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P A L O M I N E |
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THE
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MODERN
MALE MAMMAL |
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THE
JOY OF JIGGLE |
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For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by breasts.
Even as a very small child of just five or six, I can recall
watching the ample bosoms of some of my mother's more matronly
friends, not knowing enough to be discreet, nor being old enough
to have my observations resented. So I would watch, drawn for
reasons unknown to me at the time, as these various women came
and went in my mother's circle. Possibly due to the fact that
most of them were in their late twenties or early thirties and
recent mothers of young children themselves, it seems to my
recollection that several of them were fairly well endowed by
the standards of the time. Perhaps the attraction that I felt
back then had more to do with my simply being a mammal (though
sadly, one denied the pleasure of breast-feeding himself) than
it did with any sort of precursor to my evolving sexuality.
Regardless, the focus of my attention had clearly been established
at an early age.
A few years later, I expanded my understanding of this attraction
in the manner that so many young boys do: by secretly poring
through my father's collection of 'men's magazines'. Playboy
predominated in his collection, supplemented by issues of Penthouse
and a few other miscellaneous publications of the generally
soft core variety. Looking back at the issues of those days
(the late sixties and seventies) I'm struck now by the relative
innocence of their pictorial content. Even Penthouse,
which I quickly determined to be a bit more risque than Playboy,
only went so far as to show models with their legs spread apart
rather coyly... a fairly modest, often soft-focus and well-furred
glimpse of female genitalia was about as explicit as things
got back then. My childhood memories are full of these images,
glimpsed furtively and with the ever-present fear of discovery...
my ears always keen for the sound of my parent's car in the
driveway.
Being of a methodical and detail-oriented mind set even then,
I perused dad's collection very thoroughly over time, going
so far as to take notes of which issues contained pictorials
that were exceptional and worth revisiting... an analog equivalent
of my browser's current bookmarks file I suppose. Though that
list is now long gone, certain images and names are still firmly
lodged in my psyche decades later. I can, even now, conjure
them up in my mind's eye: Playboy's Janet Lupo (Nov.
'75), Cynthia Myers (Dec. '68), Marilyn Lange (May '74), Elaine
Reynolds (Oct. '59) and Fran Gerard (Mar. '70); Penthouse's
Avril Lund (Pet of the Year '74), Joanne Latham (Sep. '77) and
Diana Hardy (Sep. '77). Though none of these ladies would probably
rate a second look in the eyes of a Score editor in these
well-augmented days, all of them boasted endowments that were
considerably above average at the time. If you're a regular
reader of BEhavior, I've no doubt that some of these
wonderful women are as familiar and dear to you as they are
to me. So, my fascination with breasts reached a plateau, with
the focal point of my attention and evolving predilections motivated
by models on the far end of the bell curve insofar as the size
of their bosoms were concerned. However, given that these times
were both pre-video and pre-web, my exposure to scantily clad
women consisted almost exclusively of static images of the sort
to be found in my father's magazines. This limitation undoubtedly
played a role in shaping my preferences at the time.
When I reached early adolescence, and began to venture from
home farther than just a bicycle might carry me, I would often
hop a bus or train into New York City on the pretext of visiting
a library, museum or friends.Though I did do plenty of this,
a major factor in my eagerness to explore were the opportunities
for sightings that such solo travel provided. As my route into
the city took me through Grand Central Station, like the paths
of so many others, it quickly became a favorite haunt for my
missions. I'd wander the Station for hours at a stretch, often
lingering within sight of one of it's many grand marble stairwells,
waiting and watching. During New York's punishing summers the
chances for joy in these pursuits were often very good. Girls
and women, usually with T-shirts and blouses dampened from the
heat, would enter the air-conditioned Station and proceed down
staircases, often in a rush to catch a train for their intended
destination. And thus would my boyhood quest be rewarded: bouncing
breasts. Being only a pre-teen, I never spoke to a single one
of these women... never learned their names or got to know them
in any way other than as a voyeur. This was sufficient. To simply
watch them from a distance (by now, I had learned the importance
of discretion in these matters) as they raced to their unknown
destinations, breasts flopping wildly beneath their thin cotton
tops, some unencumbered by bras, was reward enough for my patience.
I stood transfixed by the motions within their shirts, hypnotized
by each fluid shudder and undulation as it occurred. Like the
cherished centerfolds that came before them, their nameless
images are forever burned indelibly into my brain. Thus my general
fascination with woman's bosoms had evolved into a marked preference
for large breasts, particularly when in motion.
As my boyhood progressed into the fullness of adolescence and
I began my first tentative steps towards romantic interaction
with girls my own age, my preferences, by now fairly well established,
would often have to take a back seat (no pun intended) to practicality.
After all, the number of teenage girls who sported active and
ample bosoms of the type I had come to cherish and desire was
somewhat limited, even in a place as large as New York. As it
happened, my first intimate knowledge of just such a woman took
place outside of the city, at a camp upstate where I spent a
summer working as a counselor. I had just turned seventeen and
though still a virgin, I'd had the usual varied experiences
with girls over the past few years... mostly the rather tame
necking and petting that most kids that age indulge in. Now
I spied a rare opportunity worthy of my preferences and stratospheric
hormone levels: Michelle Pines, another counselor working there
that summer.
 The
first time I saw her she immediately made a lasting impression
on me: running in a relay race at the camp where we both worked.
