Either I'm an immense pervert, or I just have a very keen aesthetic sense. Yesterday two young ladies stood in the aisle of the bus on the other side of the tacky blonde intently staring at her cellular nipple who was next to me. And, rather than admiring the weasel-faced blonde moo beast -- whose bazooms were of average beef-fed size, meaning bigger than her brain -- this blogger enjoyed the visuals presented by two fairly petite small-handed brunettes heading home after work, with their modest bosoms.
Which were very nicely shaped and proportioned.
There, but not overtly so; restrained.
Slightly above eye-level.
I really like women who dress well. Bosoms should be suggested, evident even, but not boldly presented. Properly covered, meaning within clothing rather than the upper surfaces open to the wind, they leave everything to the imagination.
And unlike all those big bare blonde cleavages, no cigarette or cigar ashes will fall between them.
There is less likelihood of premature age freckles.
Or sagging sponge, or wrinkles.
Leatheriness.
Breasts, within reason, are a triumph of natural design.
I flatter myself that I have a highly trained eye.
I'm probably just a dirty old man.
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