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Memories of Cleavage
Author's Note: The names of the women involved have been changed to protect me from getting a serious beating.
I look at women's breasts. There's no sense in denying it. Hell, I'm probably a Ninth degree black belt in ogling. I've honed my skill to a level that most women don't even know I'm doing it. That is, unless, I want them to know. You see, I try not to come off as some Cro-Magnon or greasy lothario. No, I'm a fan of the bosom. A breast enthusiast, if you will. I let women know that I am akin to a patron in a museum, bedazzled by a great work of art. And what mesmerizes me the most, the reason that keeps calling my eyes back to wonder in awe, is cleavage.
What is it about cleavage? Although you'd never know it, it triggers this reaction inside me, much like the reaction the apes had with the Monolith at the beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey. I first had this reaction with my friend, Elizabeth. We were both in Fifth grade when, during a rousing game of coed touch football, I somehow managed to insert my head into her shirt. While she hadn't yet begun to develop, the act of having my face buried in her chest caused me to wake up to a whole new world. That same year I began to notice my teacher, Mrs. Elizabeth, a young striking woman who dressed like an extra from Little House on the Prairie, but with necklines low enough to highlight her ample bosom.
My first fantasy cleavage was truly a fantasy. Elizabeth, the busty alien princess of the New Teen Titans comic book series, had more cleavage that Wonder Woman and Catwoman combined. God, I lusted after her. I often dreamt of becoming one of her fellow teammates, so that, during the pivotal battle against Villain X, I could turn to her and try to convince her that the only way to save the world is if I could have tit-sex with her. It would be the best comic ever.
Then there was Elizabeth. She was the smartest person in our Eighth grade class, and the most developed. For my peers, and me, she completely dispelled any notion that big-breasted women are dumb. For an Eighth-grader her cleavage was spectacular, bordering on pornographic. I can recall so many failed attempts to recreate the accident that I had in Fifth grade.
High school was my first big foray into the world of cleavage (not to mention personality disorders). Elizabeth, a sexpot way ahead of her time, had pegged me as a cleavage fan from the moment we met in choir. For four years she teased me with her cleavage that played out like scenes from the Seven-Year Itch. She rewarded me finally, on my birthday, by grabbing the back of my head and pulling into her chest. I think she got off on it. I know it did. I remained there for what seemed like an eternity. I think I went home early that day.
Elizabeth was my summer fling after high school graduation. She was a terrific kisser, possibly due to her skill at playing the flute in marching band. That also gave her a great set of lungs upon, which rested the perkiest natural set of breasts I had ever seen. And she got almost as much delight from my face being buried in them as I did.
Ms. Elizabeth, my first year comparative literature instructor in college was a lithe, epicurean lass, no more than 5 years older than I. So many times, I wished I could tuck my writing assignment into her well-toned California tanned cleavage, like tipping a really well-read stripper.
No mention of cleavage would be complete with out mentioning Elizabeth - three different personalities, six breasts, no kidding. I never knew she had multiple personality disorder until after we broke up. And we had gone out for almost 6 months! Being a teenage beauty queen, she knew all the secrets to maintaining the perfect cleavage. And boy, there was a lot to maintain.
A few cleavages come to mind that I only could admire from afar. There was the lovely brunette in front of me at the checkout, on my twenty-first birthday, with whom I accidentally wondered aloud if she give me a body shot. There was the gregarious blonde at Lake Havasu during Spring Break that not only let me get that sought-after body shot, but also did it with her top off. We were to hook up later, but I was told she had been drinking so much she got alcohol poisoning. And I can't forget that lovely athletic female who rode past my house every morning at 7:41am on the dot. She filled her spandex top/sports bra the way you want a can of Pringles to be filled: to the top. So round, so firm, so fully packed.
There was that Las Vegas stripper, Elizabeth, whom I commented to my friends on her creative outfit, a construction worker. She heard me, and after finishing her set, came over and we talked for hours. She didn't mind me shooting the occasional stare at her cleavage, and in fact would shoot back a demure smile when she would catch me. She wasn't all that big in cup size, as a matter of fact - probably a B-cup. But she knew how to present them. And the lovely sweet scent that it had. She rubbed her chest in my face for what must have been a half an hour. Her lovely pheromones stayed with me for days.
