I'm a sucker for big breasts (ok, bad choice of words) and all my friends know it. My friend s knows about it, and rags me all the time when I start to consider women who are less generously endowed. And as I look at my blogroll here, I realize that many of the women have big boobs, I mean really big boobs, the kind of frontage where you wind up looking at their chests when you're talking to them, rather than their faces.
About a year ago I went to lunch with Tess, the Urban Gypsy, and it was all I could do not to jump into her cleavage. And she knew it, I know she did, because every once in a while I'd slip, and I'd wind up talking to her cleavage, catch myself and look up. And she'd just smirk.
I train in the gym every weekday morning, and the woman on the treadmill next to me today didn't have big boobs. But she wasn't wearing a bra either, and it was heavenly to watch her smallish boobs bounce up and down in rhythm to her cadence.
My first serious girlfriend in high school had softball size breasts, and my first serious older woman had boobs that were even bigger, so much more than a handful that I was constantly lost in them, having her sit up and dangle them one by one into my waiting mouth, smothering my with her huge tits, the round aureole being well over 3" across.
Springtime and summer are my favorite times of the year, and not only because I can get to the beach. It's the time when every woman in NYC figures out that she has a set of ta-tas just itching to be on display, and it's time to show skin.
Every woman has figured this out, even Her. She's lately started to sport cleavage, wear the occasional half bra that allows for some bounce. She's still withholding in the time She'll allow me to suck on her nipples, always being the one to stop, to brush my mouth away.
But it's something.