Vessels of Delight: Origins of a Breast Fetish

contributed by Archie Lime

I’m calling it a fetish here, but most men share this enthusiasm.  Years ago a “Candid Camera”-type show, hid a tiny video lens in the locket of a necklace and dangled it in the cleavage of a busty model, who then went walking down a busy city street.  Almost every man she passed (and one or two women) looked directly into the camera—some furtively, some with long, leisurely appreciation:  young dudes, old dudes, hipsters, guys in suits.  I believe they even caught a priest sneaking a peek.  In short, everyone enjoys a nice rack.

But for some of us it goes deeper than that.  In my case, I sometimes have to wrestle with Gods in order to keep my eyes on a woman’s face.  It’s as if every girl I know—whether busty, slinky or flat as a board—is emitting from her sternum a powerful electromagnetic current that pulls irresistibly at my steely eyes.  

I know where this affliction began.

I must have been 4 or 5 years old.  I was living with my parents in an apartment complex in the poor part of a small Midwestern city.  All the children in the building played together in a dismal courtyard—little kids, mostly, but there was one girl who was older than the rest.  Tall, skinny, strawberry blonde with pale skin and freckles.  She was probably 11 or 12 at the time, hanging out, for some reason, with us small fry.  Perhaps a misguided parent had put her in charge of watching over us.

I say misguided, because this girl was nasty.  She cussed like a dockworker.  She used words I didn’t understand, but knew to be really, really bad words.  She smoked cigarettes. (Another fetish of mine—to this day I get a buzz when a young girl smokes).  One day standing under the back landing so she could not be seen from the apartment windows, she lifted her shirt and showed us gawping tykes her pink titties.

Or rather one pink titty.  It’s been over 50 years, but I can see it as clearly now as if I were back there under the stairs:  a soft protrusion, pointed at the end with a large, coral-colored nipple, so erect from the excitement of misbehaving that it looked like the pollinating stamen of a flower.  It was kind of sickening.  This was something I knew I wasn’t supposed to see, but I couldn’t take my eyes off it.  

And that was it.  One vivid flash.  I don’t remember what happened next, but I’m pretty sure it was nothing.  I didn’t get to touch it—of that I’m certain.  And I have no further memories of the girl, no repeat showings.  Maybe she got fired.  But I will always feel fondly toward this wayward babysitter, because there in the most unlikely of places, a dismal urban courtyard in Iowa, she ignited two passions that have filled my life with pleasure ever since—nasty girls and their beautiful breasts.