I’ve never been proud of my body. Most women like a man who has a six pack; I have a visible rib cage instead, which is sort of similar but not. Women also seem to like a man who has a good butt. Enjoying a fine posterior is about the only thing women and Sir Mix a Lot have in common. As I’ve been massively underweight my whole life, my butt doesn’t even exist. If butts are supposed to have ‘cheeks,’ mine must be sunken. It’s sort of like this old joke:
So this guy is born with a screw in his stomach, where his belly button is supposed to be. His whole life he tries to get rid of it but can’t. Then he sees a hypnotist, who puts him into a deep sleep. In his sleep, he’s walking through a big field. He sees a river and some trees. Under one of the trees he finds a screwdriver, and he uses it to take out his screw. He’s so elated that the screw is out, he wakes up. In reality, on the hypnotist’s couch, the screw is gone too, and he jumps for joy, and as he does, his ass falls off onto the floor.
I’ll understand if you didn’t laugh at that. It’s more odd than funny. But I digress. The focus of today’s blog is moobs. Man boobs. Or mits, or mests, or mosoms, or whatever else they could be called (I like mosoms the best, personally). More specifically, the focus of today’s blog is on my moobs, which are rather small, so I suppose they could be called ‘moobies’ or ‘brosquito bites.’ If they grow large, I will find myself saddled with ‘mazookas’ or possibly ‘mazongas.’
As a thin man, developing mosoms came as a bit of a surprise. I guess it shouldn’t have – all the fat I’ve ingested from my poor diet had to go somewhere. Clearly, it’s not going to my butt. I used to joke around and say, right after eating a Big Mac or a half dozen Taco Bell crunchy tacos, “Oh, that’s gonna go straight to my arteries.” Although skinny, I’ve never been healthy. My cholesterol is just as high as any other Americans’, and I haven’t eaten a vegetable since Family Matters got canceled. Luckily, my body has always remained skeletal, like Gandhi or Nicole Richie.
But lately there have been two rather alarming developments, leaving me looking less like Gandhi and more like Kitten Natividad (that reference may be a little obscure – see picture to the right). I have no idea when this started or how it happened. About a year ago I first noticed that I was getting a bit chesty, and I chose to laugh it off and assume it would go away. It hasn’t. The tipping point for me, or the moment when I realized something had to be done, happened about a month ago. I was lying in bed with a nice Korean girl. We were kissing and getting affectionate and suddenly, to my shock and horror, she started feeling me up like I was the prom queen. I guess it’s the natural reaction for anyone confronted with a breast to want to fondle it. Things got worse though. She then took my nipple and yanked my mosom like she was pullin’ on a pigtail. I didn’t know how to react. It would have been even more humiliating to, I don’t know, scold her for it (“Don’t pull on my breasts! My mosoms are NOT toys!”), so I chose to kind of giggle and then tried to refocus things. The mood, however, was understandably darkened.
That was about a month ago, and since then I’ve been working on flattening my chest. It’s going okay so far. I’m doing a lot of pushups and have recently gotten a membership at a new gym (Yay! The card swiped!). The gym has this one piece of equipment that works out the pectoral muscles. I secretly call it the “Breast Reduction Machine” (or BRM) and spend a good amount of time on it. Although I still have brosquito bites, I think I’ve gone down a solid cup size. I’m kind of like a feminine version of Benjamin Button, losing my breasts as though I’m going through some sort of reverse puberty.
Right now I feel good. Confident. I’m not sure what the future holds, but as long as I never end up breast feeding anybody, I’ll be happy.