I've always been obsessed with breasts, and most of the girls I've dated have been pretty busty. I had lots of fun with these girls, but believe me, it came at a price. I've spent many, many hours listening to what a terrible burden it is to have big tits. I've learned all about the backaches, the impossibility of finding a bra that actually fits, the construction workers who howl like lost puppy dogs at the sight of a well-endowed lady. I'm sure the suffering these girls endured was real, but they weren't getting any sympathy from me. I would have done anything to be blessed with a set of breasts on my chest, and as I listened to my girlfriends endlessly complain about their bodacious ta-tas, I felt like a legless man listening to a normal person whine about how much their feet hurt. 

Why should so many undeserving girls have so much, while those who would really appreciate a great rack (like me!) are cursed to walk the Earth bereft? If I had tits, I'd treat them with the respect they deserved. I'd buy them the best bras, and I'd showcase them in revealing (but tasteful) outfits. I'd wake up early every morning and stroke and pet and love my breasts for hours on end. Hell, I'd sing lullabies to the little fuckers at night. My breasts would want for nothing. 

As much as I adore breasts for their feel and their taste and the way they look peeking over a low-cut dress, I think the thing that fascinates me most about them is something I've never even seen in real life, at least not in my adult memory: their milk. Titty milk is such fantastic stuff. I dream of drinking it, making cakes and puddings with it, being milked... Oh, yeah. I'm especially enamored with the idea of milking machines, the kind farmers use on cows. I mean, can you imagine that? A big scary machine, with suction cups that hook up to your nipples and pump and pump the milk from your swollen boobies until you're so sore you can't take anymore? Doesn't it sound so deliciously ghastly? No? Well, um, maybe that's just me. 

Here's an exotic breast fantasy that never fails to leave me swooning. There this girl, the absolute pop-culture cliche of the pretty but repressed young lady: slim and flat-chested, with big horn-rims, hair in a tight bun, etc. One of those Lisa Loeb types. She's standing around on a busy street corner in the city, just minding her own business, probably waiting for a bus or something, when suddenly... her breasts begin to grow. She looks down and gasps as her expanding tits stretch her sweater tighter and tiiiiighter, until finally it rips open, exposing her massive bosom to the world. Everyone on the street gawks as the poor girl desperately tries to cover her still-swelling mammaries with her hands... 

Okay, I'm sick, but at least I know I'm not alone. There's a whole online subculture organized around the idea of breast expansion, and you wouldn't believe how many movies and TV shows have featured inflating gazongas. No episode of Benny Hill, for instance, is complete without at least one titty-growth gag, and the phenomenon has even made its way into such otherwise uninteresting shows as Caroline in the City and Ally McBeal. No wonder they call TV the boob tube! Knowing so many other people get off on this stuff makes me feel just a little less odd. It also gives me plenty of places to find bizarre boob fun. 

As desperately as I want a pair of my own boobs to play with, I have to content myself with fantasies for now. Hormone shots would leave my immune system in even sorrier shape than it already is, and implants would probably rupture or float around in my body until I wound up with a pair of D-cup knees, but eventually I might get so tired of my booblessness that I'll do whatever it takes to get myself a decent rack. Then at last I'll get to be somebody's busty girlfriend... and I suspect that I'll be so busy getting felt up and shopping for revealing (but tasteful) outfits that I won't pay much attention to the backaches, and the bras that don't fit, and the construction workers who howl like lost puppy dogs at the sight of me.