In Defense Of My Tits
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I want to talk about my tits.
Never a mother, and never therefore needing them for their primary evolutionary purpose of feeding young, my breasts are primarily for show. They are two great, big teeming D-cups of conventional femininity. They are unsubtle, my boobs. You’d never accuse them of being shrinking violets, of hiding their lights under a bushel, of pretending toward false modesty.
My rack is out, loud, proud, and fake.
I am for myself a fan of the big breasts. However, that preference is merely for my own; I find other women’s breasts beautiful in all sizes and shapes. I have found myself equally attracted to women who burgeoned with double-scooped sundaes of breasts and to whose who were flat as a grey-glass sea. I am an equal-opportunity bisexual when it comes to other women’s breasts. But for myself, I’ve always liked myself best as a big-breasted chick.
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