Girl on the Net

Almost every guy I have ever dated has told me that if they had tits themselves, they’d spend all day just staring at and playing with them. I am not getting ready to snark, or shame anyone for saying this, in fact I completely understand. Tits are fucking awesome. The thing that makes me horniest about my own body is the excellent rack stuck to the front of it. Although I don’t spend all day groping them or staring (I’m a busy girl), I do spend a fairly sizeable chunk of my time being aware of them – enjoying how they look and feel – so I thought I’d have a go at answering the unspoken question hovering beneath all those comments from all those past boyfriends. Here’s what it feels like to have tits.

Note: I’m a cis woman who has mostly dated cis dudes. I’ve tried not to be too gendered in this because tits are not exclusive to one gender, but my perspective is naturally coloured by my experiences. 

Tits on display

One of my favourite outfits, especially in summer, is the low-cut spaghetti-strap top. I usually wear a shirt to cover my shoulders, because I don’t like exposing too much of my skin to the sun, but when it comes to my tits I feel it would be a waste of joy to hide them. I want my tops cut low and my bras firmly padded. As an old friend of mine used to refer to it: ‘tits on a shelf’. I want a bra that lifts my knockers and places them nice and high, like an offering. These days I usually add a necklace to the ensemble, the purpose of which is specifically to draw the eye… then nudge that eye towards my tits.

I fucking love my tits. I don’t know if this is an arrogant thing to admit or not, but fuck it. I do. They’re awesome.

When I wear low-cut tops, it is not primarily to entertain men that I fancy, in fact that’s a secondary purpose at best. The primary goal is to entertain myself. I enjoy catching a glimpse of the curve of my tits in the bottom of my eyeline. I like to see that the cleavage is neat and tight – a defined line that, sure, would be perfect for someone to slide their dick into. Or press their face into while I stroke their hair. And yes, I like considering the possibility that a guy who has followed the direction of my necklace, and observed my tight cleavage and the soft curves of the top of my tits might be idly wondering, as we chat over pints in the pub, whether I’d kneel down so he can cover my tits in his cum. But these things are, as I say, secondary. I am not usually hanging around considering how dudes might treat my boobs, broadly my thinking when I’ve got them on display is:

Phwoar. Tits. Awesome.

I don’t tend to sit around playing with them, I’m afraid, although I do often stash my vape in my cleavage when I’m reading or watching telly. And each time I reach in to retrieve it I get a little kick of horny joy as my fingertips brush against the inner curve of my breasts. They’re extremely practical in some ways, tits. You can stash almost any small object in a bra: lighters, spare cash, vapes, miniature pots of Vaseline, credit cards, driver’s license etc. If you happen to wear padded bras like I do, these small objects don’t usually change the shape of your bosom much, even if it’s crushed against the neckline of a too-tight top, they just add volume to the padding and give your cleavage a little extra oomph.

Practicalities aside, the best thing is just luxuriating in what it feels like to have tits. The sensation of them sitting there, all soft-firm and full of kinetic potential. I remember very vividly a particular backroad in Sardinia, which an ex and I drove down many times as we shuttled back and forth to our hotel on holiday. Something about the design of the hire car and the bumpiness of the road meant my suntanned tits were almost constantly bouncing in the side of his vision. On the first day of our trip he mentioned how distracting that was, and from that moment on I was hyper-aware of them – enjoying those distractions for myself. Every pothole made me jiggle, and although I thrilled with the knowledge that he was struggling to keep his eyes on the road, fundamentally it wouldn’t have mattered if the driver had been someone who didn’t care for tits at all. I care for tits. They’re brilliant!

Jiggle. Bounce. Awesome. 

When I walk to and from the tube station, if I’m wearing something low-cut I am constantly aware of the way that my tits bounce with every step. When I ride my bike, each crack in the road surface causes them to jiggle inside my bra. Although I’m probably wearing a t-shirt so I can’t see them (and I like to keep my eyes on the road when I’m cycling, to prevent things like ‘death’), I can still feel the way they move. And the way they move still delights me.

The physics of tits is incredibly satisfying. Similar to the physics of having a full, round, fat-padded arse – the way it wobbles when it’s smacked with a flat, open hand. But tits are even better because they move with me, they don’t require an external force to make them do that. I could shimmy in my chair right now and… wow. Look at ’em! Amazing!

