Even in my earliest memories I can recall being pretty obsessed with breasts. I was a toddler tit connoisseur, able to distinguish between shape, size, firmness and placement far beyond the abilities of my peers. Yet I cannot remember being breastfed, or if that was still going on by the time I had developed my particular must for bust. Shortly before she died I finally came clean to my mother about my ‘lifestyle’ in hopes that she could provide some clue as to how things turned out the way they did for me. She said she had breastfed me until I was a year old and then weaned normally. Yet a year later when I saw her breastfeeding my baby sister, she says, I became outraged with envy and had to be out of site whenever future feedings occurred lest I throw a spasmodic tantrum.
For most of my early childhood it was just the jugs that got me going. Then when I was ten I went on a visit with my mother to a her friends house. This was the first time I had ever met the woman and it was the first time that I ever fell in love. She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. And on top of that she had the most perfect breasts I had ever yet laid eyes upon. Every detail about those globes was absolutely perfect. They were a masterpiece in every conceivable way. The advantage of being ten is that you can blend into the background and stare without being noticed, and I sat there for an hour pretending to be reading comic books while taking in every glorious breath and subsequent upheavals of those marvelous mounds.
And then the single most formative moment of my life occurred. From afar a baby cries out, and mom’s friend shuffles off, returning a moment later with her bundle of joy. She sits back down and pulls one of those epic melons out right before my eyes, exposing her nipple (my Holy Grail at the time) and teasing it into that blessed newborns little mouth. I glance over at my mom, just as she glances questioningly and a bit nervous at me, and I pretend to go back to my comic book. Yet I cannot help but to stare raptly, no longer capable of any stealth pretense, so my mother politely suggests I should go outside and see if there are any children my age in the neighborhood. Awed and embarrassed I am unable to argue or shrug her suggestion aside, so I head outside and climb the first tree I can get myself up into.
As I sat there splayed out in the branches I had the most intimate moments of my life. I imagined myself as that lucky little baby, slurping freely from that monumental mammalia, while the entire world around me became whiteness and warmness and a song that cannot be heard except as gentle vibrations tracing the furthest reaching tendrils of my entire soul simultaneously. Heaven.
On the way home my mom asked me if I understood what I had seen. I told her I ‘kinda’ did and she gave me a simple run down on the mechanics and psychology mother’s milk. And even though I was still reeling in a haze of newfound love, I can remember every word she said to this day.
My fascination soon became fetish, even before the throes of puberty. Yet these desires remained my own private fantasy for several more years, which in retrospect, was the golden age of my compulsion. It was only when I eventually tried to act these fantasies out in real life that things became complicated and painful.
Thankfully I came of age during the time of the internet. Finding a partner to indulge my fantasies was not always easy, but it was far less difficult than most of the actual encounters themselves. I would put out ads detailing my kink, although I never thought of it as anything less than beautiful and wholesome myself, and would generally get a reply once a month or so. Only about half of these ended in me guzzlin’ jugs, and almost all of them ended in complete disaster.
With few exceptions the women who I hooked up with were young single mothers desperate to attract a partner to help them through the struggles of parenthood and life. And while it generally all began as an agreement for discrete occasional encounters, it always eventually came down to my partner wanting to “pursue the relationship further”. A few times I actually tried this, but as the relationship progressed, the expectation that I would wean off my fixation ultimately ended the relationship before I ever even got to the moving in together phase. That is, until I met Victoria.
From the moment I met her I could tell that there was something off about her. First of all, she was far more attractive than the vast majority of women who I hooked up with. Which made her apparent attraction to me mind-boggling. Her vigilance to visual perfection extended to every inch of her perfectly sculpted and groomed body. She had a face of eternal youth, a little girls coy smile on a sex goddesses face. Framed by the most beautiful wavy blue black hair you have ever seen, which accompanied her porcelain skin tone highlighted by only the most gentle brushes of pink. And her breasts…
Victoria had breasts that could start an apocalypse or bring world peace and end hunger. Maybe even all on the same day and in any order. There is no way to describe them. If I tried to put into words the perfection they encompassed, even if I achieved the highest possible form of descriptive compliment, I could still only manage to convey only a fraction of their globular glory. But how and why they were so perfect was a flaw I would not understand fully until it was far too late.
