I started developing breasts in 1961, when I was eight years old. Still sporting baby fat on the rest of my body, the rapidly-growing mammaries looked bizarre and obscene bouncing around innocently on my torso as I jumped rope and played hide-and-go-seek with my friends. Some of the meaner boys on the block called me "Robin Red Tits" when I made the mistake of wearing a crimson T-shirt one hot August day, but I dismissed them as a bunch of boobs, stuck my nose high in the air and ignored their taunts. Whenever they saw me after that, they grabbed their chests and jiggled their non-existent breasts, alternating between cow and bird sounds. Every boy in school started doing the same thing; it was as if my tits had created a brand-new, very peculiar dance step.

There were no sexual connotations attached to the swelling spheres at that point in time, at least not as far as I was concerned. It wasn't until I was 10 and in need of (but not yet wearing) a 34-B sized bra--our 19-year-old, pizza-faced ice cream "man" made a big deal out of the fact that I was "developing," as he termed it, giving me long, enthusiastic hugs every time I came over to buy ice cream that it hit me--guys loved these things, wanted to make as much contact with them as possible!

When my mother happened to glance out the kitchen window of our Levittown home one afternoon and saw the horny ice cream guy hugging her pre-pubescent daughter, rubbing his crotch against me while pressing my tits into his chest, she raced out, shoved him away from me and kneed him in his jutting white pants. That’s when I realized another fascinating fact: guys were willing to risk serious trouble to get at these soft, nipple-topped mountains!

Mom, having dispensed with the overly-zealous ice cream man/molester in training, realized something had to be done about me and my prematurely-developing body. She bought me a too-snug bra from our local JC Penney, ordered me to wear it every day, and, having hidden my nipples, if not my huge breasts, from the world, considered the matter closed. (Mom had a very respectable set herself, as did her mother, proving there is a direct gene link among big-busted women in the same family.)

I found the damn cotton contraption very uncomfortable. I dutifully put it on every morning before school and immediately removed it in the girls' room just before class started. Foolishly, I thought no one noticed the missing garment--until the sultry summer evening when I, intent on walking the four blocks to the soda shop, trooped down our driveway wearing a see-through pink shell blouse, sans bra. Our next-door neighbor, John, a contemporary of my parents', stared at me strangely and asked, in a thick, shaky voice, "Robin, tell me you’re not planning to go out in public like that?" When I, puzzled, nodded, he marched me back into the house and confronted my mother.

"Beverly, she's gonna get attacked walking around like that!" John warned shrilly, gesturing to my protruding chest. I was intuitive enough to pick up the fact that, if he were a stranger passing me on the street and saw my boobies swaying up, down and all around in such a flagrant manner, he couldn't be held responsible for his actions!

Mortified, Mom took the hint. The next day, she dragged me to Mary and Lil’s Corsetorium, where two fat, chattering ladies measured over, under and around my breasts and created an amazing, supportive masterpiece, a brassiere that had everything but a lock on it. It looked like it came straight out of the Victorian era. Since the cost of the damn thing exceeded my mother's alimony for a month, I was warned that if I didn't wear it, I'd be grounded for life. I despised the stay-and-hook encrusted horror, but I wore it--whenever Mom was in eyeshot. I couldn’t bear the confinement, and the material made me sweat and itch.

On one of those occasions when I'd ditched the bra, I was playing under the maple tree across the street from my house and was approached by four local stud puppies ranging in age from 13-15. Laying it right on the line, the less threatening boy, Tommy (all names have been changed to protect the perpetrators), swaggered over to me and said, "We wanna see your tits. All you gotta do is lift up your blouse. We promise we'll buy you candy if you let us see ' em."

By then, less innocent, a good deal more aware of the attraction my breasts had for the neighborhood males of all ages, I surveyed Tommy with disdain. I'd snuck-read a couple of Honey West novels. She was also blessed with a pretty good set of knockers that all the good and bad guys wanted to look at and grab (on their way to other pleasures I couldn’t quite comprehend--the author of those books didn’t lay it on the line with Harold Robbins’ explicitness). Well, I’d made up my mind--none of these nasty little bastards was going to get an eyeful of my tits, not for all the M & M's and Hershey bars in the world!

