Breasts

Sitting with a colleague in the Canary Wharf concourse, a silence from him, then, phoarr, get a look at that. Walking past, now just out of hearing, a blonde showing a big cleavage. Phoarr, he says again, may have to take a few deep breaths, get my brain clear before the meeting.

Me with an indulgent smile of agreement, obligatory in these situations, unofficial code to show I’m not one to get oversensitive about small improprieties when amongst men. Also to show I’m hetero. But thinking, interesting you find that attractive, I don’t, I prefer women’s breasts taut and small.

My Italian ex, the yoga teacher, wonderful body, but big breasts. About as big as breasts can be without sagging, I still can’t work out how they didn’t. Attracted men like flies swarming around cowpats, her words. Trouble was, wasted on me.

Sitting in the reception area, mind wandering, remembering a long-ago relationship, making love, she on top, soft morning light on her face, slim body, breasts high, never needed a bra. Only just fleshy enough to cup in your hand. Nipples soft brown, full and hard. Now those were breasts I find beautiful.

Strange how people differ in matters sexual. My colleague’s mind still on the blonde with the big breasts, me lost in a small-breast reverie. I expect it’s the same with women, they must like different things too.

Still, time to go, there’s the guy we’ve come to meet, reaching out his hand to greet us.