Disclaimer: As a society, we put way too much emphasis on the size of a woman’s breasts when it’s the size of her brain and heart that matters. End of disclaimer. You’re now going to read a tale of Big Tits.
I grew up in a near circus environment of comics, entertainers, bohemians and one stunning Playboy Playmate. She was also an alluring actress on the big screen — she had co-starred with Louis Prima in my father’s 1961 movie “Twist All Night” –- and she was gorgeous beyond belief — and to add insult to injury—NICE. I loved everything about her, especially the big breasts and British accent. I’m kidding, the accent was fine, but it was those tits that I looked up to! Literally. I looked up to them. My dad talked about them so frequently and openly that I started to think of them as not an appendage but as another whole personality. “Her tits have got tits,” he would say. My own mother didn’t have tits that had tits. She barely had them at all. And, unfortunately, I would never end up that endowed myself, but dream on as a child I would. (Again, not important. See disclaimer above.) People would ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up, Fredde?” And I would answer proudly (as if this were a normal, Leave-it-to-Beaver fantasy): “I want to be a Playboy bunny, just like June (not Cleaver)!!!”
My idol, June lying by my father’s pool, 60’s