Phwoar. Tits. Awesome.

Tits and bras and boob jobs

I know that for some people, taking their bra off at the end of the day is a relief and a pleasure. I understand this. If you like your tits to be free, and bras feel tight and restrictive, I fully get why removing yours can be the physical embodiment of a big long relaxed sigh. But I wear a bra all the time, and the reason I do this is primarily because having my tits on a shelf, full and round and squished together for max cleavage, provides me both comfort and pleasure throughout the day. It’s about the bounce, you see?

A while ago, someone pitched me an erotic story about a woman who got a boob job because she loved having tits so much. She wanted even bigger/better ones to really revel in how sexy they made her feel. I was excited by this idea! Fuck yeah! Getting a tit job for one’s own personal pleasure is not only something I’ve genuinely considered myself, it’s an idea that returns to me more and more as I get older. My baps are incredibly satisfying, don’t get me wrong, but as time passes gravity does its thing, and everyone’s breasts tend to droop a little over time, losing some definition, shape and mass. So honestly, if I were a millionaire, I would definitely buy myself a boob job. I want that satisfying bra-assisted bounce-and-jiggle, turned up to eleven. Boob jobs for the win.

The guest blog didn’t work out, but the idea stuck with me. There’s definitely potential in writing about the joy of having tits, but I think it needs personal perspective which the author did not have. I could have a go at imagining what it feels like to have a penis, for example, but I’d never pull it off (heh) as perfectly as the amazing dick-having guest bloggers who have graced these pages – answering such questions as ‘what does it feel like to penetrate someone?’ and ‘what does it feel like to have someone come round your cock?’. I can lust after dick, and appreciate it from an outsider’s perspective, but I will never truly know what it’s like to have one, so there are insights I could never share just by drooling over dick from a distance.

The pleasure of having tits can also exist outside and entirely separate to the whims of third parties who might want to grab them. I would have loved to publish a piece from the perspective of someone who not only has knockers of their own, but enjoys them on their own too. Not purely as sex accessories (though they’re great for that as well!) but as a fun part of the body that brings pleasure to the owner even if there’s no one else around.

Then I realised that person, honestly, is me. I am the right person to write this. I am, in fact, uniquely positioned to write this because my brain sits here in my head, perched on my shoulders, giving my eyes a phenomenal view of an extremely satisfying rack.

The first joy of tits

I am not here to tell you that this is a universal experience. That what it feels like to have tits will be the same for everyone. We all have different perspectives, and I know many people who would prefer to have smaller tits, or no tits at all. But I think when boyfriends have talked to me in the past about how much they’d appreciate tits of their own, they often expected eye rolls or sarcasm, instead of my honest response which is:

Fuck yeah! Tits! Awesome!

As I say, your mileage may vary. But this is a genuine, gleeful explanation of how I feel about my own norks. What’s more, I have always felt this way, ever since I first started growing them.

There’s a video of me taking part in a school production sometime shortly after the onset of puberty (don’t worry, this does not go to weird creepy places) that brings back memories of the early days of noticing I had tits. When I see the video I remember not how godawful the play was (though I’m sure it was) or even the names of all the friends with whom I was performing. What I remember is how much I loved the particular dress I was wearing as my costume because the cut of it allowed me to catch regular, thrilling glimpses of my brand new bosom.

I also remember that there was another girl in the production who got brutally teased because she was caught more than once squeezing her arms together a little and trying to subtly look down her own cleavage. There but for the grace of God, honestly, because I did exactly the same. At every available opportunity. Squeezing my arms together allowed me to pretend I had more up top than I did. And having stuff up top was fucking satisfying. I distinctly remember jauntily stomping down the stairs from the back of the auditorium and revelling in the way that each step reminded me my body was different now. Curvier. Squishier. Fuck it: better. I loved my jugs long before you could even dignify them with that name.

‘Dignify’.

