Ever since I developed breasts when I was a late teenager I’ve been fascinated by them. It’s like they have their own personality, separate from the rest of me.

They don’t even move at the same time as the rest of me. I’ll turn abruptly left, for instance, and my breasts will follow, but only in their own time, a little later. Even then, they sway to the right of me before returning to centre where they’re supposed to be.

And when I bend down after a shower to dry between my toes like my mother taught me, they hang down like two swinging, dangling watermelons and are almost never in the same place at the same time as the rest of me.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my breasts. In fact, I adore them. But sometimes they seem to belong to someone else — a woman who’s slim and boyish like I was as a girl and somehow had these enormous mammary glands transplanted onto her when she wasn’t looking.

Then there’s the way other people look at me. They stare at my breasts before checking my face. Not just men — which I guess is understandable because you know what men are like about breasts — but women too.

Women make immediate and often final judgements when they meet me. With heavy breasts like these puppies thrusting, bobbing, swaying out in front of me, I’m a serious threat to them. Am I after stealing their husbands, boyfriends, sons? Can there really be a god if I have this all-too-obvious mammiferous advantage over them?

My breasts define me more than anything else about me. In the eyes of the world I’m the middle-aged, slightly touched-up blonde with the big boobs. Only afterwards am I Samantha Jones, semi-famous Canadian TV journalist and pseudonymous writer.

So, do I try to hide my breasts? On-camera I have to of course, because I’m a serious journalist and nothing must distract from the news. So, off-camera do I wear modest, shapeless tops that hang loose and hide more than they reveal. Am I crazy? Not when I have this huge advantage over most of my sisters.

Instead, I wear clothes to show my breasts off. Low cut, filmy tops flashing cleavage over fragile, lacy bras that do little to hide my nipples, particularly when it’s hot or cold or I’m excited or it’s Tuesday or I just need some attention.

Sure, carrying them around all day can sometimes be a drag. I probably get more back-aches and neck-aches than most women. And you should see the red, bra-strap marks on my shoulders after a long day!

But I promise you, every single ounce of gorgeous boobage is worth it when I think of all the pleasure my breasts give to me and other people. Come to think of it, over the years rather a lot of other people.


(Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)