When the Queen Mother took Dad as her consort, I was six. We moved into his bachelor pad. When he asked I wanted to be when I grew up, I said "I want to be a Playboy Bunny," because he obviously revered these women. They were all over the glassware. (Dad promptly learned to hide the porn. Even after he died we kept finding these pockets of porn squirreled away in the AC vents, the crawl space, etc.)
Even growing up in a porn-friendly house, I don't get the male fixation on breasts. Why do they feel they have to stare at the one body part that doesn't move independently? Do men think my breasts will clap, wave, or leap out of my bra like dolphins? This isn't a whale watch. They aren't going anywhere.
Of course, I guess if you stared at my bosom long enough you could see it grow. It has been growing in a very hateful way the last few years. (The changing body issues I am having only bolster my contention that middle age is just like junior high.) I keep having to buy tops with higher and higher necklines because my cleavage is creeping toward my neck like a kudzu vine out to strangle me. And my mother-in-law pins my v-neck sweaters when I come to visit. I am not kidding. I am turning into Margaret Dumont.
This is why I am a fan of all these men in Finland, Russia, France and Italy who are out there Image Googling "Toes" and finding these babies. At least Toe Men are up for a challenge. At least toes move. That is why I am strongly considering becoming, if not a Playboy Bunny, an International Toe Porn Star. There's no work on my part. Plus, my toes aren't aging. Have at it, gentlemen.
I'm considering the requisite pictorial spread. I see a toe bondage shot. A lesbian toe shot. Maybe the hard-core between the toes crotch shot, I don't know. Here's my first attempt: the standard "Oops! You caught me here all naked and unprepared! (giggle)" pose.
Sure, I COULD have painted my toenails, but that would detract from the cinema verite vibe I was going for.