A Blind Cat Press Publication
Click It, Rub It
Read It, Love It

A literary journal
devoted to women's sexuality

Leah Chaffins

Keep Off the Grass: A Breasto Manifesto

I remember the supercilious old men who used to be so prideful of their lawns, whether it was their private yard, or grassy plots of landscaping they kept for a business. These old men would be so proud of their yards that they would post signs saying, “DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS!” That tiny section of the earth belonged to them. It was about ownership and pride; the dirt and its contents belonged to them. If pressed they might shake their fists and yell, “Keep Off The Grass!” Children would tread by and look at the grass as a sacred space begging to be soiled. If there was no old man in sight, a child might walk, skip, or run across it. Other people might throw trash on it, dance a jig, or simply nudge the tip of their toe against the edge if the crusty guardian even so much as turned his back. Males of all ages might bend down, pluck at the grass and stick a blade in their mouths. They thought themselves so cool as they sucked and chewed on the tip. Dogs might stop in passing, hike their leg and mark their territory. Even the dogs knew there would be hell to pay if the Old Codger turned around. I remember those old men with admiration for the diligence they paid to protecting the grass, the pampering of their grassy gardens, the vigilance in their guardianship, and their valor at defending the plots.


I remember the first time I saw my grandmother’s breasts. We were visiting my father’s family in Kentucky. Several of the family members were gathered around the dining room table for a late night game of monopoly. Grandma was already in her night-gown, and as she reached to move her little blue man I noticed she had no breasts, where two lumps should have been was nothing but unnatural flatness. I tried not looking but the uncouth eyes of a ten year old are always drawn to oddities. As the game progressed over the course of what felt like a hundred years, my eyes would occasionally drift to the formless floral cotton of her nightgown. I pitied her. Eventually, the game ended and idle chatter took over. One at a time family members left the table seeking their rest for the night. Grandma pushed her chair back and stood up to tell us all goodnight. A horror of horrors burned my eyes which seemed frozen on her mid-section. It was so hideous and frightening. I may actually have dry-heaved. She had breasts! She had big breasts! They flapped morbidly like two dead squirrels hung on a fence by their tails swaying in the breeze. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t look away. I ran to the bathroom after she excused herself and stared at myself in the mirror. My shirt lay on the floor as I eyed the two small mounds on my chest. I never forgot that vision. When I grew older and developed my own pair, and wore through my bras, I opted not to throw the old bras away; instead, I used them to hold my boobs in place through the night. I was proactively trying to fight the fall of nature.

As a preteen, my friends and I read Judy Blume books. One of her books contained a story where a flat-chested girl was doing exercises to make her boobs grow. I had a grandiose desire for big boobs, like Marilyn Monroe and Bettie Page. I chanted Judy’s mantra every night as I performed the exercise from her fictional story, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust.” My boobs bloomed and bloomed. I think it all had more to do with genetics than the exercises. While they are large, I still have two friends who bloomed larger. One is a F cup and one is a G cup. Yes, there really are bras that big. You won’t find them at Victoria’s. Her Secret is out; she sells no bras for big boobed women.

I do not like my boobs to receive any attention-- not physical, optical, natural, biological, romantical, or any other kind of “al”. I do not want anyone to see them, feel them, smell them (freaks), listen to them (the look of aggravation should be enough notification that my heart still beats,) or for the love of God, taste them. I find it very disturbing that the moment a male lays a conquering hand on the Carnal Boobs of Delight, the next step is they want to stick their mouths on them. The human mouth is full of germs and other gross, micro-organistic things, and my boobs do not need a bath in germ-infested waters. Hell, dentists use gloves and mouth condoms just to avoid contact with spit, and police officers carry special sanitizers. It is culturally universal that to spit on someone else is an insult. We teach our children that spitting is disgusting, and yet one of the ways adults want to express their feelings for each other is to slobber all over one another. For the record, that is pretty damn nasty.

There is no one incident of trauma or drama for this Queen of Quirks, other than a lifetime of being a big-chested female in a tiny-titty world. Big chested women have to deal with all kinds of jealousies and innuendos. In high school my best friends were two sisters. One, like me, had Monster Boobs; the other, Laura, couldn’t pass the pencil test with duct tape.1 We loved teasing Laura by saying if she had a mosquito bite on her chest she would get confused. Their grandmother used to make snide comments that girls got big titties from being felt up. The old bat would constantly harangue Amy and me over the size of our boobs. Finally, one day as Amy was trying to decide what shirt to wear, and lamenting over her favorite red shirt with black polka dots no longer fitting as the buttons at her chest created a gap, her grandmother said, “You wouldn’t have that problem if you kept the boys away from them.”


