I love being a mammal. I really do. It beats the hell out of pretty much any other earth-based option available to me. There’s a whole pie of reasons why, but let’s take a tiny slice and examine it in more detail. Well, hopefully not too tiny. Let’s talk about boobies. It’s clear that everyone loves them. Men, women, babies, teens… Haven’t checked in with the elderly yet but I’m pretty sure I know the answer. Men love to gaze. Women grab their friends’ for photos. Or their own for their man. They are a source of comfort, nourishment, and sexual appeal. Personal experience tells me that how a woman thinks about her boobies has a significant impact on how she feels about herself. Much money is spent trying to make them look biggersmallerperkierpushedtogetherliftedandseperatedfrilledlacilyetcetc. Depending on the woman, there is often a desire to move up or down a size…and when done they end up feeling better about the way they look…and about themselves in whole. Like here.
I don’t completely understand our relationship with the thing that make us mammals. Well, things, I guess. But I don’t care. I love being around women who feel good about themselves…who look in the mirror and smile. Women who aren’t trying to make themselves pretty, but who recognize and celebrate their beauty.
Who express their sexuality naturally and easily. In my mind there’s no better litmus test for how free a woman is than in how she presents her boobies.
Or acting out Darwinian based reproductive urges.
Or trying to find a higher meaning to what is simply a base, carnal reaction to stimuli.
But the truth is I don’t really give a damn. I find the stimuli soooooo stimulating!
If this is the matrix, I don’t ever want to leave.