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WORDS: LESLIE
WURTZEL
IMAGE: LUCY
MACLEOD
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The first time my friend Karen ever saw me I was sucking my own nipple.
On the back seat of a car. In a photograph… taken by her boyfriend.
It's a good job that Karen is the tit-tastic lady that she is, as the
sight of my contorted head clamped around a naked breast left her determined
to meet me. We've been firm, erect friends ever since.
Anyway, that particular self-sucking episode was just one of many. Ever
since I first discovered that I could lever my left bosom into my mouth
it's not taken much to persuade me to show others how it's done. Any excuse,
and my tits are out. I confess - I'm a breastibitionist.
The trick for getting them in your gob is to have big nipples but small
boobs. The fried egg look does have its advantages, and the further your
yolks stick out, the better. As they tend to come in unmatching pairs,
you may find one mammary more malleable than the other - Mrs Left has
always been my flexible friend.
On one occasion, after drinking silly amounts of vin blanc in a Soho restaurant,
I even managed to insert a substantial portion of the aforementioned knocker
into a glass of Sancerre. Now how classy is that? (Not as classy as Blue
Nun, I know, but the performance was such a crowd pleaser.) Tasted
rather nice, too.
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Now before you start tutting at this brazen attention-seeking, understand
that my balcony scene is not just a party piece. Oh no - I do have some
morals you know. Yes, my topless tactics have in fact become a strategic
tool in one of my other hobbies - political protest. Direct action doesn't
come much more direct than my pert nips saking their thang in the face
of the police, and it's quite the best way to 'get busted'.
A few years back, at the May Day protest in Oxford Street, I confronted
an officer who was illegally filming me by flinging my top off and offering
him a better look. This caused consternation (for him) and merriment (for
us), but not quite the tabloid-friendly furore that I spawned at a demo
in support of the striking Liverpool Dockers a few years ago. On that
occasion I had sprinted in front of a line of riot police with my baps
bared. I did this because, after a peaceful kinda march, the fools had
cordoned us all off into Trafalger Square and were closing in from every
angle. Unsurprisingly, tensions were starting to rise, so to quell the
unease I thought I'd cause an amusing distraction.
As it turned out, the boys in blue didn't bat an eyelid, but the paparrazi
went beserk, screaming 'Come back this way for the papers, love!' Oh go
on then, I thought, and selflessly ran back facing the cameras. As they
flashed, so did I. The next day a photo of my base-chested self appeared
on page 3 of the Sunday Sport, under the immortal heading: DOCKERS - KNOCKERS!
Aah, Denise Van Outen eat your deflated heart out.
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Like a little boy delighted with the possibilities of his penis, I am unfailingly
pleased by my boobies. I sit on my sofa and cup them in my hands, comforted
by their presence. Breast is best, and mine are my bosom buddies, my love
handles, my twin peaks. They like hanging out with me and I like chewing
their fat - it's a win-win situation.
As for auto-inhalation, I know I'm not alone in this fetish - my ex-boyfriend
could suck his own penis. (Well, he could get the end in, and yes, it was
a rather long schlong.) As we didn't like each other very much, it was the
perfect arrangement - the pair of us would sit in bed ignoring each other
whilst lavishing attention on our soggy selves.
Put simply, tits are the dog's, well, tits, and the only bad thing about
them is that a sorry 50% of the world's population haven't got any. But
that's ok, because I'm here to help. Hello Boys - wanna see what I've got?
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