Boob Man - 750 Words

I'm a Boob man.

Always have been, always will be.

Mom let me stay on the tit until going to school made it impossible. That set my taste. So - -

I'm a Boob man.

Oh, I'll look at a nice ass or good legs. A pretty face will hold my attention for about a minute.

But, well, when you get right down to it - -

I'm a Boob man.

That means I tend to like plus-size women. Oh, once in a while I'll run across a skinny woman with a good rack. It's rare, but a treat when you find one.

My wife, however, isn't. Skinny that is. As she walked into the room, ready for our first date night in almost three months, She looked terrific. The bright blue blouse was oddly sexy the way its turtleneck covered her from chin down. The black skirt had a fringe hem that moved constantly, even when she stood still. The blouse was stretched over those magnificent GG boobs. They were the first thing that attracted me to her because, well - -

I'm a Boob man.

She smiled then, her first real smile since we got home from the hospital.

"I can feel you undressing me with your eyes," she said, moving closer until that rack, hard in the bra, touched me. I smiled back, kissed her, and felt that little tingle in my belly when she touched me like that because, well - -

I'm a Boob man.

I held her at arm's length for a moment and did it. Undressed her with my eyes. I got the blouse off, pulling it over her head. Then her skirt, the button and zipper, and letting it drop.

She looked terrific in only her underwear. She's mature and her body shows the four children we shared. She has that soft little belly with its mass of stretch marks, and the extra fat she stored and never quite lost was distributed throughout her body. Soft skin bulged from the tight bra. The elastic of her panties cut a little trough in her waist and belly. I was reaching around for the hooks of her bra when she broke my reverie with, "Come on, Baby. You wanted to go out and the reservation is for seven." I reluctantly came back to the real world, casting a last look at the way her bra cut, wanting to take it off of her because, well - -

I'm a Boob man.

Dinner was good, the steak properly cooked, the lobster the food of the Gods. Dancing later was good too. We dance well together. We should after almost 40 years of practice.

At home she seemed a little nervous but, dammit, it had been almost three months and it was time. So I did as I had imagined before. The blouse, the skirt. This time I got to my knees and did the panties and pantyhose too. Then I stood and reached around for the hooks of her bra because, well - -

I'm a Boob man.

I finally saw what they meant by the word "radical."

The radical mastectomy left a deep divot where her left breast had been. But it was more than that. On the right, a single line of scar, still pink but obviously healing, ran where that breast had been. On the left, to "Get it all," they had taken muscle and lymph nodes and I don't know what all. It looked like the surgeon had taken a fucking ice cream scoop to her upper chest. She was looking down at the floor now. She knows me. She knows - -

I'm a Boob man.

I did the two-hands-on-the-cheeks thing and kissed her. I bent and kissed the scar on the right, and felt her tremble as she started to cry. I kissed the bigger scar on the left, gently, tenderly, lovingly.

"You are SO beautiful," I said. She whispered, "I'm sorry."

I'm a Boob man.

I didn't say anything. I took her hand and walked her to the floor-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. "You know what I see?" I asked, standing behind her and letting my hands roam up to trace the scars.

"I see a beautiful woman who survived a terrible disease," I said, nuzzling her neck with my lips and slowly moving my hands down across the softness of her belly to the roundness of her mons, pressing her back against me. "And I WANT her."

I'm a Boob man.

But I'm a Wife man more.