TITLE    : Random Thoughts on Tits
STORYID  : random-thoughts-on-tits
SUMMARY  : I'd rather they be random sperm on tits, too, but, hey. . .
AUTHOR   : Cal Y. Pygia@lit
DATE     : 2009-09-11
CATEGORY : adult-humor
FLAGS    : 
TAGS     : |boobs|breasts|hooters|knockers|mammaries|rack|tits|titties|humor|sex|


Tits. You have to love them! They bounce. They hang. They jiggle. They sway. They tremble. They wiggle. If you're a man (or a lesbian with a strap-on strapped on), you can even fuck them. They can be bound with cords so that, the blood flow to and from them restricted, they turn purple. Clothespins can be attached to them, and they can be pierced with pins and needles. They're all-purpose sexual accoutrements. Should a guy get his chick pregnant, she can even use her tits to feed the brat.



Women have them--well, most do--and shemales have them, too. Even a few men have them--a condition known as gynecomastia. On a dare, one dude (Canadian Brian Zembick) had a pair of tit implants installed and liked them so much he decided to keep them! Except for the cunt itself, there's no greater indicator of femininity and womanhood, even on a shemale or a crazy dude like Zembick, than a pair of pert and pretties. 



Tits come in a variety of colors, shapes, and sizes, and every man and woman has his or her own preference when it comes to which type of tits they consider appealing or appalling. Some like small, teen-size tits; others enjoy more bang for their fuck. Normally, I myself would rather feast my eyes (if not my mouth) on the teeny-tiny variety, with one exception: I love to see a pair of boobs hanging down, free and easy, under milady's chest, swinging back and forth or just simply hanging. They're not round in this position; they're more udder-like appendages, elongated but plump. A woman who calls another female a "cow" probably has an image like this in mind; with her breasts suspended beneath her, hanging free and clear, there's certainly something bovine about a big-breasted woman.



As they change angle with respect to the voyeur--I mean, viewer--tits look different. Straight-on, on a young woman, they're high, round, full, firm, and sleek. Seen from the side, in profile, the same set of tits resembles ski slopes with rounded undersides. Seen from behind and below, with their nipples invisible to the view, they resemble twin moons. Seen from the front, hanging down, they look, as mentioned before, like the udders of a cow (or the way a cow's udders might look if the bovine beast were a woman instead of a bovine beast). Rather like women themselves, tits are protean (that's "protean," not "protein"). They're shape-shifters, fluctuating and variable. Therein lies much of the mystique and much of their appeal.



Tits can perform tricks, too. One tit can be lifted, nipple to mouth, while the other is left in place. They can both be cupped in one's hands, either by their owner or her lover and thus "juggled." They make handy substitutes for purses, as anyone knows who's ever seen a lady stuff a roll of dollar bills down her bra for safekeeping, and they can be of assistance in the application of a woman's lipstick, as anyone knows who's seen Molly Ringwald perform this trick in The Breakfast Club. For the more imaginative and adventurous woman, a hand-held dildo can become a tit-held playmate. Undeniably, tits have sex appeal. Even their mere presence can enhance a woman's career, as Dolly Parton's comment to Bill O'Reilly indicates: "Sometimes, I don't know whether I'm supporting them or they're supporting me."



In fact, whole careers have been built on tits--just ask Pamela Anderson or, for that matter, Hugh Hefner--or anyone in Hollywood. I mean, who'd give Selma Blair a second look if it weren't for her tits? Even the careers of women who have talent and glamour are enhanced by a flash of their tits. We watch Linda Lovelace for the prodigious talent of her esophagus, of course, but, if we're honest? Male or female, we check her tits even while she's busy swallowing the best of Harry Reams. And, be honest, when Swamp Thing mates with Adrienne Barbeau, are you watching his thing or her boobs?



Maybe that's why Bob Hope used to sing "thanks for the mammaries" at the conclusion of some of the shows he put on for overseas troops. He had a captive audience in the military forces for whom he performed, but it wasn't his comedy that interested them, it was the likes of Ann-Margaret and other living, breathing hooters who kept the soldiers' attention, whether in Korea, Vietnam, or some other hellhole. A whole "restaurant" franchise, Hooters, is built upon tits' resemblance, real or imagined, to owls' eyes. Unfortunately, even a decent pair of tits can't always save the day. Dana Plato, of TV's Different Strokes, tried to make a career comeback by exposing her tits in a few tawdry X-rated films, after committing armed robbery in Las Vegas, but, somehow, for her, the magic wasn't there, even though she did have some respectable hooters.



If you've been reading this essay closely (or at all), you've seen that tits go by many names. We call them boobs (women's favorite term), breasts (which medical doctors prefer), hooters, jugs, knockers, mammary glands (or just plain "mammaries" among friends), melons, and probably a score or more other euphemisms. A nicknames is supposed to be a sign of affection on the part of the person who bestows it (although some argue that it is actually an expression of condescension and contempt). If such is the case, any anatomical part that's acquired as many nicknames as tits has to be popular, without question.



In America (especially in Texas), nothing's ever big enough, especially tits (unless you happen to prefer bee-sting and thimble-size tits, as some do, since smaller tits are associated with youth, and young ladies are hard to beat in terms of beauty and, well, youth). Consequently, plastic surgeons make tons of money enlarging the size of female and shemale tits, performing, in some cases, as many "breast-augmentation procedures" on the same hard-to-please lady as the quack who continuously remodeled Michael Jackson's face. Some women and male-to-female transsexuals have been known to change tit size as often as they change their hair color. Most men, presumably even Zembick, tend to be content with breasts of any size, "A" through double" E," although Marilyn Monroe popularized 36-inch, "C"-cup hooters, and, for many, men and women alike, her example sets the standard.



There's a lot more I could (and should) say about tits. For example, some have argued that their very existence demonstrates the existence of God (see my essay, "Do Boobs Prove Intelligent Design?"), and I haven't even broached the subject of areolas and nipples or clothing that's designed exclusively for the support, enhancement, and exhibition of tits--bras and the like. I could go on, sharing random thoughts on tits forever and never tire of the subject, but you might, if you're less a tit lover than I am, and, besides, I have other pressing matters (such as a job) to which to tend, so, reluctantly, I must conclude my thoughts with a joke:



Wanting to marry, a rich old codger gave each of three beautiful young women a million dollars to invest on his behalf. A year later, he met with them to advise them as to how fruitful their investments had been. One woman had earned five million dollars on her million-dollar investment, he said; the second woman had earned ten million; and the third woman had earned twenty million dollars. Which one did he marry? The one with the biggest tits!



*



<i>Note: In case you were wondering, Andy Rooney did not write this essay. (He may have wanted to write it, but he didn't.) Also, just to be clear, no tits were hurt in the writing of this essay.</i> 

