Growing up, I always knew I liked boobs. Until my own grew (although not much …even after 26 years), I used to just stare at other boobs. I always anticipated the day my own would grow – especially since my grandmother was quite large for an Asian woman- a nice C and my own mother and aunt were both solid C’s! I knew it would happen – I just had to be patient.

Patient I was. Grow they did not. Despite that being the case, upon receiving my first training bra, I couldn’t stop staring at my own boobs. When alone in the bathroom, I’d lift my shirt to see my mosquito bites looked like in what attempted to be a bra. And then, when they grew to the little size that they are today, I found myself fascinated with miracle, water and awesomely padded bras that would enhance the image my chest could portray when hoisted up in a incredible design otherwise known as a bra.

These days, I find myself staring at boobs. I know there’s a bit of bi-curiosity in me and the right man who comes along next will welcome my curiosity by allowing me and him and her (whoever she may be) to dive into the world of threesomes and boobs that I can touch. I guess not having them myself makes me really want to motorboat the shit out of someone else’s amazing breasts. Although, even if they are real, large and in charge, they cannot sag. Gravity may not take hold of the breasts that touch my face. No no – but I suppose that’s the trade-off. Smaller boobs, less droopiness. Larger boobs, more support deemed necessary.

What triggered such rememberance of my obsession? A girl walked by today with large boobs and though they were covered in a quite conservative sweater, I found myself doing a double-take. I looked… I checked out the boobs… and I realized – I check out boobs all the time. Sorry, it’s from the lack of having ‘em myself.