I should have been born a boy. In fact, up until the moment of my screaming arrival, my parents and the doctor were convinced I was a boy. They had a lovely boy name picked out for me and everything. I wrecked their plans when I had a whoohoo instead of a willy.

But I wonder if all that male confusion somehow imprinted itself onto my personality while I was in utero. Not that I’m not feminine, and my darling Boo will attest to the fact that I not only have all the right female parts but I know how to use them, (wink, wink) but like boys, I am fascinated by one thing.

Actually, a pair of things. Boobs.

I love boobs. Tits, love sacks, fun bags, the girls, breasts. I’ll take them all. I tease Boo if he were to grow a pair he’d be the perfect man. However, since he’s not much of a cross-gendered transvestite, I have to make do like most of the male persuasion, and oogle.

I love a good pair.  So oogle I do. I try not to be obvious about it, but a good pair of melons captures my attention every time. I am not really interested in the nipple aspect of the boob, just the mammary itself. The shape, the size, the heavy weight of the objects in particular. I’m not really fussy; I appreciate a good pair, but let’s be honest. The bigger the better.My best friend is convinced I love boobs because I forgot to stand in line up when God was handing out the goods. Always tardy, I apparently got in line at the end, when only the A-cups were available. It could have been worse. I could have got AA’s.
  I was very conscious of my lack of development growing up. I thought I hit the boob jackpot when I finally got pregnant. But lucky me, my stomach protruded more every day while my boobs remained the same. Wasn’t I just thrilled when they started to sag southwards after breast feeding. (You’d be surprised how far south those little puppies can drop.)

I now have grown to appreciate my little set. I’ve decorated them and learned how to make them seem bigger than they really are. I have invested heavily in water bras, pushup bras, underwires, chicken cutlets, foam inserts and even occasionally a roll of duct tape. (Best invention ever!)

I have made peace with my pair. My husband is fond of them. They worked when I asked them to and they haven’t dropped to my ankles yet. So why is it, when I see a woman, attractive or not, I just itch to grab her boobs? Just to cop a quick feel. Are they soft, are they real? Do they really feel like the big cottony cushions they resemble?

Is this normal? Do I have some not-so-latent lesbian fascination? Am I alone in my love of the boob?

(Standing up from behind her computer screen and raising her hand) Hi, my name is T and I am enchanted by boobs. Especially your boobs. Please keep them well covered and out of arms reach (and I have freakishly long arms) so as not to entice my obsession.

Or come a little closer and undo that top button. Which ever floats your boat. I promise not to complain either way.