"No," I said firmly.

The four juvenile delinquents stared at me, shocked. "Why not?" demanded Stu, who, along with Tommy, would die at the age of 21 in a tragic car accident. (When I was 17, attending their wakes, I stared sadly at their lifeless, made-up faces in the caskets, wishing I'd said yes. It seemed like such a petty request to me compared with what had befallen them. It was gossiped that Tommy died a virgin. Wherever you are, Tommy, Stu, I hope you can see me undressing every night--catch a good peek, guys, and enjoy)!

That day, however, only 11 and not privy to the future, I was in a state of high pique. "I don't hafta," I insisted. "I don't wanna! My Mom says my body is private and I don’t have to show anybody my chest but my doctor!"

"Judy showed us," Mike said. "Real easy. She picked up her shirt and showed us her tits. Why can't you?"

"What’s the difference? She doesn't have anything to show," I retorted.

Judy, a girl two years my senior, suddenly darted into the group encircling me. In what was an obvious set-up, she calmly lifted her t-shirt to reveal what looked like two twin brown moles between her neck and waist. I'd called it--the girl was not just flat-chested, she was frigging concave!

The guys kept badgering and cajoling me, upping the candy ante by more and more of my favorites. Judy tossed in her two cents' worth. "You know, ya hafta show your husband your whole naked body when you get married," she said craftily while the boys nodded in eager, randy agreement. "Then ya hafta bounce around on a bed to get a baby started."

I stared at the assembled group, feeling cornered and confused. What was this, practice for my wedding night? What did showing the local boys my tits have to do with getting naked for my future husband? How did bouncing around on a bed start a baby? (I got my first period a month after this incident; Mom sat me down, set me straight on sex and menstruation and warned me not to take off any clothes for any guy until I had a wedding ring on my finger. The repercussions from that discussion will be addressed in another article).

I felt scared, outnumbered, overwhelmed. "Go to the store and get the candy," I said, stalling. "I'll think about it."

Sensing victory, they whooped with excitement as they raced away to the store on their shiny Schwinn bikes. I vanished into my house, planning to never come out again. Of course, they returned half an hour later, banging on my door, waving every candy bar imaginable (they were only a nickel apiece then). Backed against the wall, I was really scared. How could I have made such a foolish promise?

There seemed to be no way out. I'd have to put my tits on display or. . .what? Mom was floating around somewhere, but I was afraid to solicit her advice or help. After all, I'd discarded the bra--again. If I’d have left it on, I could have lifted my shirt and showed them my great big bra, collected my candy and it would have ended there. I’d tempted them and they were, after all, just a bunch of horny young men looking for titillation from a girl with whom they’d grown up. Something told me she'd consider the entire incident my fault and punish me. No, I had to resolve this one by myself.

I glared at Judy and the guys through the screen door. "I thought it over," I said. "I'm not gonna do it!"

"I spent my whole effin' allowance on this candy!" snarled Stu.

"Me, too!" wailed Brian. "You've gotta!"

“Yeah, you’ve gotta!” insisted Tommy, thrusting a Baby Ruth in each of my hands. “We kept our part of the bargain, now you’ve gotta keep yours!”

I panicked. They looked angry and betrayed. What could I do? I tossed the Baby Ruths back at Tommy, who caught both in one fist. "No, I don't!" I shouted, and slammed the door in their faces.

Several minutes later, Judy came to my door, alone. "You were right," she said when I cautiously answered her knock. "Forget those jerks. Let ‘em look at their own tits. Why don't you come out and we'll play a game together or something?"

Unsure if I should trust her, I let her coax me back outside. We sat on the roots under the maple tree and talked. She told me about girls who posed in PLAYBOY, showed their boobs to hundreds of guys, and thought nothing of it. “They’re even smaller than you,” she said. “I bet someday you’ll be a model for PLAYBOY--then all these guys can peek at you as much as they want in the pictures!”

She was friendly, admiring and nice, completely unlike her usual older-and-therefore-holier-than-thou self. Vulnerable, lonely, dumb, I basked in her rare attention.

