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BJ’s This or That | Breast Stories
Writing About Breasts Isn’t Brain Surgery
Sweater Weather? More like My-Girls-Are-Moist Fall
My breasts are hot. That’s the best description of them that I can muster at the moment, but I don’t mean what you think I mean. If you’ve read any of my breast stories in the past, you know that my breasts are visually mediocre. That is, lopsided and mostly unoriginal with more than a few whiskers that need plucking every couple of weeks.
So when I say hot, I don’t mean HOTTT.
Don’t get me wrong, my ladies are spicy. They have all sorts of nerve endings of which I take full advantage. They look half decent in most clothes and create a plumpish 360-degree sideboob when squished just the right amount. I enjoy them immensely.
I love my normaling, sassy breasts. They’re average. They’re opinionated.
My lovely lumps have a voice all their own, one that I have come to know and love. Hell, I have Aretha-level R-E-S-P-E-C-T for their shabby-chic style of gravitational acceptance AND every good and gobsmacking thing they stand for.
Perhaps it’s the respect. Yes, I’m sure that’s it. All of that respect may be why all I can think about right now is that they’re entirely too hot for my liking.
