(04/21/2008) I was a very late bloomer. Throughout high school and all the way up to my mid-twenties, I was an average 34B. Then, while living in New York, I went up to a 36DD within a few months. Before you ask, no Upper East Side surgeon had anything to do with my cups going from half full to running over. I attribute it to a Washington Heights' Santoria priestess. It is the only explanation. I am seriously about 90% certain that my boyfriend at the time paid a voodoo woman in our building several chickens to bless my breasts. Thanks to both of them…even though I never really felt lacking, I must admit having the girls is great.
For the past ten years, I have wielded my cleavage like a Viking wields a mace and have slain a slew of foes with it. You can tell whether I’m feeling witty or not by how low cut my dress is. If I have nothing to say that day, I let the girls do the talking. And they don’t just talk to straight men. Gay men adore a good rack. Women, both lesbian and not, respond to breasts, too. Breasts are friendly, playful sorts of creatures…like otters…though hopefully not that hairy.
I myself can’t help becoming mesmerized by certain mammaries…especially when there is something shiny helping attract my gaze. Yesterday, I met this woman with huge boobs and a silver and ruby crucifix. It was very disturbing…Christ on a cross dangling between her bodacious set…I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I found myself saying the Lord’s Prayer to her decolletage.
Now, I’m going to say a prayer for my own:
As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray my perkiness to keep,
But if they fall before I wake,
I’ll accept it and not resort to fake.
(08/15/2012) To simultaneously mourn my bosom, and celebrate “Bad Poetry Day.”
The Pencil Test
When I was twenty-three or so,
I was administered a test.
It required gravity and a pencil.
And you took it with your breasts.
As the pencil was placed beneath my boob,
I held my breath in fear.
Until the lead-filled judge declared,
That I could still go without a brassiere.
You see, if the pencil stayed suspended,
My bra-free days were no more.
However, I could still run bare breasted,
If it clattered to the floor.
The pencil plummeted with lightening speed,
Which meant my breasts were perky, indeed.
I gloated, and grinned, and giggled with glee.
An ignorant girl of 36D,
With no clue of what cruel fate had in store for me.
At twenty-eight, the pencil faltered.
But, alas it finally fell.
When it stuck in the pink shag rug,
I let out a triumphant yell.
But when I tried at thirty-two,
The pencil stuck like superglue.
My explanation—the implement was faulty.
I refused to be disheartened.
So, I grabbed another pencil—
The fat kind they use in kindergarten.
It took a shimmy of my shoulders
And a shake of my hip,
To convince the chubby pencil,
To surrender its mean grip.
At thirty-eight, even the blind could deduce
That no pencil around was going to come loose.
So, I grabbed a marker by Crayola,
And oiled it down with Canola.
Then slathered butter on my skin,
To make certain I would win.
That night, I went out on the town--
Bra-less and bragging,
Refusing to accept the fact,
That my tits were sagging.
I retook the test at forty-four,
And discovered much to my chagrin,
My boobs can now hold a whole crayon box--
The big one with Burnt Sienna and the sharpener built in.
Twas certain death for my old friend vanity,
So, now I hang with peace and sanity.
The moral of this story…if it has one at all:
In the battle against time, even the bravest warriors fall.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.