"Why don't you show me your tits?" she asked, after we'd spent a few minutes exchanging confidences. "Just me."

It still sounded wrong to me, but she was being so nice, and if all those girls posed for PLAYBOY in front of a whole bunch of guys, what was the big deal if I showed Judy, a fellow woman, my boobs? It sounded harmless. Finally, when I saw impatience growing in her eyes, I said, "Awww, you’re right. We're both girls, I guess it's OK."

I was just about to raise my blouse and show Judy my infamous breasts when, suddenly, inexplicably, she began singing, "Don't come down, don't come down, oh, don't come down, don't come down, stay up there, stay up there, don't come dowwwwnnnnn!"

Instinctively, I looked up. Peering at me from the maple tree branches, camouflaged by the leaves, were four grinning, leering faces--Stu and company. With Judy, they'd hatched this elaborate, undeniably clever plot to get a free, aerial view of my tits.

If I'd been older, I'm sure I would have shouted, "Fuck off!" before I zipped across the street and closed myself in my room. (Then again, if I’d have been older, I sure hope I would have been wiser.) As it was, I simply ran, crying, my tits bobbing in all their braless, troublemaking splendor.

When Mom learned of the incident, she threatened to lock me in my room until I got married if I didn’t wear my bra. “Honey, you don’t understand,” she said, wringing her hands. “If you don’t give them support from the very beginning, eventually they’re going to sag. Look what happened to Nana.”

Nana was her mother, my grandmother, and her boobs, even with a bra, hung almost down around her hips. If nothing else scared me into wearing the bra, that haunting image did the trick!

I watched my breasts expand to their present 40DD size with increasing awe. I slimmed down in my mid-teens, but those hooters took on a life of their own, mushrooming lushly, the "off" switch seemingly broken. I never could go braless, even when it was fashionable; in the hot summers, I resented the tiny-titted girls who got away without wearing a bra. They looked a lot cooler than me, both temperature-wise and otherwise. I could have burned mine, but I’d only have to buy another to replace it. That aspect of the feminist movement passed me by.

Since Judy and the horny boys on the block, my life as a big-breasted woman has had only a few traumatic moments. I was disturbed when a close girlfriend remarked it was time I stopped going to my pediatrician (whom I saw until I was 18) because, as she put it, smirking, "He probably gets his jollies feeling you up every time you go into his office." My next check-up was with my mother's lifelong internist, who’d copped feels from three generations of my female family and was accustomed to slowly, delightedly checking large tits.

I was selective about the guys I dated, eliminating those who gazed only at my nipples when they spoke to me. The few males I allowed into my bra worshipped my tits with almost religious fervor, sucking, nuzzling, burying their faces in the warm flesh as if they wanted to lose themselves there. One talented guy even wrote a poem to them: "Whenever I see your big, ripe tits, I wish I had two catcher's mitts." I reveled in the feel of attentive male lips, a knowing, swirling tongue, and caressing fingers that conveyed passion and affection--but not just any male lips. I was discerning; a large-titted Robin like me has to be careful.

My husband freely admits that the first time he saw me sitting on a curb wearing snug jean shorts and an equally tight blouse, he couldn't tear his eyes from my knockers. Fortunately for both of us, when he got up the nerve to speak to me, he looked into my eyes and managed to keep his focus above my neck--most of the time. One of my most arousing memories was the cold winter night we moved into our first home and he made love to my breasts for hours in front of the flame-filled fireplace. That night, neither of us had any complaints about my well-endowed body, we just had a great time together.

My son breast-fed joyously until nearly a year old, and, I'm sure, thrived as much on the mammarial contact as the nourishment. I just hope I'm raising him so that, if he asks a girl if he can see her tits, he's respectful and accepts no for an answer.

As of this writing, I can reflect on four full, happy decades as a well-endowed woman.

I'll tell you this--living life with a large set of hooters has had its good and bad moments, but adding it all together, I wouldn't call it a complete bust!

Love, Robin

MY SON HAS A TEACHING JOB!!!!!

