURAL breasts of various sizes that sit upon the female frame in such a perfect way as to emblazon their image on my mind's-eye and, yes, allowing me to jerk it good and proper to the thought later on in the evening (or, if I have time...right after I wake, but that cuts into my breakfast on occasion...but who needs breakfast, really?).

It would be an understatement to say that I have an obsession with BIG (the norm for us hetero guys...bigger the better, for the most part but we all have our cut-off of tolerable ta-ta size on either end of the spectrum), NATURAL TITS. We love the way they look packed into a sweater, buttressed by a bra, hanging freely and nipping out under a t-shirt, and (of course) completely without any accoutrement; completely nude (...and sometimes covered in oil or ice cream). The point IS...as a hetero male with a stereotypical (one might even call it the hetero male imperative leading us to copulation but based upon the formerly mentioned PRIMAL FUCK URGE) fixation on the female mammary gland, I've come to appreciate every possible variation on the basic theme of titties. Sure, I like mine a bit bigger and often on a more curvaceous frame than some men are willing to admit, but one thing MOST of us agree on is this: GIVE US NATURALS or GIVE US DEATH!

The problem with the breast jobs of the 70s and 80s is that, for the most part, they looked awful. Those that didn't LOOK awful, felt like fucking rocks and, over time, would degrade and cause awful health implications. As technology improved, the feel of the implants evolved from rock-hard to rubbery. What didn't FULLY change, though, is the look...which is initially the most important. That's the first thing that needs to seem natural or REAL to the viewing public. We need to look at those sandbags and think "holy shit! those are some amazing titties!" not "oh god, look at that girl's terrible fake boobage". I mean, I know there are some sick fucks that get off on that sort of Island of Dr. Moreau boobtastrophes...for I've seen the sites dedicated to them, but they're freak-shows and the women who are stuck with these faux-puppies are going to only get SO far. Sure, they might look okay in a push-up bra but once-released, it's clear they're impostors.

NOTE:
Part of the problem is just, well, genetics to some degree. The breast implants have to sit under the skin and, if you're a skinny little girl with no breastflesh or have been denied the power of even a B-Cup regardless of your frame...well, odds are no matter what you do there it's going to look like a painful, distended mess. A growth barely contained by your now-stretch-marked skin. I've seen many a stripper and way too many porn-stars that haven't had even a mere mosquito bite try to go up to a D-Cup and I think it's safe to say it's a terrible thing to behold and probably an even more terrible thing to live with.

So, if you're going to try to pass a golden globe off as au natural...you need to at LEAST pass the visual. If you managed to get a boob job that does that, then it needs to hang and move correctly. If it looks great when you're looking at it straight-on but takes on the proportions of an over-filled backpack when the girl bends over...well, the illusion is ruined, isn't it? I have faith that, as we speak, the ultimate fake tit is being concocted in some super-breasticle research facility in a bunker in California. Or something.

What would this ultimate super-tittay do? It would do what a fake breast HAS to do to pass the ultimate muster. It needs to do the same thing a clone would need to do for us to accept it in place of our lost dog, for instance. It would need to LOOK real, MOVE real and...(MOST importantly) FEEL real. That's right...if it's going to pass as one of Yahweh's finest milk-producing units and all-around-fun-time-device it's gotta feel as soft, pliable, and normal as the fatty glands that breasts really are. No more rubber slopes. No more stony mounds. It needs to pass the grope, the squeeze, and the juggle. Ideally, it would also pass the suck, the bite, and the motorboat tests as well. Y'know...it's kinda like a set of new tires that way.

Until then...just give us the real thing. I'll take a girl ANYDAY that might have a few extra, minor flaws but amazing, natural jugs that can be nuzzled up to on a cold winter's night or batted about like play-toys on a boring Sunday after church. It's true...many of these glorious fat deposits might be found on a girl packing a little more cushion, but most of us guys aren't as opposed to the chubby girl as we might lead you to believe...but more on that in a FUTURE entry.

Truth: Breast Reduction Surgery is AGAINST GOD!

As a red-blooded hetero male with a more-than-typical breast fixation, I have to tell you: breast reduction surgery is a horrible, terrible and awful sin that strikes out against all that's holy and destroys the beautiful, torpedo-shaped gifts our sweet, lord God hath bestowed upon you.

An overstatement, sure, but not far from the truth...about how we feel when we find out some amazingly-tittied mega-babe gets the ol' cut-up. Sure, we have no problem with breast augmentation surgery (well, some of us do...us purists...who want only the naturalest of breast-flesh to be displayed on the runway of the Oscars in a shear designer dress that cost more than most of us make in a year)...but to cut down on the cup-size simply because your BACK hurts? How selfish!

