A beautiful woman walked by the other day. She’s dressed for work, not super sexy, not super feminine, but she looks very nice. I notice her breasts: round, springy, bouncy. They aren’t large and they are bouncing with each step she takes.
Part of me notices in a sleeps-with-women way. I think about what those breasts might look like bare. I imagine them firm and springing in my hands. That Cake lyric: she’s got a silk dress and healthy breasts / That bounce on his Italian leather sofa... What could I do to make them bounce for me?
And then, a beat later, the raised-as-a-woman part of me thinks: she’s not wearing a bra. And the way she’s holding herself, rounding her shoulders forward a little, head down and walk apologetic, I bet she regrets it.
I wish I could have told her that her bouncing breasts are beautiful to me.
Why is it so often that the very thing that is lovely and alive and striking is also a source of shame?