I’m afraid spring stress led to spring fat this year. Just ate my way out of emotional pain. And you I know you know what I mean. You’ve been there before. I’ve been there before. I looked up one day and couldn’t deny that ten extra pounds had landed where they hadn’t been, what seemed like only the day before, and ten pounds on my five foot two inch frame is quite a bit of weight.
Moment of Truth
I turned to my husband that morning, naked in the bathroom and simply inquired,
“Have I gained some weight? Because I have,” answering my own question before giving him a chance to respond.
“Well, Baby Doll, perhaps a bit, but you always look beautiful to me,” and as he looked me over, a devious little smile formed at the corner of his mouth. I knew that my breasts inspired this smile because with an extra pounds on my frame, my tits look fantastic.
Between you and me…
I’ll tell you something about my man because I know he would admit it himself. There are leg men and face men and ass men, and I’ve been told even feet men. My man is a breast man through and through. He can’t deny it, not even for a second, and with each successive pound that I gained, my breasts got rounder and fuller and bouncier, and my husband’s eyes got larger and hungrier, bright with delight.
But as my tits grew, so did my ass, making me most unhappy, as I am not happy with a large ass, nor am I happy above a certain weight point. I know my limit, and I knew that precisely morning that it was time to begin what I have begun only one hundred times before.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat…
I dieted and starved and counted points and prayed and drank coffee and stood on the scale, and slowly but surely over a few hard won months, the weight slowly came off. I made losing fifteen pounds my ultimate goal. Sixteen at best, which was more than I had gained in the first place, but always an achiever, I do crave a challenge. I worked it and worked it, and the day arrived that I hit the big number on my little white scale in the corner of the toilet room. I walked out to the master bathroom in all of my glory, stood in front of the mirror and my ass looked FANTASTIC. The Hallelujah Chorus blasted from my oversized showerhead, and I was elated because I had starved the fat from my ass. As I turned just a bit and then a bit more and a tiny bit more until fully facing the mirror, it was then that I realized that something was amiss.
“Hey Babe!” I called out as loudly as I could, not wanting to take my eyes off my reflection, in case I miss any new development.
“BABE!? JIM!? HAVE YOU SEEN MY BREASTS? BECAUSE, I CAN’T SEEM TO FIND THEM!”
I immediately heard the pounding of heavy, determined footsteps as my husband ran up our hardwood steps and into our bathroom. As he screeched to a halt and our eyes met in the bathroom mirror with him standing behind me, he surveyed the situation. The look on his face was one of mass confusion mixed with deep concern. As he looked over me from head to toe, back to front, his blue eyes seemed to deepen in color, sinking into his head as his brow furrowed just slightly and his concern began to look more akin to panic. So, I chimed in enthusiastically,
“I reached my weight goal! Aren’t you proud of me??”
He took a moment to collect himself, looked into my eyes and replied lovingly, softly,
“Of course Baby Doll, that’s amazing,” with the weakness in his voice of a broken man. And then he added,
“I’ll go search the garage,”
Which is where all good husbands go to look for lost parts.
And when he left, I knew he would fail for two implicit reasons:
- My tits were not in the garage.
- My husband couldn’t find a lost item in our household to save our very lives.
As I looked at my reflection that day, I was torn because I want the tiny, cute ass of my dreams. But, damn it! I’m a woman who loves having breasts.
Over the next few weeks, my dilemma was solved for me by one very simple human need. Not sex, not vanity, but hunger. I was really, really hungry.
I now have an ass quite a bit smaller than I did at the end of the spring, but not the tiny ass of my fantasies with which I simply was not genetically blessed. I am aware that in certain cultures and by specific individuals, my curvaceous ass would be seen as an asset and perhaps even revered, just not in Southern California. I settled at the ten-pound loss that I had gained in the first place.
I have my breasts back, perfectly large enough to feel feminine and womanly and while he would love me regardless of my personal beauty choices, my husband is no longer suffering from grief due to a loss in his mind paramount to the death of a loved one.
I am the perfect size.
Because nothing is perfect.
I am not only pretty because of my facial features but because I smile with sincerity as I look people directly in the eye when I acknowledge them.
I see plenty of beautiful women with tiny bodies and huge breasts in my suburb, and they look sexy.
They chose a way to have it both ways. It is not natural, so the choice they have made is obvious.
Everyone decides for himself or herself how to feel most beautiful. Everyone has that right.
You can have what you want, but every person sacrifices something.
There is no right or wrong.
Decide what makes you feel most beautiful and hold on tight.
And smile. It will bring light to your eyes as the stars shine in the night sky.
That is truly beautiful.