THOMAS STUBBS

“It was the breast of times, it was the worst of times.” So begins Charles Dickens’s lesser-known work A Tale of Two Titties. Men of letters have always been captivated by breasts. Even the poet Morrissey demanded, “Let me get my hands on your mammary glands,” as a rallying cry of fretful frustration.

The male imagination has bosoms running through it like the words in a stick of rock. We are fascinated by their myriad variations – not only in size and shape, but in the ways a woman elects to package her thrup’nnies and the manner in which she carries them. Proud, provocative temptresses put their God-given fruits on parade, while others carry them apologetically like puritan devil’s dumplings.

Over the years, a man learns to beware false profiteroles. Breast subterfuge in the form of bras is rife and that leads to further intrigue – the proof of the pudding being in the meeting, as it were. There’s also the nipple lottery. You can speculate, but you can never be sure what you’ll get.

The tactical question is what to do with the puppies once they are willingly at your disposal. There’s no official rubric for hand-to-gland combat. Managing pendulous breasts can be undignified if not executed with masterful aplomb. One at a time and from behind makes good sense. Avoid a kneading action, as it may appear you’re attempting to make one good one from a substandard pair. Big-breast specialists favour a weighing motion, I’m told.

Personally, I prefer to work with a pert, fashion-style breast. In such cases, nipples become focal (they are an underrated topic – we need technical names for the different types). Defiant, pointing nipples just dare one to administer a firm tweak. Depending on the recipient’s reaction, you can gauge exactly how merciless to become – a playful yelp usually means, take no prisoners.