It’s probably a good thing that I don’t have huge boobs. Because if I did, I’d be shoving them in people’s face like no one’s business.
On one hand, I kind of wish I was stacked. Because if you throw a rock at any straight dude (although holy catnip, why are you throwing rocks at people? Maybe you should go to an anger-management class or something, psycho), he’s gonna like boobs. The bigger, the better (at least until you get to, like, floor-dragging size. Unless he’s into that). Big ta-tas win out over small ones, every time, with very few exceptions. And being a B-cup, I’ll never have that “voluptuous sexy” thing going on. Suuuuucks for me.
But, flip side, I really like my girls. They’re perky and symmetrical and when I don’t wear a bra, they don’t unravel like Froot-by-the-Foots or something (if you’re saying, “Big boobs don’t do that!” well, I’ve seen things. Terrible things). And I like that I can wear low-cut shirts and skimpy stuff and not look like a complete whore (just like a kind-of-sort-of-slutty mini-whore). Plus they don’t smack me in the face when I go running, and not getting bitch-slapped by your own anatomy is always a plus.
But since I don’t think the Boob Fairy is going to sweep into my room in the middle of the night and dazzle me with a pair of D-cups, I’m just gonna have to rock what I’ve got. Possibly by walking around topless and yelling, “Yeah, that’s right, I have awesome tits,” whenever people stare. Because that’s normal.