How Pleasant It is to Touch a Boob

This is a search term that brought someone to Tiny Cat Pants this morning. I can’t decide if this is a question–a person who has never touched a boob wondering about its general pleasantness or perhaps a poet, wondering if anyone else has ever started a poem “How pleasant it is to touch a boob.”

I am curious about how such a poem might go.

How pleasant it is to touch a boob.

I would know, of course.

I’m not a n00b.

A long time ago I liked a guy who liked me back but nothing ever really came of it except that he gave me a poem about awesome boobs, written, of course, by Lord Byron. Writing it down like that makes it sound tacky, but I found it charming and funny.

He has a wife now, and some adorable kids. Sometimes, I see their photos and I wonder if I should have tried harder to… I don’t even know, really… I’ve become someone since then that wouldn’t be a good fit for him. It’s hard to imagine the person I am now making the person he is now happy. But he made me happy once-upon-a-time and I hope the feeling is mutual.

5 thoughts on “How Pleasant It is to Touch a Boob

  1. I guess, too, the reason this is on my mind is that my parents are weirdly pressuring me to start selling crocheted baby clothes (there’s a place here in Whites Creek that would take them) and I feel so grossed out by the suggestion I almost don’t know how to process it. I love making things for people I know. I love making baby things for babies I know (or will come to know). When I make something for someone, I spend a lot of time imagining how it will look on them, whether it will be warm enough for them, or too hot, depending on where they live. I spend a lot of time fretting about whether this will be just right and then I take pleasure from deciding that, yes, it is.

    I’m most likely not going to have kids and I am pretty okay with that. I don’t feel any sense that there’s anything missing from my life. I would have welcomed kids if they’d come, but they didn’t and I didn’t go out of my way to make it happen.

    I don’t want to make things for kids I’ll never know. I don’t like making baby clothes as much as I like making afghans. I feel like, sometimes, my parents want so desperately for me to be the type of woman they can understand. If I were sitting around pining for the children I will never mother, crocheting baby clothes for babies I will never have, that would, at least, be my energies channeled into the domestic.

    It just makes me wonder if I should have made more of an effort to be the kind of woman people marry when I was younger. But I just didn’t know how to be. I still don’t.

    But I always feel uneasy when I think I’m disappointing my parents.

  2. B., forgive me for a moment for making this about me, but I just want to offer you a different perspective on the final idea in your comment. I never have to worry about disappointing my parents. I was more or less abandoned by my father, and the relationship we built in his later years was one without judgment (which worked out quite well for him, of course). My mother never misses an opportunity to belittle or humiliate, and she has many different methods for dishing out such treatment.

    The bar is therefore set wherever the hell I want it to be, and I am doing my best to follow Alice Miller’s prescription by avoiding bashing my daughter over the head with all my childhood baggage. I can’t speak for you, B., but I think you’re doing an outstanding job as a human being. The only one you may disappoint is yourself.

  3. Perhaps your parents should have made more of an effort, at some point in the last 20 years, to seek out a marriageable man suitable for their brilliant, talented, lovely only daughter.

    If they’re genuinely so all-fired concerned about you not being married or giving them grandchildren, that is. It’s a tiny bit like telling a kid, “Go learn to drive!” and then standing there on the porch with their arms folded, glaring, while the kid stands in the empty driveway, sans keys, looking puzzled.

    Why was/is it your job to make yourself marriageable, dear one? Your task, like all of us, is to become the best you that you can be (sorry about the Oprahism). If you stumble over a co-pilot in the process too, or someone points a good one out, that’s great.

    Folks complaining, unsolicited, that someone else is contentedly single need to consider why it’s bothering them so much.

    Keep on sharing your many amazing talents with those who will enjoy and care for the results with at least some measure of the love and dedication that went into them. It makes perfect sense to me.


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