I can't believe it's been a month and a half since my last entry. I really have meant to keep you all abreast of things. I feel like a real tit. I would hate for this blog to be a total bust, so I've come here tonight to get some things off my chest. Yep, you've guessed it, I'm hear to talk about boobs. And teeth. Some very specific teeth. Four of them to be exact. The teeth that have seen fit to push themselves out through someone's gums in the last month. Straight out of his gums and into my nipples, actually. That someone shall remain nameless at this time, but his handle sounds a lot like "Promise the Nisco Dinja," and he can often be found tenaciously clamped on to one of my boobs like a snuggly little terrier attempting to snap the neck of a giant pink rat. The pain, it is really quite hard to describe. Unless you're into nipple clamps. Pointy, jagged nipple clamps that attempt to pull themselves off without releasing any of the 90 pounds of pressure they are exerting on your tender, tender flesh. Nipple clamps that attach themselves then wiggle about, detach, re-attach, vary their grip, pull of without opening thereby scraping their serrated blade-like opposing surfaces down the length of your tautly stretched and abused nipple and then have the audacity to grin and giggle at you.
So, yes, my boobs could use a little pick me up, a little uplifting post to remind them that I love them. Let us cast ourselves back in time, let us take a trip down mammary lane, if you will, to April of 2005. At that time I was still trying to get myself knocked up through the liberal injection of lingerie and porn into my marriage. Somehow, despite being of limited endowment, I managed to conceive. Two months later, much to my delight, I discovered that what had formerly been A cups bordering on Bs, had bypassed C altogether and jumped right on into Ds! Now, if only I could stand for them to be touched! Honestly, a lingering glance could make me wince, and the thought of a cotton t-shirt, much less a hand, brushing against them was enough to make me gasp in pain! Luckily, that was a passing phase in their development. Soon my girls were pain free and ready for action! They were magnificent, proud and haughty! And, unfortunately, completely eclipsed by the gigantic belly full of baby jutting out magestically beneath them. Luckily, every pregnancy is temporary and eventually mine ended, as the lucky ones do, in the birth of a small human. A small human with a use for my formerly ornamental and now fantastically functional breasts! How cool, I thought, I have built in spigots! I'm a diary dispenser! And the best part was that I had gained a second D! Some bra makers refer to the double D as an F, not as in "Failing," but as in "Fucking Fantastic!" whereas others retain the DD for "D-Dayyum." Despite one little run in with mastatis (a blocked and infected duct, a night and day of high fever, some antibiotics and learning the mysterious mother-knowledge of putting cabbage leaves in your bra), the next five months were a pleasant time of my breasts and I feeling useful and smugly self-satisfied. My son was fed and my shirts had never looked better!
And then, o' dread, o' agony, o' inevitable moment of dentition and anguish, I was rather suddenly and harshly shaken from my blissful breastfeeding by the intrusion of some very pointy extrusions. My beautiful and sweet little son no longer had a mouth, but a terrifying and tiny bear trap into which I had to purposefully place my delicate and previously protected bits of anatomy. Truly, there is no fairness in the world. Four teeth in one month proves this.
So, yes, my boobs are feeling rather less like cheesecake and more like beef jerky, toughened, under-appreciated and overly chewed. My son, however, looks like he will have a promising career ahead of him as a piercing artist.