|SPRINGTIME FOR BOOBIES! OUR PANEL OF LADIES WAXES OFF ON BREASTS.|
|By Amy Blair, Pauline Millard, Tracy Weiss & Claire Zulkey||
Girls, we have a lot of reasons to love our breasts. After all, they score us jobs and boyfriends! But despite those practical uses, one application sadly goes overlooked. Few realize they can save you a lot of headaches in the bedroom. That's right -- not only can you use them to lure potential boyfriends and husbands, but you can also use them to get him off when you're just not in the mood for sex. We all know that getting the job done, so to speak, can take a lot of work, especially if you are just not in the mood. Ladies, for that reason I openly advocate the use of what I call Option #3.
Some nights you're just not up for the old Ace-In-The-Hole. We've all experienced it. You have cramps. You got a bad haircut. Your parakeet died. No matter the reason, you just don't feel like doing it, despite how badly you want to please your man. (Which is what we're here for, right?)
Option #3 is, well, it's a girl's free ride to making her man happy without the bother of all that work. You just lay back, fold your left arm across your chest, occasionally cheer him on and relax. Think about it: Option #1 makes your hand tired. Option #2 will make your jaw ache. Who needs it? Option #3 is no muss, no fuss.
Not only is it hassle-free, but it's also a surprisingly good time management tool. Option #3 affords you the rare opportunity to put your breasts to a good use while simultaneously giving you some much-needed downtime to think and reflect upon your day! In our modern society, too often we ladies are bogged down with holding down a job and keeping the house in order, while still trying to keep our men satisfied. As a result, we never get a second to ourselves.
Before discovering Option #3, I never had a free moment to think. When giving Option #1 or 2, you're worried about your technique. Whether or not it's working. Whether or not he likes it. Now that I have Option #3, I can please my man while simultaneously thinking about how I am going to ask for that raise at work! How my garden will look after the begonias come up! Whether or not I should buy that jacket that I've had my eye on all spring!
If you are not using it already, I personally guarantee that Option #3
will change your life. Use those breasts, girls, and give yourselves time
Amy Blair is a freelance writer based in New York. She plays football.
Nobody likes their breasts -- they're either too small or too big, too droopy, weirdly placed, hairy or just plain ugly. Oh, all right, maybe some women like their chests, but nobody likes those women anyway.
I'm on the big-breasted side of the argument. In fact, I'm a big-breast denier. I search for a size C cup that fits, so I can claim I'm a "C." I'm sure I'm actually a D -- or larger -- but "D" seems clownishly large. Like how you're a "size 8" because you just can't admit you're a double-digit girl.
What's wrong with big breasts, you ask? After all, men find them attractive, and, uh, men find them attractive.
They're like two big alien globs of flesh randomly attached to my chest. They get in the way. They bounce at bad times. They hurt sometimes. They sweat then I'm hot. They make it hard to buy cute tops. And worst of all, they're hard to take seriously.
Now, I'm a smart girl. If we're talking The Truth About Cats and Dogs, I'm Janeane Garofalo, not Uma Thurman. And sure, every girl likes to think she's pretty, but when I get decked up for the evening and pretty up my pretties, I instantly look 50 IQ points dumber than I am. Like blondes, the large-breasted are pegged as dumb. I mean, when was the last time you saw a woman of power, intelligence or admirable quality -- Condoleezza Rice, Marie Curie or Dorothy Parker -- and their knockers are knocking 'em in the chin?
I wasn't breast-fed as a child. Maybe that had some sort of psychological impact. I asked my mom why and she shrugged and said "it didn't really appeal to me" and that feeding me with a bottle wasn't any less intimate. Maybe I won't breast-feed either when I'm a mother
Probably for the vain reason that they're only going to get worse with age. Breasts suffer from an unfortunate form of manifest destiny, determined to travel southward, so I've heard. If I'm not a fan now -- where will I be when I'm 40? Sixty? Eighty?
I'm sure that if I had small breasts, I would be complaining about how hard life is for me and how I wish I had larger ones. I don't deny the small-breasted their right to bitch and moan, too. But to those women, and to the men who loves the breasts -- Go fill up a couple of water balloons and tape them to your chest and carry them around for a week.
Claire Zulkey has two breast, don't you worry. Visit her daily at www.zulkey.com.
I'm at Irving Plaza trying to get into the sold-out Maroon5 show. I really want to go to see this show. My pockets are lined with fives and tens in case I have to buy from a scalper. I am ready to do this.
