Boobs, cans, jugs, hooters, knockers, tatas, Bristols... There is no denying that we, the human species, are more than a little obsessed with the breast.
But it has to be said that boobs have to be the ultimate anatomical conundrum for women. You know, the part of the body more than any other (although thanks to J-Lo and Beyoncé the humble bottom might be coming a close second) that divides opinion and makes the owner think that the grass is greener, that whatever you have you'd rather the other.
I look at models with their scrawny boy-like chests and lack of hips and see how beautifully clothes hang off them and I have awful pangs of jealousy. And yet I know that many of my more demurely blessed sisters are completely bemused as to why I wouldn't want to show a little more flesh at every conceivable opportunity. To them a lovely pair could be nothing but a delightful bounty. And I agree, they are simply delicious in many ways, I'm not blind to their appeal, (they are right under my nose every time I look down, after all) but they are rather demanding.
They scream for attention in a way that I would never dream of doing (or am I just being coy?), they spread naughty rumours about the kind of girl I might be, they tease and coax and make promises that I might not want to keep.
But it has been suggested to me that flashing a little cleavage might not, in fact, be the same as making a pact with the devil, selling my soul down the river or resigning myself to a slutty fate. So why not? There must be a way to balance boobs with brains, flirtation with feistiness, so I will set myself a challenge to get 'em ahhht a bit more, and we'll see how we go...!
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