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"Tit Tales" Contest Winners!

First Prize goes to... "If Only!"

Being that my tits are well, rather large in comparison to most of my  peers, I like to think that they would have something more profound to  say than all the others. So if my tits could talk they would say many  things, "STOP LOOKING AT ME!", "STOP TALKING ABOUT ME!", and most  importantly.. "AM I TOO FAT?". Being a 19 year old with gigantic breasts  seems like fun to some, but not to me.

To think at one time I was the girl who got made fun of for having a  small chest now seems not only comical, but so ironic. I am walking  around on a daily basis with what feels like 20 pounds of irony on my  chest. Though I like some of the attention, that's right SOME, not ALL  of the attention these tits get me, I do not appreciate the girls who  assume they are fake, and the guys who would just LOVE to find out if  they are real. To clear it up, they are real! Walking out in public is  no longer a pleasant experience for me simply because I see everyone  looking at my chest. I know that they're big people, get over it. And  then they talk.

As if looking weren't enough, people talk. A lot as a matter of fact  on the subject of my breasts. As it turns out it can be very entertaining. Family gatherings often culminate in talk of my chest.  Well, more like poking fun at my expense. My sister is the best though,  she doesn't make a point of talking about my tits with my family. Oh no,  she talks about them with EVERYONE! The general introduction of myself  to one of her friends is "HEY!______ this is my sister Amanda, I told  you about her right? She has the biggest tits ever! Look at them,  they're huge! Now do you believe me?". Think this is cruel and unusual  punishment? If you do, please inform her. I never even wanted them in  the first place but alas I must suffer. With what seem to be the biggest  tits on the planet, or at least in my general vicinity.

So I complain a lot about the "publicity" my tits get due to they're  large size, but how big do you ask? Well I'll explain. You see, I cannot  see my toes standing up straight, I can rest my bowl of cereal on them  to avoid inevitably spilling the milk onto my chest, I look like a  billboard when I wear shirts with any sort of logo on them, it takes  three and a half large hands to completely cover one of breasts, and a  turtleneck is considered a risque neckline for me. These are just a few  everyday facts that I, and 'the twins' have to face. Too big? I think  so. I cried when I found out I was a 40 F, and I'm sure that if I were  lactating, they would have cried too.

I love my twins though, and the thought of not having them would do  horrible things to me. Initially, I would fall over (due to the imbalance), then I would cry like I have never cried over my breasts  before. I complain a lot about my tits, and I believe that they could  talk they'd say that I love them a lot, and always make sure that they  have some TLC.

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Second Prize goes to...  "If My Breasts Could Talk"

This is no ordinary tale of love and tragedy. Of wild horses and  equally wild men. Today, I tell a tale of something close to my heart. Beneath the soft fleece of my hooded jacket. Under my Dukes of Hazard  t-shirt, where my left one comes dangerously close to the back of  Daisy's head.

If my breasts could talk, they'd probably go into great detail  of how they once looked in their prime. Oh, how they'd laugh and slap their knees reminiscing about those early days of young boys' attempts  at getting to second. Fumbling hands getting caught in a cross-fire of  engorged hormones and uncooperative seamless satin soft cups.  Or that one day, standing around in the hot sun. They were just  shy of twenty then, watching the sand castle competition, wearing a  barely-there black crochet bikini. That was the day, they'd tell you,  that they were at their height. Then they'd grin and wink. Because  they meant it literally.

If my breasts could talk, they'd let you in on hidden secrets.  Like what gets them in the mood. Not the "normal" ways one might think  would get them in the mood, but the unexplained pleasures. Like the  feeling of having a loved one pressed against their side as they sit and  watch their favourite movie or television program. How they enjoy long  drives in the country, especially if it's a colourful Autumn day. The  sound of rain outside on laundry day. And the freedom they feel as  they're unleashed from their harness after a long day at the office.  But then their laughs would fade, thinking back to being grabbed  or fondled by uninvited guests. Memories that cut deep, and only come  to surface when a lover pinches or tweaks. But they don't like to dwell  on things they cannot change. So they accept this as a part of who they  are. And this acceptance somehow makes them stronger.

Bikinis, push-ups, low cut angora sweaters, skinny dipping only  to be covered with shy crossed-arms when the cops arrived. Clamped,  pierced, tattooed, stared at and sucked on. Now that you've got them  started, their thoughts run wild.

Melons, ta tas, fun bags, bongos, boobs, fried eggs, banana  tits, two oranges in socks, and "Nice Rack!" If my breasts could talk they'd give you some good advice. With all that energy being used,  coming up with silly expressions to describe them, they suggest you  spend it elsewhere.

Maybe then... wars would end and the poor would be well fed.

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Third Prize goes to...

I was recently in a bar with a male friend, discussing the merits of a girl with whom I was infatuated. He nearly spit out his drink when I noted that in addition to her intelligence and charm, she has a fantastic rack.

'Rack' is my favorite slang term for breasts.

There are those who consider it demeaning; there are  those who consider any slang term for breasts demeaning, as though slang objectifies and/or demeans  breasts more than the most widely accepted term. Are  these people anti-metaphor? Some slang terms can elevate and pleasantly color that to which they refer  as much as they can, when used a spirit of sexist  defamation, demean.

'Rack' is such a term. It denotes respect for the  beauty of the breasts and the difficulty of having  them. It denotes majesty, like a moose rising out of  the spring mist crowned with a striking pair of  antlers. Majesty, with a tinge of occasional  ungainliness, like a moose unable to pass between  branches because of its adornment, or a moose unable  to go jogging with an incredibly supportive antler-bra  of some sort.

I have yet to find a slang term for smaller breasts  that I like as much; an 'a' cup bosom isn't a rack,  just as an antelope's smaller antlers, while  impressive in their own way, are hardly majestic and  also hardly ungainly, and hence not a rack. All the  slang names for smaller breasts are too disparaging;  Us 'a' cup gals need something far more reverent than  "mosquito bites."

I'll find one. Some day I'll be walking out of a bar  in a tight shirt, and a draft will come up, hardening  my nipples, and someone outside will yell

"Hey! Nice _____! And it will be slang that is so  perfectly apt, that I will go back into the bar to buy  that person a drink.