I’ll never forget that moment of horror in 5th grade. My family and I were enjoying a casual day at the lake house. All was well, the sun was out, and the water was clear. I couldn’t have asked for a better break from the rigors of adding variables to math equations. An already perfect day reached new heights with the late arrival of my 8th grade cousin and her bombshell of a friend.
She was gorgeous. Standing tall at 5’1”, around 100 pounds, with an ass flat as a board, she was a fifth-grader’s dream. I wasn’t much of a standards guy back then. My pride hadn’t yet developed and I was down to beat it to nearly anything, much like every single one of you. The idea of tubing came up, and of course I was down — I had to look like a badass, after all. The opportunity to spend a few seconds in her mind as a bold little bastard was worth it.
As we waited our turn, she called me over for a little small talk. She was seated. I was standing in front of her. Looking back at it, her bikini was unusually tiny, and I loved every bit of it. It was at that moment that my life changed. As she babbled about shit I couldn’t care less about, she finally turned back to look me in the eyes. All she found as she turned was a perverted 10-year-old staring straight at her A-cup chest like a vulture stalking prey. A bruising slap across the face was all I needed to realize that I had fucked up.
I learned two things that day: most women aren’t fans of horny males gazing at their knockers, and I love titties. What a cataclysmic combination that was, and for years after that, I was ashamed of staring. I just couldn’t help it. Puberty had me by the balls, and quite frankly, I didn’t hate it either. I thought I had largely overcome this as I reached my twenties. I wasn’t so obsessed with the tits of random women after seeing a few pairs in person through the years, but all of that changed with the introduction of Instagram “models.” What I thought I had overcome had only entered into a temporary hibernation.
Over time, I had become an avid follower of many of the most famous of these “models.” I keep referring to them in that manner because they’re not models in the traditional sense, but much more products of our modern sexualized society — a fucking awesome society, if my opinion means anything. As I browsed through my feed last week, I came to a conclusion about myself of a magnitude that I hadn’t reached since that fateful titty-lovin’ day on the lake. I could connect these models to their Instagram account by their ass and howitzers, but not their face. I literally didn’t recognize a single one of the models I have followed for months by their facial features. It took me a few moments to absorb the reality of it all. I had spent so much time focusing on their bodies, I had no sense of our most basic source of familiarity, her face.
None of you clicked on this with the expectation of not seeing some boobs, so I’ll give you an example. HERE is Lyna Perez, an Instagram model with almost 600,000 followers. In this picture, I knew exactly who it was with a simple glance.
That’s obviously @lynaritaa, no doubt about it. However, when this next post rolled into my feed, it took me nearly a minute to figure out who in the hell this girl was. It must’ve been lynaritaa’s hot friend, right? Nah, that’s just her with clothes on. Who knew what her face actually looked like?
That ass is great and all, but for months I had subconsciously been intently focusing so much on her tits and tits only as I scrolled my way into an erection, that I never actually bothered to see what she looked like.
I was slightly disappointed in myself. It’s fun and all to comment on the IGBOTD posts about your inability to find her face in a picture, but in reality, society expects us to care about much more than physical features. As I spent the rest of my night rotating between repeatedly running FCS Southwest through the NCAA Football 14 slaughterhouse and releasing my nut butter, I dabbled with the idea that maybe society is full of shit. Maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t feel bad about not giving a damn about anything but their bodies. It’s not like I’ll ever have a relationship with any of these girls. I’ll never have any true relationship with 99.999 percent of the women on this earth. Besides, I certainly didn’t start following them for their shitty captions and illogical emoji combinations. I followed them because their chest-mounted weapons of mass destruction were taking center stage in nearly every photo they uploaded.
It took a bit of self-convincing, but I overcame the moral obstacle. I’m not a bad person. Well, I am, but not for the reason in question. Society is definitely full of shit, though. There is absolutely nothing amiss with my little issue. These “ideals” are pushed by men and women not attractive enough to live a life funded by showing off their bodies to strangers. And with that, I can confidently say that I have absolutely no shame in regards to not giving a fuck about anything but their bodies.
This thought process isn’t limited to Instagram babes. Nearly every woman I see throughout my day doesn’t want to have an intellectual conversation with me. My life changed that night. I began to care much less. I began to enjoy my own personal pervertedness much more, and you should, too. The admiration of a woman’s body is only natural. You can’t honestly be expected to make an intellectual connection with every woman you come into contact with. It’s not humanely possible, so focus on the best aspect of the situation, the fantastic pair of mammaries flushing blood to your southern regions.
Embrace these days, men. Don’t let anyone shame you into thinking it’s wrong to love what you love. We’re in a world in which thousands of nearly perfect women exist at the press of a button. If you live to be 100, you’ll only live slightly more than 36,500 days. That’s not a lot of time. Live it up and love you some titties. It’ll change your world..