I love big breasts. I know just about every guy says that, but here's the thing: I'm not a guy. Yet every time a large-breasted woman passes me on the street I am drawn to her. It’s not so much a sex thing, although a nice rack has occasionally made a guest appearance in my sexual fantasies.
Sometimes my husband and I will talk about someone’s cleavage that I’ve just been checking out.
“Do you like those boobs, honey?” I'll ask.
“Only if they’re real,” he always responds.
I feel the exact same way, but for a different reason. For me, it's more about a deep emotional connection to big, soft, voluminous breasts than it is about anything (excuse the pun) titillating.
I've always had a visceral attraction and maternal attachment to plus-size, large-breasted women—two (appropriately) in particular, neither of whom were my mother. My mom has always been small. She never dieted a day in her life, was a little pregnant lady and a pint-sized mommy. She was very big in all other ways—personality, opinion, strength and humor—just not dress size. Luckily, I had my big, soft grandmother and large, loving housekeeper to charm and soothe me with their savagely humongous breasts.
One of my favorite childhood flashbacks takes place in the back of my father's dark green Ford station wagon, nuzzled up against my Nana's huge boob. She was fat, comforting and supple, like a feather mattress. Her hugs felt like the world was warm and welcoming. She smelled of Jean Naté, and her skin was like fresh biscuit dough. God, how I longed for those road trips.
We also went to her apartment for Saturday night dinners, and I remember the smell of spaghetti sauce and meatballs wafting through the hallway as I raced to her door. “Nana!” I’d yell, almost in a panic. “Open up now!” And there she was in her ruffled apron, barely covering her plump frame, holding a wooden spoon in one hand while reaching out for me with the other. She would smother me to her bosom until I couldn't breathe, and I loved every second of it.
And then there was Lillian, who was more a second grandma to me than she was our housekeeper. She had big, bouncing cleavage and soft, pliable love handles, often bulging out from inside bright pink or orange polyester. Her whole body jiggled when she hugged me as soon as I came in from school. It was the personification of caring and love.
When I was seven, I had walking pneumonia and had to stay home for two months. Lillian sat by my side every day as we worked on a 2,000 piece jigsaw puzzle together.
"I need my hug," I'd plead with her.
"Not while you so sick, child," she said, "but soon and big smooches too."
I counted on these big, beautiful women and their big, beautiful breasts, particularly the way they used them—to succor and nurture. When my husband pulls me in for a squeeze, his hands always find the softest, fullest part of my body. “The rump roast,” as we call it. It feels sexy, but more importantly, it feels real and safe. Like home.
To be honest, my ample butt is probably a substitute for my lack of cup size and I do sometimes wish my breasts were larger. I mean, they’re OK—full enough to show some nice cleavage, and high and round enough to turn a head or two. I once considered getting implants right after a good friend had done it, but cooler heads prevailed. When I really thought about it, I like my body just fine.
I'm not as zaftig as my Nana or Lillian – my human memory foam pillows – but the place they hold in my heart is positively bodacious.