She came from your average American town. The kind small enough to have just one high school, but big enough to have over a half dozen fast food joints on the main strip. Her whole life she had been everyone’s princess, despite having been born on the wrong side of the tracks in a below average family. She was charming, congenial, witty and clever – on top of beautiful. Everyone loved her, but nobody loved her more than she did herself. As her body blossomed into that of a young woman her breasts seemed to hit a growth standstill, just shy of her minimum expectations for their development. Despite the fact that she was considered perfect in almost every conceivable way to everybody else who knew her, she came to view this shortchanging of the bra as an unfathomable slight against her by all of existence. She was, she reckoned, one cup size short of total perfection and thus – completely flawed. In her last few years of high school her insecurities led her to experiment with promiscuity, although she always chose older men for one night stands out of discretion and decorum. That is, until senior prom.
Despite her growing anxieties about her perceived flaw, she was voted Prom Queen, just as everybody she had ever met knew she would be since the first time they met her. She was born prom queen material, and destiny owed that to her, regardless of her incompetent mammary glands. On this night she made an exception to her ‘no romance with peer’s rule and went as the date of the boy in her class who was crowned king. They then went out together for the rest of the school year, and on the night before graduation, she let him fuck her. It was uncomfortable and boring and would change the rest of her life.
As everyone else was heading off to college, she got got an apartment in a town a county away and took a job as secretary at a printing company. Shortly after her ‘king’ had marched off to four years in a frat house, she began to show. He never had any idea, as he had broken up with her a few weeks after she became pregnant because, “You know, it’s college, babe. I’ll never forget you.”
While her body began to swell to accommodate the child growing inside her, so did her breasts. She would come home from work after a long day and stand topless in the mirror scrutinizing them for new growth, and partially out of fear that they would engorge themselves unequally and she would become loptitted. She spent a small fortune on oils and creams and support bras, and as those little b-cups transformed themselves into firm, plump c+cups, she fell in love.
After she gave birth she was vigilant about getting back into shape, and soon her body was more curvy and toned than it had ever been before. So long as she breast fed, her hooters remained in that perfect pristine state. They were the only thing that had ever been missing, and so long as she could keep them, she could be happy. Her, her beautiful baby boy and her glorious gazongas; she could live with that. So she vowed to herself and whatever powers the universe might behold that she would breastfeed as long as she could.
When Victoria responded to my ad her son Merrick was five years old and just getting ready to go to kindergarten. Despite the fact that neither of them were willing or emotionally ready to end what had already gone on too long, she knew it had to be done. She found another mouth to suck and began weaning the child. When I first came into their life this change had thrown them into absolute dysfunction. Both of them waged an emotional war against each other that will likely last the rest of their live, but in the beginning it was especially bad.
It was not that I did not notice the insanity I had walked into, I had seen it clearly from the very first step. But Victoria’s breasts were so absolutely perfect that nothing could have dragged me away from them. On top of this I reasoned that things would eventually even out and I would be living my lifelong dream. And as time went on, it sometimes seemed things might turn out that way.
After about a year and a half of 2-3 feedings on the world’s greatest fun bags, things suddenly took a turn for the worse. One night while we were up watching television and I was helping myself to a late night snack, Merrick woke up and caught us in the act. It was the first time he had ever seen me foraging from his former source of ambrosia, and it did not go well. He jumped on me and began screaming and swinging and kicking and biting and clawing. It was total rage and before I could make it stop without hurting the kid, I was bleeding from a dozen places.
The result of this was that Victoria took Merrick to see a therapist. However when the boy revealed his story, the therapist told Victoria that she was likely the source of his troubles and would need to seek therapy herself if he was ever going to get better. So she did. But the therapist continuously told her that nothing would get better until she let go of her attachment to her breasts and keeping them up with lactation spurred by sexual encounters. She became sullen, depressed, angry and bitter. I could taste the milk in her turn sour as her inner struggle tore her apart. On one hand, she loved her son and wanted the very best for him, but on the other she loved her breasts more than anything she had ever loved about herself. Not only would quitting now mean they would lose volume, the years of breastfeeding would likely leave them deflated like grocery bags filled partially with lumpy stew. Yet fake boobies were never an option, as they had always been a deadly sin in her book of bodily perfection. She was not ready to face the eventual demise of her bosoms prime, and so things went on between us awhile longer.