For a short time, I dated Elizabeth, one of the hippest chicks I've ever met. She was kinda goth, kinda punk, a little rockabilly, and all woman. She was very rubenesque, extremely voluptuous, and all her corsets, merry widows, basques, and bustiers elevated her cleavage into a work of art. I fondly nights of falling asleep between her breasts, which I found were softer than her pillows.
Over the years I've had many a female housemate. Elizabeth the drama queen had the largest breasts, so much so that she had back problems. Elizabeth was a snowboarder chick from Colorado, who had sporty, almost aerodynamic breasts. There was Elizabeth, a fun, energetic Mormon girl with ample bosom ready and raring to suckle her future family of ten. Lastly, there was the cute, quirky Elizabeth, who lauded the works of Kerouac and Salinger and had small perky breasts that she named "Franny" and "Zooey." Many a morning, I would be greeted by a parade of cleavage wrapped in towels, while I gleefully ate my cereal. I never slept in late during those years.
The twins, Beth and Liz, had awesome cleavage in stereo. I had been admired their cleavage for some time, giving them my patented miracle massages, always hoping for something more. Then, during game of truth or dare, we all shed our clothes. The sight of the soft tan skin between their breasts made me almost fall over in sexually agony. Sadly, we were all so pissed drunk, we ended up spending the whole night trying to boil minute rice. But we did it naked.
Six feet tall and worth the climb, Elizabeth was gorgeous. She had a body made firm and supple by four years in the Navy and two years modeling for the Ford Agency. Alas, her magnificent cleavage was taboo. Aside from being married, albeit extremely unhappily, although she had a heart of gold, she had the brains of tapioca. Now, I'm not equating her intelligence with her bra-size. Flat chested, she would still lose to a rock in a spelling bee. She chased me for 4 months, even after I had a girlfriend, tempting me with her glorious cleavage. And all because, in a slip of the liquored tongue, I told her, "You have such pretty eyes, and I love what you've done with your cleavage, too."
Elizabeth was my first experience with implants. On the first day I met her, she made it clear that science had built her a better bosom, and that it was okay to stare. Two boobs, no waiting. She let me once bounce a quarter off her breast, trying to prove how firm they were, but I shot it into her blouse, and begged to dig it out of her lovely, structurally reinforced cleavage. Now that's money well spent.
Which brings me to Elizabeth - the Alpha and the Omega, the Ubergirl, the cleavage that sets the standard for all other women to come. Her first week on the job, one of my co-workers pointed her out to me and said, "Check out the rack on her." I took one look and knew I was in love. But not just because of the cleavage. She was intelligent, witty, and worldly. She carried herself with style and class. She spoke and walked proudly, with a kind of swagger, but with a sensual yet regal quality all her own She was all of that, plus a pair of spectacular breasts and mesmerizing cleavage. After we started going out, I felt no shame in staring right at her cleavage, as if in a trance. She told me it made her feel good to be looked at as desirable. I'm glad we were both in agreement. Many a car ride home, watching TV, or snuggling in bed, I would place my hand between her soft silky breasts, and caress her cleavage. At times, when staring, or caressing, or both, I would forget to breathe, completely lost in her enrapturing femininity. It was extremely sensual, and I will never forget that feeling for as long as I live.
I want to reiterate that I am not some slobbering idiot gawking over every woman in a tight, low-cut T-shirt. It's more than just sexual to me. I view it with the highest respect, and am humbled when women expose it to me. I feel it is an example of God's artistic power and Mother Nature's sense of style. Scientists are telling us now that breasts evolved to attract male attention; not only does their physical prominence emphasize that the entity they're attached to is female, but their roundness conveys a suggestion of fertility to a man's subconscious. Desmond Morris goes even further in his book Manwatching when he states that cleavage reminds us of buttocks. Wait... does this mean that I'm actually an ass-man?
In any case, I guess the whole point here is I think cleavage is really cool.
by Chandler