It happened when I was avidly watching HBO’s “Tell me you love me”, which is usually full of copious amounts of sex and youthful, perky breasts. Unfortunately, they showed one of the characters, Dr May Foster, straddling her husband and much to my dismay, also showed her 60 year old boobs. I was instantly seized with an icy hot fear of what my own cans will look like one day. Why would this show want to add that into the mix; it’s supposed to be a sexy show. It would have sufficed to show them under the covers (away from my now scarred retinas), making sweaty, KY-infused, geriatric love.
So I have decided to treat them like people treat houseplants; I will talk to them positively, and it will help them thrive. Perhaps if I stay positive about the life of my jugs, then that optimism will defy gravity and they will be spectacular when I am older. If that fails to work, then I go to option two, and see a cosmetic surgery. It just seems a shame to give up on them... they've never given up on me; they snag me free drinks, made me great tips when I worked at hooters, and even won me a wet t shirt contest once or twice.
I understand some people get their rocks off looking at old ladies, and everyone is entitled to their own personal kink. But just like scat fetishes, it’s something better left behind closed doors and special magazines and websites. I don’t deserve to be confronted with how my sweet chariots will one day swing low.