Don't Look a Gift Tit in the Mouth

I'd like to start this post by thanking all of our readers for being so patient, particularly you male readers. No offense, Dominique, but there's something a little alienating as a man to keep visiting this blog and seeing a big ol' photograph of a melted dildo. Honestly, I think my roommate was getting a little worried about my ability to represent the male sex perspective when he saw that up on my screen.

But, potential homosexual leanings aside, it's time for the topic at hand. Or mouth, as it were. Straight ladies, it may be time for you to go powder your nose for a while or find a website on pie-making that may be of interest for you. Male readers with an affection for parts that are not female? Same to you. Why? Because this post is going to be one big, long tribute to the non-discriminating worship of whazongas; a celebration of sweater muffins; a veritable jamborie of jubbly love, dedicated to all you knocker knaves and hottentot hound dogs.

Scientists and psychologists rationalize the male preoccupation with breasts as a simple issue of survival; our subsistence and survival depends on the nourishment provided by breasts when we are infants, and this develops into a sexual interest and even obsession after adolescence. This explanation seems to fall flat, however, because you don't see women enjoying each other's breasts anywhere near as often (trust me: I keep my eyes WIDE open for that particular phenomena, and I don't think I'm the only disappointed voice in the choir of men bemoaning its general absence.) Moreover, women don't even seem to enjoy their OWN breasts anywhere near often enough, so clearly there must be some greater significance than that which becomes attached during infancy.

I can vividly remember my first real encounter with breasts. No, I'm not about to relate some pervy story about being a ravenous little hoover attached to my mother's yam-yams. Give me a little more credit than that. I was 10 years old. My regular babysitter was a friend of my mother's, a woman in her 30s with breasts the size of bicycle tires. She was a favorite in our house of boys because she never shied away from rough-housing or playing war. Anyway, it was a regular Thursday afternoon. Mom was out "grocery shopping" and Judy and my brothers and I were playing tag in the yard. I was it, and ran up to tag Judy. She had tripped and stopped running, so I could have smacked her anywhere. I paused. I smiled. I slowly extended my arm, and grabbed her breast. I squeezed. It felt amazing; like nothing I'd ever really felt before; it was soft and yet firm, warm and maleable, and I couldn't help myself. The moment only lasted about a second before she knocked me down and dragged me in to time out, but I knew I was hooked.

Since then, it's been a pretty consistent goal of mine to get better acquainted with this particular topography of the female landscape, and even after 10 years, I have yet to meet a breast I didn't like. I don't care if a woman has more C's in her bra than on an average student's report card, or if she has nothing more than two aspirin on an ironing board: if there be nipples and some skin leading up to them, I'm probably going to be enthralled. I love the way they feel; the way they rise and fall, the way they respond to being squeezed, the way they change with the temperature or with the mood. I love the way they look in all their stages; the taut mystery of their hiding behind a sweater, their inviting, curvy friendliness behind a well-fitted bra, and the awe-inspiring exposure of their complete nudity. And, yes; whether it's a freudian dysfunction or a completely natural urge, I. love. them. in. my. mouth.

Sure, this can be a problem sometimes, because not all women a) are interested or b) are familiar with the sensation of a man nibbling on her nums. But I've found this to be a manageable obstacle. Of course, (and this one's for you, Dean Kneser and any women who are offended enough to send him an e-mail about this,) I never pressure a woman to accept the attentions I have to offer her and her gal's. I simply offer an invitation and make sure that, if she accepts, I make it memorable. Er, mammorable. Wait, nope: memorable.

I contemplated saying exactly what it is I like to do when I have breasts in my mouth; the subtle circles my tongue draws, the proper combination of teeth, lips, and tongue a man should keep in mind, the feedback I have gotten, but I don't think it'd actually be that helpful: everyone needs to find their own balance. Maybe some of you guys and your girlfriends aren't into the whole mouth-on-chest thing; maybe she's into your hands, or perhaps you've crossed into that mythological land most men merely dream of, where your...erhm...lower parts to get to nestle up between her..alright. You get the idea. My only message to male readers is: do not look a gift tit in the mouth. A breast is a blessing; any breast that a woman is good enough to bestow upon you is one for which you should be truly grateful. Maybe it's not what you expected; maybe it's different, bigger or smaller or softer or harder than what you had anticipated. But good god, man; any breast in the mouth is better than two in the bush! It is your duty (again, only if you're a heterosexual) to make every woman know that her breasts are the best breasts you've ever seen. Don't worry if it's not true; if they're the ones you're stuck with for the rest of your life it'll be a comfortable lie to get accustomed to, and if they're not, then it will at least make everybody happier for the time being.

To the ladies who may be reading this post: know your power. You have the capacity to drive a man absolutely crazy with those things. When you wear those low cut shirts and drop something in class, we try really, really hard not to look but 9 times out of 10, there's just no helping. When you lean in to ask us something or to give us a hug and the edge of your warm, soft breasts graze against us, you have our undivided attention. And, when you finally, finally bless us with a glimpse of the whole kit and kaboodle, we are, for that instant, the luckiest guys in the world. You may scoff at your soft, subtle silhouette of A-cup proportions, or frown at your generous D-cups as they swing low sweet chariots that they are, but I can pretty much guarantee that if you have nipples attached to them, we want to see.

In fact, just to prove that we, or at least I want to see all breasts of all shapes, sizes, colors, textures, etc. I encourage my readers to take pictures of just their breasts and send them to olevillains@gmail.com with subject header "for Under The Covers." Naked, clothed; in a bra, in a swimsuit, in your hands, in someone else's hands- I don't care. Oleville has photo contests, so I think it's about time Olevillains did as well. Send me your breasts, ladies, and next post we'll advertise the winner (no names and no faces, of course. Unless...that is...you're REALLY into your own breasts, in which case...we'll be in touch. Literally. )