Na, na, na, na, Assman!

I’ve always thought of myself as an assman. Not that that is primarlily how I identify myself, mind you. But I have always found myself in agreement with the poet Mixalot, when it comes to the desirability of a callipygous form. Lately however my boundless appreciation for the female form has swayed a bit towards the appreciation of bountiful breasts.

Of course, how can I not love that.

I think it started with a correspondence some time ago where DD, told me, that since I was so stressed out, what I needed was to nuzzle some big pillowy boobies until I felt better. And so in the intervening time, whenever I’ve been particularly stressed out, and had a moment to take a deep breath that image is the one I’ve been using as my happy place.

I think it has something to do with the freudian implications of breasts, they are nuturing as well as sexual, to be face first in a woman’s chest is as much comforting as it is arousing, whereas to be face first in a woman’s ass is merely lurid (not that that is a bad thing.)

Since that conversation I’ve been noticing breasts more, I think they’ve made their way into my dashboard more often as well. But my new found appreciation for fulsome fun-bags brings a little sadness too. See there is a certain oh, je ne sais quoi to being an assman.

Perhaps I’m a hipster, but there is something so pedestrian about the appreciation of beautiful breasts. I’ve always had a little pride in the fact that I cared more about a lady’s trunk than her rack.

What am I, if not an Assman?

At the end of the day I suppose it’s a moot point, I’m such a fan of the female form in all it’s myriad variations. Furthermore, eyes and a smile are so much more important to me than all the rest combined, but I thought it was an interesting shift in desire that deserved cataloging.