But while we’re on the subject of names…

A rose by any other name would NOT get me horny

Tits seem to lend themselves to nicknames. I’ve used a few throughout this post, a little begrudgingly if I’m honest. I’m only doing it to break up the repetitive monotony of me yelling ‘tits tits tits’ into your face like a drunken stag party. I asked people on BlueSky for some alternative words for tits and got plenty of responses: funbags, melons, top bollocks, milkers, bristols, boulders, assets, girls, charlies and, of course, ‘breasts’. The actual technical term. I get why so many of the names tend towards comedy. Funbags are things which tittilate, and are therefore a little embarrassing. They also bounce, which is funny. And sometimes when men look at them their tongues come rolling out of their mouths and a big cartoon ‘AWOOGA’ alarm goes off.

I (perhaps obviously?) don’t want to lean too hard into any word that frames tits as comical though. Not when I’m worshipping them like this. I hate when dudes ‘honk’ my boobs. Not enough that I’d demand jail time for any partner who does it (though a small fine wouldn’t go amiss – buy me an apology Big Mac, you pricks) but I’d strongly prefer people not to do this sort of thing to me in particular. Why? Because I’m ENJOYING my TITS motherfuckers! I don’t want you to RUIN my joy! It kills my sexy vibe. If you’re not massively into tits, that’s fine, but could you please try not to desexualise one of the very few things about my body that I genuinely manage to appreciate and enjoy on my own?

For what it’s worth, in the bedroom, I will allow ‘breasts’ at a pinch or ‘boobs’ if you’re feeling shy. But no word is hotter for them, in my opinion, than ‘tits’.

How you should enjoy my tits

I tried really hard not to lean in to ways I like my tits groped, fondled, and played with at the start of this post. As I said at the beginning, my love for my tits mostly stands alone – outside the approval or appreciation of men. There are (tragically, pathetically) not many things in life about which I could say this.

However, naturally I also like it when men appreciate them too. Especially men I am fucking. One of the very first blog posts I wrote was about how much I love having my tits played with and – unlike almost anything else I wrote around that time – I still stand proudly behind the sentiment. If you’re dating me, and you’re ever wondering what the correct amount of time is to spend playing with my tits, the answer is always: ‘more’. More than you’re doing at the moment. Yes, even if you spend most nights when we’re sitting on the sofa with one hand down my top. More. Even if you include boob-squeezes and nipple play in every single fuck we ever have: more. Even if you have a penchant for coming up behind me in the kitchen, sliding your hands round my waist then upwards so you can gently cup my tits in both your palms: more.

More, more, more.

No one has ever touched my tits ‘enough’ because there is no such thing as ‘enough’ when it comes to tit-touching. Sometimes they’re a bit sensitive, if I’m due on my period, so I’ll direct you to squeeze more gently than you would at any other time, but I still want you to touch them. Stroke them. Lick them. Kiss them. Shoot ropes of cum all over them while you grunt and call me ‘good girl’. And if you want to get me in the mood for sex, they’re almost always a guaranteed gateway to fucking: there are few things more consistently likely to get me horny than a guy casually pulling down the neck of my spaghetti-strap top and the cups of my bra, then gently pinching my nipples.

My Big Ex used to do this casually, frequently, if we were lounging on the sofa and I was lying between his legs. He’d fondle my tits with such laid-back ease, then occasionally be surprised when I’d find myself squirming in wet knickers and moaning that we needed to stop watching Netflix now so he could please please please put it in me. One time I recall him opening a pack of Love Hearts and stashing a bunch of sweets inside my bra cups. Each time he dipped in with his fingers to grab one, he’d casually brush against my nipples. Conjuring the delicious agony of him rationing those sweets – and more importantly those electric touches – has me jiggling my knee under the desk as I write and wondering if I should pop to the bedroom for a quick, stress-relieving wank. While pinching my nipples, of course.

I’ve played around with this blog post so much since I started drafting. Adding details here and there as different things occurred to me. Rubbing one out when a particular memory bubbled up, all the while hunting for a conclusion that will round this off neatly. But there’s no real point to this blog post, it’s the writing equivalent of me bouncing into the pub (low cut top, tits on a shelf) and raving to you about something that’s brought me so much joy I can’t shut my mouth. A meandering babble of appreciation with no particular moral or message. I just want you to know, if you’re someone who appreciates tits from the outside – whether observing someone else’s as they bounce when you drive over potholes or grabbing them in your hands so you can marvel at the weight and heft and squish – that you’re not weird for wishing you could try out a pair of your own.

After all, some of us who have them really do get our money’s worth.

Phwoar! Tits! Awesome!