Breasts –
not only the fleshy offshoots of thine being, but also a bolder statement about
being not only a beast of the almighty (imagined and/or inscribed), but also a
fully-functioning member of this typically perverse and yet ironically jaded
society.
My own
liaison with a bounty of thunderous breasts – a set to call my very own - began
circa 2003 upon banishing any ideals of athleticism and indeed respectability,
and thus leaping flange-first into a pit of long-projected loathing.
Little did
this malnourished shell know that this would lead to a most peculiar and yet absorbing voyage into what was formerly unknown and even undesired, but that
which now seems utterly essential.
To paraphrase one Tyler Durden, “self-improvement is masturbation; now self-destruction….”,
and it is precisely at this point at which this humble and as-yet undiagnosed
disease wishes to climb aboard with buttocks starboard, and more specifically thrust at 9 o’clock (AEST).
One cannot
simply fathom at which point ones’ breasts truly sprout – not even the most neurotic
of pubescent girls – however this is to be deemed a privilege, and not the
flabby crucifix that so many hollow self-improvement magazines attempt to nail
you to: for only $9.95 with a bonus calendar to record wistful scribbles of
shit that will never be done nor even acknowledged ever again.
My own
breast-ism was rather discharged upon me, albeit from behind a curtain of fried
goods and glandular-abnormalities; yet this has been the very epicentre of
self-content and the seed of immense pride. Indeed, without fanfare (at least
from beyond the reflection) my breasts appeared and thus did the man nobody
knew existed, nor asked for.
From the
most chilling of winter evenings to the thorned precipice of sorrow, it is
without one ounce of shame that I will attest that my milkshakes may indeed not
bring all the boys to the yard – but this is not the domain of this flesh.
Indeed a
breast is not merely affixed to an otherwise barren chest – but rather
encrusted and hence entrusted unto an otherwise unadorned husk.
For real, it
is all too easy to view be-pectoraled, slick young men traipsing about with
their immaculate posture and willowy self- esteem as beacons to gyrate unto – but is this all you aspire
to, young man?
Nothing but
absolutely nothing fills an otherwise misguided sweat-shirt like the sculpted
mass of joy that so many would quickly shun, but who have never spawned such
sweet witchery , much less embraced the jiggling delight contained within. In fact,
my very own breasts have brought me great comfort when the threat of
weight-loss and scourge of the ignorant have simultaneously drawn near, and
hence have jeopardised the very firmament of bespoken breasts and the
contentment only they can provide.
I shall
share this wisdom with you, breast-prodigy - for whether they are defined by
the silken hair that adorns them, or simply the excellence of their perk, be
sure to wear thine teats with the pride of a battle-tribe – and the ferocity
that defines such things.
Should war,
terminal-illness or famine be strewn across my seismic breasts like the
crescendo of ill-begotten lust, I shall defy both the ravages of metabolism
(lest my breast-matter detach and launch into my quivering aorta, fatally) and
absurd wishes of do-gooders in order to retain that which has come to define me
– and hopefully scores of other down-trodden men needlessly struggling with
that which was gifted to warm by the fires of both the soul and rumpus-room, and that
which should be revered in scriptures and enshrined in stone forever more.
Bare thine breasts with pride good man – seek not to suffocate their brilliance with bras
nor augmentation, but rather sport them with the flair of the Caribbean.
Belief is
nearly the battle in and of itself; may the sun never set upon your breasts,
and may the breasts of tomorrow find their genesis in the nubs of today.
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