I have been made aware that there are two schools of thought regarding the pencil test. One says that you know your boobs are big when you can pass the pencil test, and the other says that passing the pencil test means your boobs are sagging. In this story it is used in the nature of the first case. The second seems a moot point as 99% of females under the age of 25 would always pass the pencil test if it were a judge of sagging, and no one over 25 would waste their time taking it.

Amy looked her grandmother directly in the eyes and said, “Grandmom, that’s bull crap. Look at Laura and her titties have been in more hands than Allstate.” While that was the end of Grandmom’s verbal booby bites, it opened my eyes to the misconceptions other people might form. Over the years, I have grown weary of feeling that certain people make a subconscious assumption that because my boobs are big that means my number of sexual partners is greater than my credit score.

Big boobed women have to deal with a lot of men who cannot see a big pair without thinking, “Yummy!” This is nothing compared to different segments of society harboring ideas of what women should do to their boobs. Naturalists proclaim them the Mammories of Salvation and dance to the thrumming of suckling babes. Fundamentalists proclaim them to be Satan’s instruments of destruction. Hollywood uses them like a cheap date willing to be whored out for the cost of a dinner, all the while producing movies from stories where they are identified as “dirty pillows.” Dominatrices want to tie them up, body artists want to pierce them, significant others want to play with them, and doctors want to examine them. I want to scream, “Hey! These are mine!” I envision getting a tattoo of a wooden sign reading, “KEEP OFF THE GRASS!”

I do not like them touched, not even by my sexual partner. I have a friend that says I am cruel for this. She says it is like taking a kid into a candy store and telling them they must look at the floor and not buy anything, and no accepting samples. I think she’s right. I am cruel. I can cite a million and one examples of why having my boobs touched is a sexual turnoff and most of them have to do with an overexposure to male bumbling and fumbling, and tripping their fantasies into my reality. I remember standing at the counter of a coffee bar, staring up at the menu trying to decide what caffeinated poison I should imbibe. I looked down and the barista was staring at my chest and never looking up he said, “Can I help you?” I smiled and said, “They aren’t thirsty but I will take a quad-shot, almond-mochachino.”

I have used them for the greater good of my existence. In my early twenties my insurance had lapsed and I got pulled over for speeding. I had to go before the judge for the ticket of no insurance. I dressed that day in a low-cut, tight pink t-shirt and one of the old push-up bras which I affectionately called my Heaven-to-Betsy bra. All my curves were in the right places, and I stood before the judge with my arms clasped demurely in front of me. I would squeeze my arms slightly together, pushing my Boobs up a little every time the judge spoke. I smiled happily as the judge dismissed both tickets. I am aware there are females who would be aghast at this revelation and harbor ill feelings towards my blatant use of feminine wiles when it suits me. Woman have Boobs + Boobs are a tool= Women will use them-- basic mathematics.

It has been a long time since I have found a situation warranting the obvious objectification of my femininity. However, there should be no confusion-- this ol’ bitch has had her day. The fact is I am getting old. While my boobs aren’t to the point of looking like two oranges racing in tube socks for the Venus Mound, they have developed some saggage. In the past I have jokingly told my friends that if I had the money I would get a boob job. I would have them surgically altered Marine Corps style. They would be high and tight. I would tell the surgeon that when s/he were finished I want them to look like two goiters. I would no longer wear a bra, but instead I would wear elaborate, diamond-studded chokers with tassels. I can see myself at the fruit section of Walmart with my tassels swaying from the jumbo, overhead, blower vents. In my imagination my hair is long and grey and I have bright puckered lips. I pick up two mangos and turn to the produce man and say, “Do these look fresh to you?” The produce man turns and sees an old, flabby woman, the creviced wrinkles of my face battling for attention against the smoke lines around the red sheen of my lips, and boobs sticking out of my neck. I see the look of shock and horror on his face. I laugh maniacally, swinging my tassels in a circle. Like a demented clown scaring children.     

     I won’t do this though. Oh, not because I do not want to; I am simply to poor to pay for my nipples to lie on a metal tray while the girders are shored up. They slip a little more each year but I am ok with it. I am not my grandma, but when I am, I plan on frightening the world. That will be when I begin to show them off. Until then, KEEP OFF THE GRASS!

Leah Chaffins is currently working on her MFA at Oklahoma City University. She has short stories and news articles published in The Cameron Goldmine, The Red Earth Review, The Cameron Collegian, and in an anthology by New Lit Salon Press. Ms. Chaffins has worked as an editor for both the Goldmine and for CyberSoliel Fine Arts Journal. She also is an university English Instructor where she hopes to share the joy of writing with others.
Chaffins writes mostly short horror stories, and memoir. She is nearing completion of her first novel, and the completion of two short story compilations, Gravel Goats, which are memoirs, and Chasing Eidolas, short horror stories.