In my place you would have done the same thing. You can sit there on your stone, preaching to me, screaming out the name of whatever ordinance depot furnished your religious emblem for you, but I certainly do not have to listen to you. Not one man or woman in this room can say for a fact that s/he has faced the moral crises that I have been forced to endure!

Let me start by giving you a little foresight into my background. I, you see, am a twenty-something male. I have lived a sheltered life, unable to reach out into the living world at large. My experience with women has been limited, to the point that I have never had what you might call 'freaky-ass sex' with an animate object. Never have the words 'that was amazing' rolled from the lips of beautiful girl in my presence, save for the time I dove onto the front steps of a police station dressed in nothing but sewn-together garbage bags. Don't ask, you don't want to know. The amazing thing was how a burly sergeant managed to toss me up said stairs a moment later.

So now that you know that, you have to know that... breasts. Sweater puppets. Bad girls. Mommy bags. Dirty pillows. Day by day my obsession with them becomes more gripping, all-consuming. I love them so much that I always try to remain abreast of the situation, just so I can say that titillating word. When I order a bucket of chicken, all that I can eat are the breasts. I act like a twit in public just so people will call me a boob. I drink milk by the gallon. Do you see? This is my problem! Well I suppose it isn't just my problem, after the national beauty pageant incident.

But like I said, you would have done the same thing. I was alright during the preliminaries, the boring times when these women talk about saving the planet and world peace and a bunch of other nonsense that they couldn't give a nub about. But then, the swimsuit competition happened... and I damn near happened! I could take no more. While every eye in the house was turned on those supple thighs and too-good-to-be-real smiles, I crept into the service room. Taking one final suckle of my milk jug, I clambered into the ventilation system and worked my way through the infrastructure of the building, along with my trust rappelling cord. I was ready. Carefully I tied my tether to some rings I found in the ventilation system, and surveyed the models for the set of knockers I could most easily lose to in a headbutting contest. I spied a cream-skinned beauty in a lovely, lacey bikini of the skimpiest string, and selected her. She was mine.

Just as they called her name, I saw my opportunity. I pounced, leaping fifty feet into the theater below. I had measured the distance beautifully, and I fell into the perfect range to motorboat those bouncing funbubbles like I had never motorboated a pair of melons before!

"Brrrbrrrrbbrrrrbrbrbrbrrr!" said I as I shook my face back and forth almost maniacally against those springy-soft beasts! It was so wonderful that I temporarily forgot I was dangling with my face in a model's chest in front of two-thousand people and a live television audience. I say dangling, not because of the rappel cord, but because I had lost my pants during free-fall.

These days, I don't get to motorboat that much. The guys in my cell don't really have the moobs for it. Still, in my place, you would have done the same thing! Right? Hey, where are you going? You... hey! You mean you aren't a lesbian? Oops... I guess this story doesn't apply to you then, Grandma!