breasts of the challenging daughter

 

Breasts are the most beautiful things in the world.  Luxurious, comforting, wholesome, sexy.  Nourishing emotionally, sometimes nourishing physically.  Variable, soft.  Fun to draw–so curved and lovely.

I thank Mother God I have these pretty tits.  I like my smile, my hair, my eyes.  My mind, of course, and good intentions.  I appreciate my body’s functionality, for the most part trustworthy.  But my breasts are full-on beautiful.  Large, sensitive, responsive.

spouse’s breasts

My spouse was very thin when I met him nine years ago, and he gained weight over the years.  He’s gorgeous at any size.  Lately he has little chichis, which I love to touch and look at, subtle and real.  

I suck at his nipples; I like how they harden.  Sucking rhythmically to make a rhythmic slurping sound, while I touch him elsewhere.

Is he pretending to like it?  He likes it, but not extremely.  He likes me liking it.  I might as well enjoy whatever body parts he and I have, the available animals.

nipples, ex-es

Moseso, I like when he plays with mine–his mouth on one nipple, and his hand on another.  I like them touched gently.  I’ll take as much as he’ll give.

Last night by myself, I put some coconut oil on them.  It was a sweet kindness, like sex but very brief.  I felt my cunt respond, the rush of arousal-pleasure.  Something nice to do for myself–a moment, before bed.

I remember the breasts of my first girlfriend, my second girlfriend, a lady I made out with who never liked me back.  

A nursing mom I met, the friend of a friend, who had a circle of long, dark, curly hairs around each nipple.  

A comforting administrative assistant whose hugs helped me out, when I was young–her body was a home for me, a safe place I could sink into, a little bit.  Maybe she was a Goddess disguised as a worker at my school.

The breasts of a girl older than I was, in gymnastics–I couldn’t help but look, they were so round and high on her chest.  Almost like I couldn’t understand them.  I must have been eight.  I longed for her, as she twirled on the uneven bars, but she was in a world I could never enter.

first bra, no bra

Then when my mom made me wear a bra, how it hurt me, the scratchy constriction.  I was like–wow, you gotta be kidding me.  The price I was paying, for these new body parts that were growing on me, unasked for.

I have a radical friend who went around with no bra on, every day.  She lived on a farm and became my queer hero.  I thought she was very bold, to wear no bra; I felt I needed bras, to be safe–one more layer between me and creepy men who stare and seem to believe they have a right to look at me like that.

Gradually I started going without a bra, trying it out, and I love it.  One less article of clothing, product to buy, laundry item to wash.  No struggle to put it on, or how they fit, the right color to match my clothes.  It’s easier with no bra, and I don’t really care who’s looking.  Creeps will creep, and as I get older, they look less.

contact

Breasts are good for hugging.  Cleavage is a treat to behold, a hint.  My spouse and I watched a Beautiful Agony sample, saw someone masturbating.  It was fun to show him this site I liked a long time ago.  

The most delicious thing wasn’t the masturbator’s sounds, changing facial expressions, or orgasm moment–it was seeing the top part of her breasts and wishing to see more of them.  Her breasts–so luscious!  so charming!  They were my favorite part, definitely, though only the very tops of them were visible.

Being around nursing parents is sweet, when a kid wants some milk, and the breast is available so easily.  I feel happy for breasts being appreciated in all the possible ways–by a hungry kid, aroused lover,  hugging friend, porn actor’s movements that I want to masturbate about, pretending I could have sex with her, or be her, getting off on my spouse being aroused too.

Or just seeing all the ways breasts can be, a microcosm of the miracle of human possibility, animal possibility.  Go team mammal.

woman style

I don’t feel cis, and I find gender to be a joke, but I’m good at being a woman.  A lot of who I am corresponds to cliche woman traits: I’m caring, empathetic, nurturing, a good listener.  I like pink–sure.  I don’t mind someone holding open a door for me.  Often I defer, oversmile, and give a lot, automatically.

But I’m a non-mom, having no kids or pets.  I was a challenging daughter, but my parents are both dead now.  I don’t wear makeup, earrings, or high heels–I’m not small.  Sometimes I accidentally break things.  My legs are strong.

I’m large and rounded, an Earth Goddess, barefoot and not pregnant, full of vibrant energy, potential, and queer magic.  Growing gardens, making soup, making peace with hippies of all kinds, performing rituals, singing in several languages, making love with kind people who know how to love, being who I am with a ton of authenticity.  Loyal and overflowing with compassion, while taking no shit.

Always with me, my breasts bring me a lot of pleasure.  My cunt is very good but mysterious.  My breasts are not that mysterious–more obvious and easy to understand.