It's my body. And I like my body. And I like my breasts. And no, they're not fake.
I like her; I could watch her the rest of my life. She has breasts that smile.
I'm nearly six foot tall and have biggish breasts, as well as being a sexual know-it-all. Yes, loving me does require a certain level of confidence.
I had a dream that Britney Spears rubbed her breasts in my face and Jennifer Lopez gave me head while Salma Hayek sucked my toes and the Olsen twins videotaped everything. I would have kept dreaming it, too, if I hadn't set off the smoke detector.
Felicity, the companion of content, is rather found in our own breasts than in the enjoyment of external things; and I firmly believe it requires but a little philosophy to make a man happy in whatever state he is.
I would do violence for one glimpse of your naked breasts. Bleed for one taste of your nipple on my tongue. (Winter Makepeace)
No thought which ever stirred A human breast should be untold.
A newborn baby has only three demands. They are warmth in the arms of its mother, food from her breasts, and security in the knowledge of her presence. Breastfeeding satisfies all three.
Lay this unto your breast: Old friends, like old swords, still are trusted best.
I don't necessarily think of myself as a feminist, but I'm a whole person. I'm not just breasts or ass or thighs - I'm a whole being! And it just seems like women aren't necessarily striving to be the whole of themselves.