Her Beautiful Leaking Little Tits

Breastfeeding. Tis a wonderful thing.

Now as a man, I realise that saying such a thing might see me mistaken for a perve and a creep. Hell, it’s pretty hard for a guy to espouse any praise for the natural act of a woman feeding an infant by the boob, as the natural assumption is that most guys can’t separate their base sexual feelings from an appreciation of what is, very much, a natural and beautiful act.

Not that I’m saying I’m not a perve and a creep. I am those things, very much so.

I can’t help it. I’ve been a fan of the boob for as far back as my muzzy memory stretches. I love boobs. I’m a boob man. A tit fan. And frankly, though I’m not at all proud to declare it, I’ll default to stealing a glimpse of some boob even if there does happen to be a baby hanging off the end of it.

I know. I’m terrible. I’m ascribing a sexual objectivity to what is, first and foremost, an organ designed for and devoted to the rearing of young ones. I ought to be ashamed of myself – and I am, quite genuinely.

Unless I work really hard at it, I will often find myself, out of pure base instinct, whipping my head around at the merest glimpse of a breast bared in public – a breast bared not for my benefit, nor anyone else’s benefit, aside of course from providing nourishment to the woman’s offspring. I swear I have a radar for bared breasts. I see them beyond the corners of my eye, even if the poor woman is sitting directly behind me. Somehow, I know that a boob is out, and I find myself gawking at it before I can think to stop myself.

It has been a problem plaguing my entire adulthood, and for a long time I struggled to overcome the issue. At first I tried to overcompensate. If ever I should offend my own growing feminist sensibilities by ogling a breastfeeding woman in my company, I would make every effort to not look at her again – not at her boob, or even at any other part of her. She became invisible to me, like she was not even there. Which, on reflection, was of course simply dumb. I’d be unintentionally ostracising her from my conversation or attention, appearing to punish her for daring to feed her child in public. It was the last thing I wanted to do, of course, and yet there I was doing it.

Then there was the time I was in conversation with a new mother, who was also a good friend, when she casually popped out a boob and started feeding her baby right there, right in front of me. What did I do? Did I make it weird? But of course I fucking did – never in my life had I ever held such a fixed lock on eye contact with a person such as I did during the remainder of that conversation. I was so determined to not look at her boob, so determined to prove to myself, and perhaps to her too, that I could be better than a slobbering perve, that I once again made things weird and uncomfortable by tractor-beaming my gaze deep into her eyes, drilling with my irises into the very depths of her psyche and her soul. She looked uncomfortable, but I was dumb and stubborn and lacked the preparation or imagination to behave any better. Can’t say I’m too proud of how I handled that one.

That was back in my youth, though. With time and practice, in more recent experiences of a similar boobs-out nature, I could brow-beat myself into performing a passing impression of a normal human being. In between all of these near-miss breastfeeding shenanigans, I also somehow managed to find myself a real nice lady who saw something in me worth sticking around for, and we went and made ourselves our own little squalling piece of progeny.

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