C of Disillusion

Breasts are like a Michelangelo masterpiece. Something compels me to stare in admiration at the fleshy mounds. Like a silent stupor that stills you in front of a great work of art. I experienced that once at the Louvre, when I came across Michelangelo's "Dying Slave". I just stopped, breath abated, absorbing the beauty of his work. Except instead of housed in a gallery of stone and marble, breasts are shrouded in folds of cheap cotton/poly blends. Also, museum-goers generally stop short of woof whistling at a favored work.

Perhaps it's uncharacteristically odd for a female to be intrigued by them. I don't want to poke or prod or anything unseemly. I don't want to "motorboat" or suckle. Just blatantly stare, maybe throw a compliment their way. Occasionally fighting the urge to toss a wadded up straw wrapper between them for a 3-pointer.

If I were to psychoanalyze and try to trace the root of my fascination, I may wind my way back to the halls of 7th grade. 7th grade for a girl is rough. 7th grade for a flat-chested, glasses-wearing Jehovah's witness is rougher. Then throw in one year prior of homeschooling and you've whipped up one socially unsavory student body member who may as well just go ahead, get acne and braces and get it over with.

Each year of life brings new revelations and discoveries. 7th grade was the year for the stinging snap of bras, where these constricting contraptions were like newly found gold in the Klondike. All of a sudden it was a mad rush for the backside, right between the blades.

Being a fan of tormenting visions, I entertained various scenarios, all involving me against a group of leering boys. I'd sit at the lunch table, back against the wall, storming up a list of quick retorts to their teasing jabs. In my case though, the jabs wouldn't come because of the fascinating development occurring beneath the shirt causing them so much confused angst, but due to the lack of. And there it was! The torment of my vision, whereby the jeers and chortles took a turn towards derision once discovered that I was the .9% of those not wearing a bra.

Oh breasts, why doth thou forsake me?

A training bra wouldn't have made things any better; it'd be like having a car with no wheels, just sitting there developing rust on my chest due to non-use. The trainers weren't even pleasing to look at, just matronly swaths of basic white cotton bearing no resemblance to those I saw slung around the house by my mom and sister to dry. Times are a-changing though. Nestled on top of my luggage, while visiting my sister, was a cute little flowery number; I picked it up by the strap, dangling it front of me, confirming it wasn't mine. My 13-year old niece pops her head in. "Oh, that's where my bra went!"

"You better watch it," I tease. "I might just take it."

I fling it at her. "Of course," I smirk. "It wouldn't be big enough anyway so you're off the hook."

She looks over, summing me up. "What size do you wear?"

"34 C." Yah, baby! I resist high-fiving her.

"Oh!" she beams. "We wear the same size!"

Mother fucking chicken. What are we doing to our youth, bombarding them with growth hormones upon growth hormones? And more importantly, why in the hell did I decide to start eating organic?