One day as Merrick was supposed to be outdoors playing, I latched on for a little taste. As the warm drug slid down my throat I lost track of my surroundings. I did not notice that Victoria had fallen asleep to the sound of my gentle suckling, nor that the boy had quietly returned as I lay there sipping ecstatically, almost full and to the point of orgasm. I had no idea until the scissors punctured my left buttock halfway to the handle. My shrieking sent the boy scattering and his mother flew to her feet joining me in audio histrionics, as I ran around in circles like a madman trying to get a closer look at the damage. And that is the last thing I remember before losing consciousness and waking up later in the hospital.
The damage was minimal. I had fainted out of revulsion, horror and fright. The next morning I still had not heard from Victoria, and I was okay with that. A nurse said I should try to take a short walk if I was up to it, and I was. I strolled around the hospital and ended up in the maternity ward. As I looked into those little faces with their little puckered mouths I felt an overwhelmingly ethereal sense of shame and disgust, but only with myself.
I tried to calm myself by imagining my moms friends tits, those perfect proto-hooters of my life’s lust, but as I did I felt nothing. Going through a lifetime catalog of picture perfect memories of mammaries, I was left cold and empty. When I tried to imagine the slow trickle of earthy sweet warmth in my mouth from Nobel-worthy nipples, nothing within me stirred.
At first I panicked. I returned to my room and told the nurse my walk had prompted lots of pain, and was able to coerce her into a nice dose of drugs to calm me. I went over it again and again but my lifelong obsession was now just a distant memory. When I got out, I immediately broke it off with Victoria and we have never spoken since. (I later heard she married a car dealership owner and former high school quarterback and prom king, and Merrick became a cross between a Brony and a Juggalo, which enraged his stepdad to no end.)
Over the next days, weeks and months I came to find freedom in the release from my fetish. I could walk down the street and gander at the most marvelous racks and not feel a single thing, not even a sliver of that ancient thirst. Eventually I was sure that I was free at last and tested myself by watching several nights worth of breastfeeding videos online without even a slight stirring.
As this happened, I also began to notice things about women I never had. Or at least I began to notice differences between them that had never occurred to me in my narrow-minded obsession with breasts. For instance, I never realized how certain voices were more attractive than others, or how a balance of confidence and coyness could turn the mere act of walking into a show of unlimited seduction. I noticed this and hundreds of things that had never occurred to me before. And so the time came when I decided to try dating like a ‘normal’ human.
I wasted a whole year around bars and other pick up spots, but this turned out not to be my style. Eventually I tried online dating sites, but there was some ineffable quality about the women I met there I could not put my finger on, but which left me feeling these were souls even more desperate than I. At the same time I had noticed that I had become almost immune to arousal. Where once a few sips of chest nectar would excite me to the point of orgasm, I had not so much as had an erection in months. I even tried several kinds of porn, but nothing fanned my flames. I dismissed this as the need to make a real connection with a real woman, and not as some terrible harbinger. So I redoubled my efforts.
One day I was at a diner reading the newspaper when I came across a personals ad that seemed promising. The paper belonged to the diner but the waitress said that it would be okay if I wanted to snip a bit out, and ran off to grab me scissors. Scissors. The word lept electric into my mind. Scissors. Waves of potential ecstasy rolled wildly just under the surface of my whole being. Scissors. My erection threatened to bust out of my pants and overturn the table. If not, I would have gotten up. I would have ran. I would not have been there when the waitress got back. But I was, and as she handed me those scissors my entire body convulsed and I let out a low guttural moan and my eyes must have rolled a dozen times backward into my head as I sat there sputtering in horrified delight at whatever had just happened.
Coming soon – Part II: How My Scissor Fetish Went Dull In the Hands of A Racist Barber