My Cups runneth over

My Cups runneth over

I have been blessed with what one would call an ample bosom; that is if you were born before 1935. Current vernacular might be nice tits, a great rack, some nice peaches, the girls, more than a handful, some set of headlights, etc. and they have been called all of these things and more on more than one occasion by both acquaintances and strangers. For those of you so endowed, you know exactly what I’m talking about and don’t get all-prissy on me --- and for those of you not possessing this particular bounty, I’m sure you are a lovely person.

When my son was about six years old, I participated in down-the-shore day-trips with friends and their children. Wanting to share my own experience of Jersey beach life with my child, I retraced my footsteps and frequented what used to be called Phillips Avenue Beach in the quite lovely and fancy Deal, New Jersey. This is the only public beach in Deal and is nestled between two very expensive private beach clubs with their own tennis courts, pool, a huge playground, wait staff in uniforms and spacious ocean-view cabanas with their own puffy beach chaises – what a great word!

Our beach, Phillips Avenue Beach, had no chaises, but they did have lifeguards, swings and see-saws for the kids, a covered area for dining, clean bathrooms and private closet-sized cabanas you could rent for the day that included private shower privileges; all essential amenities when traveling with small children.

We would rent one cabana, pay our entrance fees and spend the day on the beach on our own portable beach chairs. Phillips Avenue also had an excellent grill. They cooked up terrific burgers, dogs and fries as well as grilled chicken sandwiches on pita for the Mommies. They had ice pops and ice cream bars and ice cream sandwiches as well as wonderful homemade ice tea and lemonade.

What a pleasure to just pack beach toys, chairs and towels and head out, down the Garden State Parkway in the traffic-free middle of the week. We would play in the surf, build castles with natural moats, have a leisurely lunch; shower and head home in time to rinse out the suits, throw the towels in the machine and prep dinner. It was relatively stress-free day tripping.

On one such trippy occasion, I was in the shower after a long day, peeling off my sandy suit when I overheard a conversation between two boys.

“Wow. Check these out!”

“Oh, those are nice ones.”

Much more was said, but frankly as I’m typing this I’m getting embarrassed, because at some point, I figured out they were talking about me. I soon located the point of origin of my Porkys moment and was about to poke a young eye out through the discrete knothole in the wood; but my admirers apparently figured out, that I had noticed them as well.

“Geez. I think she spotted us.”

“We better get outta here.“

Who doesn’t love a good boob story?

Recently I spent 45 minutes in a 7^th grade classroom watching a young lady playing with her own girls. I was mesmerized by her technique. She did a rather extended lifting each of individually one at a time by the bra strap, snapping said strap and doing a quick release; a sneaky from-the-bottom-double-lift-off and release; and a quirky smush together for enhanced visible cleavage two-fisted maneuver with an admiring glance down at the results. It was like an Olympic Event. I watched in fascination, slack-jawed, as she did this for the entire 45 minutes of class time, rather than actually put any effort into the test, sitting on the desk before her.

This got my mind a wandering, which is pretty typical for me. Is the emergence of breasts on a young woman comparable and as fascinating to her -- as a young man’s discovering the toy he keeps in his pants?

It is too many years since the budding of my own bosom and I only remember that the very first time I wore a bra, it was to the Barnum and Bailey Circus (how fitting), with my whole family. I remember that the Circus smelled really awful, and at some point, the bra crept up around my neck, poked through the round collar of my red bandana print blouse, and left my tiny new buds behind. So for those of you who are new to wonderful world of breasts, whether natural or artificial, would you mind weighing in here and reminding us – newly minted, are they indeed your very own wonderful playthings?