I kept pulling up her shirt. She resisted. I pulled on her pants and panties. They came off without much fuss. Back to the shirt. More resistance. She’s tugging down on her shirt while her lower half is completely naked and grinding into my crotch. Weird. Are the boobs really that much more precious to a woman than the pussy? Then I discovered the answer.
Fake tits. Super fake. Like the kind that bumped up an A to a C. The kind where you could see the outline of the bag along the perimeter of the boob. Unnaturally pert. Egregiously firm.
But the worst? The feel. Under clothes, fake tits look great. Superb, even. Parade them around the National Cathedral and be the envy of your friends and neighbors. But naked? Disturbing visual. And they felt like rocks stuffed under a nipple.
No soft supple malleable sponginess. Just rocks.
Such a pretty girl.
As soon as my cupped hands encountered the immoveable objects that were her breasts, I knew she would never be girlfriend worthy.
What goes through a guy’s head when he’s got a hot chick halfway home to sex and he caresses silicone under a taut drum head of flesh?
I’ll tell you what.
Don’t give too much of yourself to this girl. Keep it superficial, just like her tits.
This is a chick who lives and dies by her beauty. A trophy wife in training. A girl who doesn’t mind being an accessory on the arm of a powerful man who is fucking ten other women. A strategist. A status whore. A decepticon. A cipher.
A girl who reapplies her makeup every fifteen minutes.
And I was right.
There’s room in the world for those types of women. Just not my world.
So I offer some advice to small-boobed women.
Don’t butcher yourselves.
You look great under a sweater with augmentation.
But I’m not fucking a sweater.
And that’s what really matters.
No, it isn’t?
Warning: I wrote this drunk and post-coital at 5am. Reconsiderations pending. Reader beware.