Clearly these women are NOT thinking about the wonderful gifts they bestow upon the world and it takes a truth-saying genius in the guise of a "mere comedian", Lord David Chappelle, to put a skit together that explains it all. The only sad part of that skit is, after seeing it, I didn't know whether the actress really had giant boobs or was unfortunately as flat-chested as she "wished" she could be. It's distressing because, of course, I want all giant mammaries to be real. It's a dream of mine...and likely many a cup-loving manimal out there as well.

"It's a Wonderful Chest" sketch by Dave Chappelle @ Yahoo! Video

So, that sums it up nicely, I think. I just learned about the uber-busty teen tennis sensation Simona Halep's breast reduction surgery and was saddened beyond belief. Sadder than a person should be...but that's what I'm talking about. Why did she get the cut? Well, supposedly she was tired of people making comments or digs at her in the press. Goddamn it! Can't we have anything nice? It's because of you catty bitches in the motherfucking press that this poor girl had to melt them sweater puppies down to mere speedbumps. Shame! You done pissed in the kool-aid, you hacks!

READ THIS TERRIBLE NEWS!!!

Thankfully, Anna Semenovich (seen at the bottom of the afore-linked-to article) is here with her new, giant tits...so we can cry upon them until we feel better. And, hey, hers look damned real...which is really all that matters, right? More on THAT topic later. That's a whole blog entry in and of itself.

And no, I will NEVER get over the Soleil Moon Frye thing...and neither will the rest of the heterosexual men who found their hormones shifting radically in the 80s. Sigh. Oh, Punky...

BEFORE! (glorious)



NOW... (*vomits*)



(okay, she's still pretty hot, but c'MON...did you see those bodacious ta-tas?)

Myth 2: We can't BELIEVE what that chick is wearing!

Ladies, when your guy friends or boyfriend or husband or brother sees a girl in tight-fitting or revealing clothing...something that shows off their tits, cleavage, ass, or even vagina...and claim they are offended or put-off by it: don't believe them.

I mean, sure, we might think the girl with the camel-toe or clearly-visible pantyline is kinda tacky, but we're also thinking about sex INSTANTLY upon seeing the outline of her vagina or when a girl is nipping out. We LOVE that sort of thing, even if it's on that deeply-seated PRIMAL FUCK level. Again, it might not even be conscious, but we are instantly turned on...if even just slightly.

We SAY "God, what a slut...I can't believe she's wearing that." or, at the very least, agree with you via nod when YOU say it, but in reality we're probably entranced by the fact that the woman in question wore something in public that almost entirely reveals her tits or rides so far up her ass as to almost appear painted on. Maybe she did it on purpose to get attention or maybe she's just completely unaware of what NOT to wear to the supermarket. It doesn't matter. We're interested, even if we don't want to admit it.

Heck, we might even go on about it and try to follow said subject with you in tow under the auspices of laughing at or criticizing the girl from afar for a bit longer, but what we're really trying to do is prolong the experience of checking out this hoochie. In fact, it might even be a thrill to do this in your presence. Maybe we like the idea that we're getting away with something. Maybe we like that you think we're not a total pig...when in reality that's the CORE of what we are.

More on being a "pig" later...but be advised: We WILL be jerking it to thoughts of that girl who works at the coffee-shop down the street that always seems to forget to wear a bra ("gah, how tacky!)...but don't worry, we'll probably wait to do it until after you go to sleep.

Myth 1: We think about sex ALL the time.

No. Not all the time. There are plenty of moments where we can focus on a video-game or something DVRed from the syfy channel...but for the most part sex crosses our minds every few minutes at least. The thing is, it's often not a fully-formed thought or even, possibly, a conscious thought...but it's there.

Just thinking about thinking about sex has me thinking about sex and slightly aroused. Not turned on to the point of erection but, yeah, kinda tingly.

I saw Serena (or is it Venus) Williams on a talk show just a bit ago and kept thinking about her breasts and looking at her lips. Sure, her arms are too muscled for my tastes but the point is...I was thinking about sex. I didn't get to the fantasy portion of the "sex thought game" but I paid attention to her fairly closely. I don't even like tennis.

Wait, I take that back. I like ladies tennis because of the skirts and the grunts and the occasional breast bounce. What's not to like? It's some sort of super-active fully-clothed sex fantasy in and of itself.

More on thinking about sex in future posts but, let's be clear...it's not ALL the time...just MOST of the time.