Tits

I have never met a woman who was happy with hers. Weird, but true. If they’re not big enough, it’s some problem with the nipples, or, how they hang. Myself? I could care less. I just want to get my hands on them. I’ll rate them later if that’s what they want…Now, in the world of breasts, you’re going to have every type and shape. I say, ‘it’s all good’. Not so in the world of women. Most always want one size up. Maybe five, in some cases. On that rare case where a woman wants to downsize because of lame excuses like pain while jogging, or, back pain, I write these losers off to whims from their lesbian lovers. We’ll cover lesbian tits at another time. Having set some precedents, our story today concerns a farily typical gal who needed those big gabbonzos for some reason or another. Even if her face would scare an ax murderer away, she just had to have those implants. Even if living in a van by the river, it would be accomplished…A gal nicknamed, ‘Hoochie mama’, was one such woman. If you sat next to her in a dark bar, already had five drinks and were sipping a fresh double, she looked damn good. The next morning, say, in the back of that van? The sounds of a desperate guy, fighting her to keep that .12 gauge in his mouth, toe on the trigger already…Having a lot of ‘friends’ stay with kids and room mates has never bothered me. I’m used to it. How many times have I had my own kids, spit in my face, scream, “FUCK YOU OLD MAN, I’M OUT OF HERE!” then, a few months later, or, fresh out of the Navy and broke, run into that very same, now full of love child, laying on my sofa when I came home from work, eager to hear about my day. It warms the soul. One ‘buddy’ or a ‘buddy’, had been living in a tent in the field below my place, no where else to go. He lived with us, but, sort of didn’t. I looked the other way. He came in handy at times, doing jobs no one in their right minds would attempt, so, he was also useful. He also had another talent. Picking up gals named Hootchie mama, and moving in with them. For awhile. Sooner or later, the object of his affections would get a good look at those five year old, never washed BVD’s, and it was hit the highway time. Until then, it was love nest city. Now, Laurence of Arabia, what the kids called him because of his big tent, did next was a breach of ettiquette. He lets her park her van on my lower lot. She would be no problem, it was guaranteed. I let nature take its course. About two months go by. I spot the Hoochie mama climbing out of her van one morning and am stunned at the change in her appearance. Same Mack truck face. Same Levis cut offs and tank top. Nope, it was her new chest. HUGE. I mean, WOW! Moving in to my place, she had saved up some dough and finally got her dream. I can go to my grave knowing I have that going for me. Soon, Laurence has a LOT of competition for her favors. He ends up moving on down the road. She takes over his tent and life is suddendly one big rainbow for her. We had so much fun gossiping about her, I left it alone. One night, about three am, 15 degrees out, I’m awoken by the sounds of Judas Priest, blaring from the field below. Finally, totally pissed, I dress, grab a flashlight, and head down. Coming through the thick junipers on a short trail off the main dirt road, I find Hoochie mama, slumped over her steering wheel, van still in drive, half way into a big juniper. The engine had died, but the stereo worked just fine. She’s passed out cold. A small cut on her forehead. Opening her door, I turn off the stereo, then try to wrestle her out of the van and into her tent. It was freezing, plus, a forty mile an hour wind popped up. She comes to and starts swinging. Screw this. I spin her into her tent and call it a night. I’m asleep again. I hear this weird wailing coming from below. It’s now about four hours gone by. Sun is just starting to rise. Once again I dress and head below. I find her from the wails. Hoochie mama is using her big side truck mirror while she wails and wriggles like a human snake. Hearing me call out, she turns, a frantic look on her mug, she’s got on a jacket, but nothing else. One tit is off to the left, the other is pointing straight up, almost hitting her chin. Just the way they had been when she had tried to start her van, passed out, then, FROZEN, solid as rocks, pushed out of shape by the steeriing wheel.

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