Okay, the deal is, I'm queer for girls. Have been since about seventh grade. I love absolutely everything about them, including boobies, of course. From the tiniest beginners through all the cups in the real world. When I stumbled into a digital art web site featuring photo morphs of enlarged breasts, a quirky new fantasy dimension came into focus, a bigger-than-life image. As unthumbed archive pictures developed line by line on my screen, I heard a little voice urging, "More!" Then as an inward curving of the bosom line signaled the limit of the artist's fancy, my little voice breathed a sigh of disappointment. It was only a few, like the most generous visions of the incomparable Dr. Ivan, that made the little voice go, "Mmmmmm!"
So I began to wonder whether my fantasy domain had limits: is there such a thing as "Too Big"? After but a short wait, the clerk of my consciousness was back with a mental picture of Button Woman attached to a Hindenburg Bosom. Yes, that's goofy! So,for me, "Too Big" was not an empty set.
On my way back toward the real world from this absurdity, I slowed down to create a few images like a Virginia Bell with enough bosom on the turf to go for a first down. Still way "too big," but strangely pleasing to my eye. And the creation of a story line of what has happened (or is about to) in these images was a creative writing snap. As I explored the space between "too big" and "mmmmm" through creation of a series of my own BE images, my thoughts turned to the question of where this fantasy fascination might have come from.
More than once a male preoccupation with breasts has been ridiculed as infantile. Is this merely an angry woman's insult? Or might it contain a significant truth? After all, we were all there once upon a time, in a place where all our needs were met: we were warm, fed, sung to and petted, loved and secure at the center of our universe. Science types assure us that there are no "real" memories from infancy (memory kicking in, they guess, at about the time of language acquisition). But do not common sense and experience suggest that there may well be prelanguage and sublinguistic processes of consciousness that keep us in touch, at least affectively, with this lost paradise of infancy? Each of us, once upon a time, was The Chosen, and, "There were giants in the earth in those days." Nursing infants' bliss looks very like an archetypal seed of a variety of fantasies, mythologies and social organizations: Amazon, Valkyrie, giantess, female domination stories, goddess religions ("Holy Mary, Mother of God"), Wicchan, matriarchal societies, and so on. And it surfaces again as the most popular pet name in blues and pop love lyrics, "Oh, Baby!"
If this conjecture is correct, then women as well as men should enjoy femininity (including boobies), certainly their own and sometimes each others. Well? Exactly this is the situation we find except among those unfortunate women (and men) whose psyches have been crippled or twisted by religions (mostly patriarchal) that hate the real, natural world, especially the sexy parts. Healthy, sane women do respect and like themselves and all their parts. And in a variety of degrees and ways, each other too. QED
So, scaling up from the archetypal seed of the nursing infant to adult sizes, if the newborn is roughly equivalent in mass to its bosomic cosmos, my personal fantasy recapture of this paradise lost would weigh in at about 240 pounds. In fact, this preference is roughly what I discovered in my own digital enhancement explorations, give or take a hundred pounds or so.
Little people who have condemned themselves exclusively to a compulsive realism may offer reasons to object to the mythical dimensions shown in this gallery. Be it noted, however, that these love goddess creatures exist in a domain where there are no back pains, no need to catch a bus, or cram into a Miata, or suffer the rude remarks of little pig men on the street; and gravity is not permitted to inflict its cruelest tyrannies upon mass and connective tissue. The goddess has no need for greater mobility than that which is required to adjust to the next selected page of the Kama Sutra. Her only reason for existing is to preside over her own ecstasies and those of her chosen devotee, by whom she may be held close and chummy. If you can view her in that light, enjoy. If not, "Hasta la vista, Baby."
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