Tag Archives: boobs

Guest blog: The love story between me and my breasts

I’m so excited about this week’s guest blog, because it’s a gorgeous exploration of the relationship between the guest blogger and her body, specifically her breasts. Please welcome Jannette Davies, from Scarlet Ladies Talk.

Jannette co-founded Scarlet Ladies in February 2015, and together with her co-founder Sarah Beilfuss, she runs events where women can openly discuss and explore their sexuality and bodies – and dispel a few myths along the way. Their events have got lots of people talking, and they sound like a lot of fun. Their next event is Body Bliss – a day-long retreat in London aimed at helping you explore – and hopefully fall in love with – your body.

Her story is personal, funny and relatable: all the things I like best.


Two things: BDSM love and a cleavage competition

In ‘good things’ this week – an exceptional piece on BDSM and understanding the context of your own desires. And in the ‘bad things’ column, a competition from The Sun that unfairly discriminates against men.


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How fashionable are your tits?

My tits are sort-of-round-ish, perhaps not as firm as they were when I was nineteen, and they have nipples that sit a little bit lower on the breast than I believe is currently fashionable. They’re probably a bit bigger than they were when I was young, which I think makes them a bit more fashionable, and because I am a white girl who barely gets out in the sun, I never have tit tan-lines. Which is great because as far as I understand it, tan lines are less acceptable than no tan lines, in this year of our Lord 2016.

Does that paragraph sound a bit weird to you? Like I am rambling drunkenly on a subject which should by no rights even exist? Of course. Yet all you need to do is look at some old-school porn to realise that there are distinct fashions in what we expect people’s bodies to look like.

I’m not talking here about hair – beards, bushes and fantastic 80s perms all seem to pop in and out of porn fashion depending on the country and the year. Things like body hair can be changed, so although naturally it’s shit that anyone’s expected to either grow or shave their hair, to a certain extent fashions are inevitable. I’m about as fashion-conscious as a dead rat in Marks and Spencer, but I do understand that for many people fashion is fun. You can play around with your clothes, hair, make up etc: making yourself look scary-executive-badass one minute and rainbow-coloured-punk-prince the next. Ace. Likewise when you’re picking your sexy look, you can have all-over body hair one minute, and the next decide you want to wax half of it off leaving just a hairy heart shape in the middle.

But there are also fashions for what breasts should look like. And that is WEIRD, people. Really fucking weird.


On tits

The problem with people is that they don’t touch my tits enough. There is a serious lack of tit-grabbing in my life, and it’s an issue that frankly needs to be adressed. My MP didn’t reply to my letter, so I’m going to write it here instead:

I love my tits, they’re awesome. They’re also extremely sensitive. If you touch them I will whimper like a slut in handcuffs. Touch them.

Teenage boys are (sorry, were when I was younger – please don’t arrest me) amazing in a multitude of ways, but primarily they are amazing because they show tits the love that they deserve. A teenage boy will stare at them, squeeze them, suck them, bite them, and all but worship them as the second coming of Christ if you let him get within a couple of feet.

But grown-ups seem to be bored of them. Sure, they’ll give you a quick feel when you’re snogging, they’ll take off your top and do some cursory playing during sex, but it’s been a long time since someone tried to furtively get mine out in the back row of a cinema, or gaped at them open-mouthed like a drooling dog in a butcher’s shop.

I’ve never met a man who says he doesn’t like tits. And yet as grown men they miss out on a million opportunities to touch them up. I can think of no occasion when I’ve been sitting with a guy on the sofa getting stoned and watching South Park that wouldn’t have been immeasurably improved if he’d had one hand down my shirt idly pinching one of my nipples.

Likewise I’ve been on countless long bus journeys that would have seemed shorter with a guy’s hands up my top. In McDonalds? If no kids are looking, why not reach over and pop open one of the buttons on my shirt. Have a look, go on. Walking down the street? Put your hand round my waist so you can slide it up occasionally and cup one of them in your hand. If I’m in the front seat of a car and you’re in the passenger seat, reach round and grab them. Come up behind me while I’m writing and run your hands down from my shoulders and into my bra. Slip one hand inside my coat on a cold winter’s day. Go on. Please. Touch my tits – I’ll buy you a sandwich.

And during sex? Why not grab them? Go on – just a bit, squeeze them a little. If you’re on top and you need your arms to hold you up, put one hand on each of my tits and hold yourself up that way. It hurts, and is hot and brilliant. I appreciate that watching them jiggle is one of the most fun things about sex, but why not interrupt that jiggling every once in a while by grabbing my nipples and feeling my cunt twitch and my legs tense up as you squeeze them nice and hard, yeah?

I guess as you grow up you’re more focused on the ultimate goal – the cunt. But while your cock’s in there your hands are free, so if it’s not too much trouble, and if you’re not that busy: touch them. Pretty pretty please.

Tits are like kittens: extremely popular on the internet