I could scarcely believe my eyes: moving towards me at a rapid
pace was a vision of abundant female sexuality personified.
Think of a (slightly) scaled-down Diane Poppos and you'll get
a pretty accurate picture. She was just a bit over five feet
tall, angel faced and powerfully built with strong legs, a tiny
waist and broad back, providing support for the largest pair
of breasts it's ever been my pleasure to personally experience.
I later came to learn that they were genuine D-cups, though
at first glance my ability to make such estimates (or indeed,
do anything other than stare) was somewhat limited. She was
well ahead of her nearest rival in the event... her strong,
healthy body carried her speedily along with little apparent
effort. As she ran, the extraordinary motion of her frankly
enormous bosom defied any description that would do it justice.
No collection of superlatives can convey the impression that
their motion made on me that late, hazy afternoon in July. Suffice
it to say that I was totally smitten, and set for myself as
a goal a more first-hand knowledge of this girl and her spectacular
breasts. My seventeen-year-old karma must have been in good
shape that summer, for only weeks later I had the distinct pleasure
of gifting this extraordinary young woman with my virginity.
The brief summertime relationship that followed was filled with
almost embarrassingly self-indulgent amounts of sex, much of
it as you might imagine, centered around my fixation with her
firm, huge globes and their lightly freckled cleavage. Naked
and entwined together, I pumped tirelessly as only a boy of
seventeen can, watching the mesmerizing jouncing motions of
her breasts beneath me, certain that I was one of the most fortunate
young men in all of New York State, if not perhaps the whole
world.
 Years
passed and I grew into adulthood, lucky enough to have the opportunity
to get to know a modest number of remarkable young women. Though
none were as spectacularly endowed or as sexually aggressive
as Michelle, I treasure each and every memory they've left for
me. Now on my own, done with school and working, with the sudden
increase in disposable income that comes with full-time employment,
I took the opportunity to supplement my satisfying though realistic
sex life with fodder for fantasy: pornographic videos. Finally
accessible to consumers, VCRs and adult tapes had made it possible
for me and countless other men to feed our fetishes with a specificity
never before possible. The first time I watched the incomparable
Christy Canyon receiving an almost punishing fuck from some
nameless porn stud, I was hooked. Those of you familiar with
Ms. Canyon's marvelous body/of work will know precisely what
I mean. She possesses one of the finest pair of naturally-slung
breasts in the industry, and unlike many of her contemporaries,
she rarely confines their wild, perhaps even painful motions
during a performance. To watch these wonders of flesh and skin
dance frantically on her ribcage, actually jumping (rather than
just bouncing) from one extreme to another in their arc of motion,
is to experience true joy as an adult male. Even after repeated
viewings, her enthusiasm and escapades (and more specifically,
the escapades of her amazing bosom) never cease to amaze me.The
only other woman who impresses me as much in terms of extraordinary
jiggle (truly, the word doesn't do these astonishingly-endowed
ladies true justice) is Devon Daniels. Though I was never much
of a fan of Devon's when all I had seen of her were static images,
I became a true believer once a like-minded friend surprised
me with a couple of her videos from HS Sales' Big Busty
series, including her justifiably famous work-out sequence.
To witness Devon topless, performing jumping-jacks with gusto
and verve is to behold the work of the Creator in action or
the culmination of millennia of human evolution, depending upon
one's preferred personal belief system.
 Though
my relatively modest collection of tapes contains a fair amount
of bouncing breasts of the surgically-enhanced variety, it's
my opinion that implanted breasts don't have quite the same
visual or visceral impact of natural breasts in motion. Perhaps
it has something to do with the weight or relative density of
the liquid they contain, or of the elasticity of the implants
themselves... I'm not sure. It's just that augmented breasts
don't seem to have the propensity for making the rapid, fluid
motions of which I've become so fond. It's not to say that I
don't enjoy watching the movements that do occur to implanted
breasts during enthusiastic activity, it's just that the nature
of these motions seems to emphasize their unnatural nature,
detracting from the suspension of disbelief such fantasy material
strives to attain. With that said, I've repeatedly enjoyed watching
Tiffany Towers (in her maximal, pre-reduction state) engaging
in some roughly administered doggy-style sex, her massive implants
hanging from her torso, clearly visible and swinging wildly.
It's not that such motions are decidedly inferior to those of
natural breasts, but rather that they're distinctly different,
though potentially still pleasing in their own manner.
These days, I'm happy with a sex life that consists of both
interaction with a lovely, caring woman and with a slowly growing
collection of magazines and well-chosen videos (often thanks
to JustMeMike's Also on Video reviews). Both provide
a valuable outlet for my needs (somewhat tempered from my youth),
and both provide opportunities for me to indulge my preferences.
Though not quite as spectacularly endowed as Michelle, my current
paramour proudly sports a luscious pair of C-cups and is eagerly
accepting of the attention that I lavish upon them during our
lovemaking. Watching them jounce delightfully to and fro during
intercourse counts as one of the most treasured experiences
of my life these days, and as you might expect, I indulge in
such activity as often as practically possible.
My ongoing fascination with women and their breasts will probably
never subside as it appears to be an integral component of my
sexual being. I expect that I'll always be something of a slave
to my predilection for watching (and whenever possible, actually
experiencing) large breasts in rapid motion. This is a servitude
in which I am forever happy to engage. |
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