A Lid for Every Kettle

I know a thing or two about breasts, from personal experience. Having been a skinny pre-teen longing for my mother to finally let me wear a real bra, to a fourteen-year-old coming home from Summer camp overflowing my training bra with 36 C breasts. Going from invisible to very visible in two short weeks. I had no idea why my older sister’s boyfriends were suddenly paying attention to me, the annoying little sister, who they used to shoo away.

The true proof of the new pudding in my cups was when a friend of my sister drove me home from a band rehearsal at night and sped by my house to a lover's lane a few roads up. When I asked him what he thought he was doing, he said, "Just thought it would be fun to shine my headlights on people making out."

Yeah. No. Not even at the tender age of fourteen years- old did I believe that line of baloney. "If you don't drive me home right now I'll get out and walk. Then I'll tell my Dad where you took me."

Because my father incited fear in every boy my sister brought home, he complied immediately and deposited me, unmolested, in my driveway. He never tried anything with me again.

Honestly, I had no idea it was because of my bra size. All through high school I kept to myself, thinking I wasn’t very attractive and was always surprised when boys tried to give me rides home from school or approached me at band parties for make-out sessions. I didn’t take any of the boys up on their offers because I thought they were just making fun of me. Boobs? Why would anyone pay attention to me for those?

When I quit college to begin my stripping career I finally figured out what all the hullabaloo was about. Men liked breasts. They liked them enough to pay $5.00 a drink with a two-drink minimum. They liked them enough to jump off their bar stools and cheer and whistle for a glimpse of them. They loved them enough to wait in line in sub-zero weather outside strip clubs to pay cover charges. Men were mesmerized by the mere thought of peeking at a set of fatty tissue bags covered with skin and punctuated by a pink nipple. Amazing. Men are such simple animals. No offense. I love simple animals.

I’m almost seventy years old now and the old girls are still hanging in there- not much worse for wear after nursing three babies. From 1973 until 1985 I danced in strip clubs from Puerto Rico to Nova Scotia and from New York City to Phoenix, Arizona. I’ve seen what breasts can do to men. They appreciate the rest of a woman’s body. But they are all, to a man, truly fixated on the mammary glands; big, small, or not at all.

If women only knew this secret, gone would be the need for plastic surgeons and padded bras. Psst. All men do not like big breasts. Oh, sure, they get a lot of attention. Trust me, though, whatever size, shape, or condition a woman’s bustline is in, there is a fan group for her. A bit soft and saggy? Not a problem. I’ve seen men go crazy over strippers with less-than-perky boobs. I’ve also seen men go nuts when a 32AA removed her sequined costume top. Stretch marks? Pfft- don’t worry about them. Men will not care.

There is a lid for every kettle that will fit perfectly. Your boobs or lack thereof will make no difference to a man who is crazy about you.