Can a Boob Lover Change His Ways?

Gosh, I hope so. I'm not a boob man by choice; I inherited it. My dad is the only bigger fan of mammarian protuberances than myself that I know. I really do think that it's been a lifelong thing for me, ever since my first uncomfortable woody that came at the hands of some big booby girl on "The Benny Hill Show." I was sitting on the carpet watching with the family, and I remember being scared that something was wrong with me, and I had to get up and leave the room with an awkward gait, pushing my little (at the time) business downward. Damn you, Benny and your fast motion boob women and the little old guy patting everyone on their heads! And damn you boobs in general!



I don't want to like them so much. I really don't. My brain knows that they're nothing more than fleshy mounds of fat, so in the grand scheme of things, they shouldn't be a deciding factor in how I choose my mate. Sense of humor, intelligence, a good conversationalist, and being a good human being are way higher on my list, but when I come face-to-face (or face to nipple(s)) with a nice set, the whole organizational chart of my criteria shifts dramatically. And that's just wrong, right?

I even try to literally ween myself off of them, tricking my brain by watching . . . movies of women with not so big "thingies," but I always end up . . . finishing up with some buxom, coked up "actress." Again I say damn you, titty women! I don't want to like you anymore. Your giant chests cloud my judgment and throw my priorities all out of whack. I want to meet the woman who stimulates my mind and makes me laugh every day, not just a woman who fills out a sweater really well. I'd like to say I could get both in one, but we all know that's a pipe dream; just isn't happening. That's like chasing the "white whale."

How about you, Seven Readers? Do you like something in a mate that you wish you didn't?