(So it's sorta awkward to write a post about my boobs considering I know, in-person, several guys who read this blog regularly. It doesn't bother me that men I've never met will read it, although I'm not sure why. Probably because they have never been in the same room as my boobs and likely never will and so my boobs are really just any boobs to them, whereas to these other fellas, who are also my friends, my boobs are KELLY'S BOOBS and just the thought of these guys devoting their attention to the subject of my boobs makes me, frankly, rather bashful. But this is not my way of asking those guys (see how I can't even address them directly?) not to read this because I am, in fact, a brave blogger (hear me roar). Nor does knowing they will read this prevent me from posting it because I have pledged to my blogger self to never let the audience affect the art (and I use that term loosely). But I do think it might perhaps be polite if said male friends didn't leave a comment on this particular post so that I might delude myself into thinking that maybe perhaps they didn't read this one and thus I can continue to be able to look them in the eye. And actually, given their silence on previous posts of a similar nature, I suspect that is exactly what they will do because quite likely they are equally bashful about devoting attention to the subject of my boobs (although maybe not because who really knows with men?). Also, on an unrelated note, I'm oddly proud to have begun this post with a parenthetical aside.)

So, my boobs. They are (silent h)uge. That's right - I am, once again, boobin' it up(™Jessica Rabbit). (No, not pregnant. It happens when I skip the sugar pills of my birth control pack. Which I highly recommend because no period and bigger boobs? Fuck yeah!)

One of the theories behind why male interest in sex is (often) stronger and begins earlier than in females is because their sex organs are there from Day 1. The idea is that because boys can see them and touch them, they become curious about sex (and later rather obsessed with it) since there is, in front of them, a constant reminder. Girls, on the other hand, are not confronted with the physical manifestation of their sexuality until adolescence, and even then it's only secondary sex characteristics that emerge.

As a (temporarily) well-endowed woman, I have concluded that the same applies for big boobs. I hereby postulate that big-breasted women have sex on the brain (and as a result have sex) way more often than small-breasted women.

Because, people? I cannot stop thinking about my boobs! Everything I do, there they are! They shift when I lean forward. They bounce when I walk. They nestle heavily against me when I sit back. And with every shift, bounce, and nestle that occurs, I am forced to think BOOBS!

And thinking about my boobs leads me to touch my boobs. I can't keep my hands off them! They're so curvy! And soft! And they've got just the right heft to them. And when I smoosh them they spring right back! The best spot is the cleavage crevice. I can slide my finger into that little nook and on each side a breast rises up with the most loveliest of slopes such that if I were a little fairy looking for the perfect place to nap, I would snuggle myself right into that spot. I made the mistake today of wearing a low cut shirt and I've been utterly distracted the entire day. (Or, rather, udderly distracted.)

So at this point I'm completely obsessed with my rack, right? So much so that I can think of nothing else to do but show it to someone. And can I just say? Nothing leads to sex faster than showing someone your boobs. And by someone I obviously mean my husband although I'm certain this cause-and-effect is not unique to him. But someone else will need to do the field research to officially prove that - and yes, you can thank me later for such a fucking fantastic thesis idea.