My friends are always teasing me about a particular trait that I seem to share with straight men all over the world. No matter how hard I try, I just cannot keep from checking out a woman’s breasts. Believe me, I appreciate all the beautiful aspects of women – inside and out. Inevitably, however, the first thing my eyes always focus on is those beautiful curves that declare to all the world – there’s a woman.
One of my gay boyfriends – an actual boyfriend that turned gay later – remarked sardonically that I must not have been breastfed. Actually, I think I was, but I hardly think that is related. My Mother has tiny breasts. She has sarcastically noted several times that I not only had my share of breasts – I had hers too. No, much to Freud’s probable dismay – my breast fetish has nothing to do with dear Mom. On the other hand, I think my gay male’s continuous commentary on my breast fetish had everything to do with his mother. I never met a man more obsessed with breasts – though gay men do seem to have an odd fascination with them… but that is another column.
Yes, on the surface it may appear I’m just some sort of lecherous dyke with a hard-on for bouncy chests. I think, however, that my somewhat annoying habit of speaking to a grrl’s chest goes deeper than that.
You see, I love women. Okay, you say, that’s obvious – you’re a dyke, of COURSE you love women. Well, yes, but let me take that a bit farther.
I love women. Not just those glorious curves that draw my eyes like magnets. I love everything about women. How they smell, how they walk, the pitches of their voices. I revel in the way a woman thinks, how she reacts, how she views the world around her in an indefinable female way. Even the most butch among us – is female in an indefinable but powerful way.
There are women in the world who are lesbians, I believe, primarily because they don’t want men. There are also women who can love both women and men in equal measure – and enjoy them both in every way. Not me. I am firmly, in every aspect, a hardcore and permanent dyke. Though I’ve been with men in the distant past – I always just thought they were missing something – as well as having a few things extra I wasn’t interested in. They were too hard, too scratchy, smelled wrong and were, well, men.
The first time I kissed a girl – I instantly let out a huge sigh of relief. Finally, I knew where I belonged! The sweet, soft mouth, the smooth curves, the feeling of female flesh against female flesh – it was so incredibly right.
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We’ve all heard it before – or said it. This is nothing new, and doesn’t explain my inability to register a woman’s face before staring at her chest. Right? I’m not so sure about that. To me, the one feature that defines, quite distinctly, a woman, is those beautiful curves perched so perfectly quite a few inches below her face. Yes, we have other equipment that is quite distinctive from the male form – but most of the time those are not publicly displayed, too bad really.
Breasts are beautiful not just because of how they look – but because of what they represent. They are a glorious and prominent example of our femaleness. They represent our sexuality – and our ability to bring forth life. Breasts are both lust-provoking and comforting. Everything about them screams of femininity and the pure female essence that so entrances me. Butch, femme, andro – we’re all women – and no matter how small, large or bound they are, we’ve all got them. They are a representation of the deeper, spiritual connection we feel for each other. There is no experience in the world as when like meets like – and connects in mind, body, spirit or all of them together. Breasts are a beautiful, outward definition of the undeniable woman we all have beneath our skin.
I’m not saying that I won’t find a woman any less female (or attractive) if she doesn’t have breasts, either by choice or through medical circumstances. I’ll stare at their chest just as much. The absence of physical breasts does not remove the spiritual knowledge of them.
So, when I catch myself staring at a woman’s breasts, I am not just appreciating their loveliness. Though I love a woman with a gorgeous chest – I don’t restrict my wandering eyes to just those I find attractive. Femme or butch, straight or dyke, I talk to the breasts of women of all types, sizes and persuasions. I don’t stare at a woman’s breasts because I lust after them – I stare at them because I love them. I love those lovely curves in the same way I love the essence of a woman’s heart, spirit and mind. They are simply the most perfect things I’ve ever seen – every time I see them.
© 2005 Laura Vess, All Rights Reserved
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