But then it all fell apart. There weren't many scalpers and then it got late and then the show started and then all the people left. And it was just me, the bouncers and the sounds of Maroon5's first song.
"I'm here for the show," I said, taking the plunge, flashing a big smile, but the bouncer seemed unaffected. "Fine. Where's your ticket?"
"That's the thing. I don't have one."
I stood and smiled, praying it would work. I squirmed as the bouncers stared me hard in the eyes, right there in my tank top. Bingo. A smile slowly crept across his face. "All right, sweetie. You get a freebie tonight."
I winked at him, dashed up the stairs and saw not only an amazing rock and roll show, but one that included a surprise appearance by recent Grammy winner John Mayer.
Lesson: Breasts have tremendous commercial value. Club D Cup should be a new tax bracket. Spend a bit more on supportive bras? Make it all back with free drinks, cab rides and tickets. Feeling lonely? Put on your favorite top, hit the local watering hole and drink your free Amstel. Hungry and short on loot? Lean up against the counter, look the guy right in the eye and tell him how loooove extra pickles and can't live a day without a good BLT from Subway.
Sure, Flirting 101 can get any gal snacks, but if got a big rack we're going Sizzler. And no these exchanges don't involve any lurid, "Girls Gone Wild" behavior, but you can't help how you're built. It worked for Erin Brockovich -- and her clients got a handsome legal settlement.
And hey, there's a war going on. Good jobs are scarce and I've noticed that even the goodie bags at publicity parties are becoming a little thin. If someone is impressed with your curves enough to let you into a concert for free or slip you some magazines at the news stand, I say smile, give 'em a wink and then run like the dickens. After all, breasts may get you the attention, but how you milk that attention is up to you.
To quote rap group Salt n' Pepa, "You've got to use what ya got
to get whateva ya don't got."
Pauline Millard wrote a special tagline but we closed the IM window like a schmuck and lost it. Dang.
I was in the 7th grade and I still didn't need to wear a bra.
Oh the horror! Birds of a flat feather were flocking together all over the place, reading Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret before bed and invoking the secret Middle Eastern mantra... "We must, we must, we must increase our bust." Then a new bird flew into our fun circle of flat friends.
Jenny. And Jenny was a DD ... at 12. Threatened, I did what any other normal girl would do. I made fun of my new friend.
I used balloons and went as Jenny for Halloween. I pointed and laughed when our Vice Principal knocked over pens so he could see her cleavage. And I scoffed when she wasn't sure if her boyfriend liked her for her. Whatever, the girl had tits.
One day she snapped. All her insecurity and baggy sweatshirts and back pain distilled into one pure look of rage and tears. "Tracy Weiss!" Jenny yelled. "Someday you will have enormous breasts and you'll see how this feels!"
Wow. That little bitch must be descended from a voodoo queen.
And yeah I got boobs. Big ones. It was a nice healthy climb to C by 16. I was happy. Content. Until the night before my senior portraits and my Mom wanted the perfect formal picture. At the studio, I got all dolled up cursing my mother for this big black dress. I fumbled the zipper into position, gave it a yank and nothing. It wouldn't go past my back.
Overnight, I had grown two cup sizes. Needless to say, my portraits looked like a beginner's porn portfolio -- poses so provocative my friend had his laminated so he could keep it in his wallet forever.
By the time I went to Michigan State, I was a triple D. My nickname: "Boobs." The guys at ZBT called me that. To my face. In class. On the phone. From across the bar. "Hey Booooobs! Want some whiskey!"
When I met Mateen Cleaves, the Michigan State basketball star, he had a little trouble with "Tracy." He thought it sounded like "Titty." Then he did a little dance to christen my new nickname. And then the whole fucking basketball team started calling me that.
It just got out of hand. A homeless family of four could make their home in my bra. Drunken male friends were pulling the patented "Sneaky Uncle," trying to grab me when I'm asleep. And then, porn star Ron Jeremy shoved his hand down my shirt to feel if they were real -- "how porn stars say hello."
I wanted a breast reduction. I ignored pleas from my guy friends. I offered the excess boobage to flat friends, and finally planned my long awaited "Farewell to Minimizer Bras!" party.
But then I thought about the logistics of cutting my boobs off. Squeamish about medical procedures, afraid of scarring, downright vain -- I changed my mind. No need for surgery. I would embrace my busty self. I went on the natural plan. I did cardio at the gym. And it worked. Maybe too well.
Now stop checking out my tits.
Tracy Weiss, New York City newbie and consummate bar star, believes that strippers can be crack whores with flabby asses as long as they have a nice pair.