I don’t know if it was my adaptation to married life and the acceptance that if I was going to be committed to my marriage that “extracurricular” full on sexual activity would not be an option; perhaps it was always a lingering fixation that hadn’t come to fruition and would remain dormant until my 30’s. Whatever it is, I am breast obsessed! There are certain things of the human anatomy that we tend to take for granted when they are a part of us. Gone are the days of boyish boisterous boasting of penile splendor. I don’t even imagine, as I did insanely in my youth that anyone would care to see it, prompting me to whip the monkey out during any and nearly every make out session. As I sit here however, on my side of the fence, I realize that I want to see the breasts of nearly every woman I consider attractive, but appealing to me in even the most casual (often platonic) way.

Burdened with the sorely painful knowledge that all breasts, nipples and areole are as unique as fingerprints I burn in my desire for the knowledge of them. V necks, blouses, bikini tops and even turtle neck sweaters are a taunting denial, mere puzzles in the enigma of glorious mammary knowledge. I have an affinity for the unintentional (better known as the nipple slip) and the awkward anxiety of my social interaction of women I know is appeased with the inadvertent or voluntary knowledge of the fact that I have “been to the land of milk and honey.”

My sexual frustrations abated. We can be friends. I don’t need to behave in typical manly fashion with unwanted advances. I am content. I have seen your breasts.

The crisis for now in some peculiar Oedipus-like fashion, has been averted.

I give you, my breast obsession.

 – Anonymous

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