My humps
I hate bra shopping. Abhor, loathe, abominate, execrate, despise, detest. Some strange chick pulls you into a tiny closet and grabs your breasts for size -- then leaves. Yet returns expecting nudity. I stand there red in face, increasingly crabby sweaty lemme outta here. Can I just get two dozen of those? Let's go.
But now I've discovered what's worse: the changing booby vogue. Remember when cramming those two puppies together was all the rage? A few buttons undone and -- instant attention! It was all about the curve and the plunge. (Hey, I may be a bit butch, but I noticed pretty young that my large endowments translated into rather a lot of notice. I'm shy, but not dumb.)
Everything has changed.
Suddenly, Madonna torpedo tits are in. It's all about separate but equal. My mashed girlies look freakish. Gotta lift and subdivide. Bust 'em up! My bosoms, that used to be impressive but to which I paid no heed, are now taking up twice as much width and frankly, are getting in the way.
I used to make fun of men who adjusted their willies in public. No more: Hey! I... oh, just a second.... yow... there, that's better.
Oh new black bra, thou art
a cruel mistress. And itchy, too.