A Journey to Enlightenment and a Topless Beach

A tale badly in need of an editor

The other day, I sat down to write a relatively serious article about breasts. One with a point and everything. Why is it here on Sex and Satire rather than someplace more serious, you ask? Well, I began to wonder if I had the authority to write a serious article about breasts, given that I don’t have breasts. Actually, that’s not true. I do have breasts, what I don’t have are functional mammary glands. But I digress. Get used to it.

Anyway, my non-functional breasts and I still think we have a good story to tell and a semi-important point to make. So, we thought, why not throw in some jokes and stream-of-consciousness-type humor and make it a comedy piece?

Why not indeed? But let’s not go down that existential rabbit hole, we were talking about breasts. And I had a point to make about them. A semi-important one, at that. And before you distract me again, I think I should make it. Ready? Here it is:

Ladies should put their bazongas out there all the time!

And I mean — All The Time! Weather dependent and as a personal choice for sure, but as much as possible. And not for the reason that many non-functional mammary gland owners usually have.

Would you like to come on the journey to that conclusion with me? We’ll go to France on the way. You’ll love it.

And, yes, I know the picture at the top of the page is in direct opposition to my point, but bare breasts are against Medium policies, and, as you’ll see, eventually, that pertains to my point. Also, she’s very pretty. I bet her bare breasts look wonderful. So, she was getting into the story regardless of her breast exposure status.

Anyway, when I was a kid, I had parents. And they had parents. Let’s call them ‘grandparents’. And my grandparents lived in England. We lived in the US. My parents left England because my dad didn’t think there was much opportunity there. Funnily enough, his brother who stayed in the UK became super wealthy and my cousin actually worked for Richard Branson. Yes, the billionaire. How did that happen, you wonder?

Nice try, but we were talking about breasts, not billionaires. Although Richard Branson puts ‘Virgin’ in the name of most of his companies, so I bet he has some unique opinions about breasts.

My grandparents in England had a small summer cottage in France. Not that they were landed gentry or anything like that. They were decidedly middle class, but Granny had aspirations. Hence the house in France. She had other foibles as well. She would stick ‘Esquire’ on the end of my name on birthday cards and such. She would always refer to me as the “heir of the family”, which may be part of the reason my cousin was so driven.

My father also used to refer to me as ‘the heir’, but that was mostly because he enjoyed tormenting my younger brother by calling him ‘the spare’. When my brother saw that Prince Harry book, he was all “Fuck you, Punk Harry, try being called ‘the spare’ without all the money and palaces and then see how you like it!” Yeah, Prince Harry would not be welcome at his house, that’s for sure.

Nor would he be welcome at my grandparents’ summer cottage in France, which was a dilapidated old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere and completely unsuitable for hosting royalty. Or billionaires. But it was very suitable for hosting grandchildren. So, we went quite a few times over the years. We got a chance to see another part of the world, immerse ourselves in a new language, and see breasts.

You almost forgot we were talking about breasts, didn’t you? I don’t blame you; this is getting quite convoluted. Maybe if I start calling them ‘bazongas’ I can stick to the point. Let’s try it.

The French have a remarkably relaxed attitude towards bazongas, at least at that time they did. I doubt they have gotten any tenser in the subsequent years. One of my first sights in Paris was a 2-story billboard with a topless model putting her gigantic bazongas right out there. I have no idea what product was being sold. But I remember that ad. Marketing genius or foolishness? You decide. But at some other time, we need to stick to the point.

Do I have a point? Yes. I even already told you what it is.

Ronald Reagan era USA was ‘just say no” to everything, drugs definitely, but sex, too. Did I mention that this all happened in the early 1980s? No? Well, this all happened in the early 1980s. Girls in my school wore sweaters that were so fuzzy it looked like they were out of focus. You couldn’t even tell if they had bazongas, let alone see them.

When I saw those bazongas fully naked and bigger than the car we were riding in, I was understandably excited. This was much better than the old Playboys that Dad had hidden in the garage. My uncle hid his pornography in his stables. My cousin can hire porno actors to perform for him. He probably keeps them hidden in his dungeon. Porno has to do with bazongas, right? I think so. Good, it seems like the ‘bazongas’ thing is working. Let’s keep going.

As I said earlier, my grandparents’ cottage was in the middle of nowhere and most of the time we were touring French castles and historic venues, so there weren’t that many bazongas sightings. More than you might expect, but not that many.

While there weren’t many bazongas sightings, there were other local teens that took me under their wings, because they liked watching me get drunk and lose the ability to speak the small amount of French I had and because I understood the lyrics to the Michael Jackson album Thriller, which was all the rage at the time. Hey, I guess I didn’t need to tell you about how this was the 1980s because the Thiller reference would have filled you in.

Dammit! Bazongas! We’re almost there.

The other kids took me with them when they went on a parent-free, and grandparent-free, week-long camping trip at the beach. Now, on the beach, there were bazongas sightings! Lots of them. All of them. Everywhere I looked there were real-life bazongas. Big ones, little ones, younger ones, older ones, some were symmetrical, some weren’t. All of them were magical. My neck was sore from all the twisting.

But then a funny thing happened. Speaking of funny things, this happened to my brother, but it is still about bazongas. He and my grandfather were on a different French beach with different bazongas everywhere and my brother was trying to subtly take photos of said bazongas by holding his camera at his hip. Remember when cameras had film? Probably not. But they did and you had to pay to get the photos developed, so when you took a creep shot of some bazongas, it cost you 50 cents to find out that you took a picture of her ankles. Grandpa saw this and because he hated waste, or maybe because he was a dirty old man, he took the camera from my brother. He approached a topless woman and asked, in a thick Scottish accent, “Un photo, si vous plait, mademoiselle?” She happily agreed and he took a half dozen sexy shots of her. He handed the camera back to my brother and said, “That’s how you do it!” Quite the life lesson imparted. But this wasn’t the funny thing that happened to me.

The funny thing that happened to me was that on day 4 of our beach trip, I didn’t notice the bazongas. I mean, I didn’t notice them at all. I saw them, of course, but they didn’t matter. They were just there, like the sand or the gulls. As long as they weren’t up my butt crack or stealing my food, I didn’t care. And I still don’t. 3 days surrounded by bazongas was all it took.

Don’t get me wrong, I love bazongas! But I don’t care if they are out in public, or even if the children see them. Because they are just ordinary body parts, like elbows or foreheads. They aren’t some mystical wonders that need to be hidden so people can sleep soundly.

This is why, finally, I reached my conclusion. Remember that? It’s:

Ladies should put their bazongas out there all the time!

And it’s not so I can see them, which is what you might be thinking. It's so society will no longer give a shit whether we see them or not. And places like Medium may let that poor young woman up there be unencumbered by double standards.

The ‘Free the Nipple’ movement has been saying that for some time now, you say? I knew I was taking too long to get to my point.

Want something silly AND sexy?

But whatever you do, Don’t Read This!!