Nipple, Nipple, Nipple.

12 09 2006

I am a very supportive husband. A matrimonial superstar, really. I am generous with my affections and gifts, accomodating with my time, and invest ample attention to my wife’s needs. As a father-to-be, my every motivation has stemmed from a desire to maintain my wife’s comfort level and bolster her self-esteem. I give a great foot massage – I got my technique down and don’t be ticklin’ or nothin. I do all this and ask absolutely nothing in return, which is precisely why I was expecting something in return when I begged for a pass on attending her breastfeeding class. No dice.

Pregnancy is only a blessing in hindsight. It does a slipshod remodel of a perfectly good body and increases risk of everything from hemorrhoids to osteoporosis. Were it not for the fact that it is followed by a bundle of joy/forthcoming resentment, it would be regarded as a disease. Most criminal of all, it reduces breasts from their intended role of ornamentation to crude feedbags for your fledgling lamprey. And now I was to be lambasted with a 2 hour love-song to the supposed benefits of breastfeeding.

Despite my many assurances to Anita on the drive over that I didn’t have tits, she was undeterred from dragging me along. I slinked into the meeting room, avoiding eye contact with the other husbands who were likewise averting their stare. At the urging of Overly Perky Registered Nurse we grabbed tandem seats like the others. I flipped through our stack of informative brochures such as “Did You Know Formula-Fed Babies All Flunk Remedial Math And Get Nipple Piercings?” while Anita quietly regarded her baby surrogate, a yellow plush teddybear. It was a peculiar choice given the selection of human baby dolls available, but I suppose I was foolish to expect her to quit her Furry proclivities cold turkey.

Overly Perky Registered Nurse dove headlong into her lecture. What followed was a littany of terminology like “clasping” and “Montgomery glands”, each doing their individual part to further desexify my beloved funbags. There must have been a context for those terms, but I honestly can’t recall it now as I was hopelessly distracted by her visual aid. From the instant she began speaking she clutched a anatomically-sound model breast in her hand, hypnotically emphasizing her bullet points with small, stacatto gestures. It was like an obscene bouncing ball tracing over forthcoming karaoke lyrics. As if that wasn’t captivating enough, she nervously shuffled it about in her hands, absentmindedly cupping it or tweaking the nipple in soft, sensuous motions. I was transfixed, hanging on her every movement (if not the content presented). If there are any CEOs or heads of state reading this, I predict that the handboob will soon be the hottest accessory for discerning powermongers seeking to capture the attention of the masses. I may not have heard her, but I was damned if I was going to leave that seat for anything short of the apocalypse.

In short, prepare to see a lot more nipples on this site. Just because sweater meat has been forever tainted for me doesn’t mean I don’t know a good marketing ploy when I see it.




2 responses

13 09 2006

the breastfeeding class my wife and me attended was after the baby was born, in the hospital, and only about 20 minutes long. no hand-held disembodied titty though. consider yourself lucky.

and for the record, i wasn’t formula-feed. and remedial math is tough stuff.

27 09 2006

Sweater meat? Don’t you mean “fun bags”?

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