That's right, folks, Brad was interviewed yesterday by the Superintendent Squad and told today the job is his if he wants it. Of course, this is the leave replacement position, not the full-time job he SHOULD have been offered, but my son sounded SO THRILLED, and what mother can start asking questions like, "What about if the budget doesn't pass?--will that mean your job disappears, too?" But of course, I DID ask that question, but Brad didn't seem especially worried about that. He was told that leave replacement jobs often turn into permanent positions, and seemed confident that his would, too. Brad also mentioned that this position should last at least two years, since the woman he was replacing was having a baby, and he heard she wasn't returning. Rumors, of course, but I surely hope they're true.

Now, just a brief mention that Brad's girlfriend doesn't want him to accept this job because of the uncertainty of it, the lack of permanence and the fact that it isn't, at least at first, tenure-track. Dan felt Brad should refuse it because of the shabby way the district has treated him in not offering him the tenured job instead of this "leftover".

Me? After hearing the joy in my son's voice today, I want him to do whatever will make him happy. He loves this district--the kids, the faculty, the school itself. At 23, he'll be starting with several thousand bucks a year more than I'm making now, at 52, and isn't that what we ultimately want for our children--to do better than we have done?

Why is it, I must wonder, that our happiest moments in life are still fraught with uncertainty? What if the budget doesn't pass? If the job only last six months and he's out job-hunting again? If he has to pass up a whole bunch of possibly better, permanent opportunities? (He's still going to the Levittown interview at MacArthur today).

I'm not and never have been an optimistic person. I've been disappointed too many times. My motto is, I'd rather expect the worst and be surprised at anything better than that.

Hope all your stuff is the best!

Love, Robin

1:48 PM, which passed about 10 minutes ago, was the 23rd anniversary of my only child's natal day--in other words, my son's birthday. I needed an emergency C-section that day, under general anesthesia, so by the time I woke up and learned I'd had an eight pound, 4 ounce, healthy baby boy (about two pounds heavier than either I or my doctor expected), I was the last to know. Dan had already seen and held him.

When they brought Brad to me the first time, I marveled at how handsome, perfect and amazing he was--and haven't stopped yet. Sure, he may leave his room a total mess, forget to flush the toilet after a crap, or forget to tell me what time he'll be home or if he'll need dinner, but he will always and forever be the perfect baby I gave birth to 23 years ago today.

Brad won't be home until nearly 9 PM, so we won't be celebrating this evening, but I did bake him a cake last night, which he's been eating eagerly, and plentifully. I believe Dan and I are taking him out to dinner at the Hicksville steak place he likes, and where our postal union just got us a deal for 10% off meals (how convenient)!

I'm working overtime today and tomorrow; Rudyk is on annual leave for a couple of days. While I will miss letting out my doggies at their usual early time, I will enjoy having some extra money.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRAD! I LOVE YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD!!

Love, Robin

Two days of rain, torrential downpour, and as predicted. I was hoping that, for once, the forecasters would be completely wrong, and we would have sunshine instead of what we got.

It was also cold, making the oil burner go on, and that was bad, too. We're not supposed to be burning oil now, it's spring. This is the dividing line between lawn care and heating season, people! Let's get our shit straight, huh?

This weather makes me feel drowsy, headachey. I fell asleep yesterday about 1 PM and didn't awaken until nearly 7 PM! My God, that's nuts! A full night's sleep in the daytime, wasting the weekend! Dan worked until noon, and I brought Snapple to a new groomer. She clipped one of his nails too close to the quick, so when I picked him up, he was bleeding very badly, and even dipping the nail in Styptic powder didn't quell the bleeding. I ended up with blood all over my carseat (not leather, material, thank you), jacket (also material), blouse (ditto), and, once home, my floor and bathroom carpet. I applied pressure to Snapple's paw, then dipped it into Styptic powder the groomer had given me before I left. The bleeding finally stopped, but my shaking didn't end for quite a while after that. And I must give my normally nasty dog, Bugsy, some credit--sensing Snapple's distress, he didn't immediately start bugging him to give up their mutually favorite chair.

Our town did us a nice favor--they told us to come to a local park, where they collected all the toxic garbage we had moldering in our sheds and garages for years. Dan and I gathered together paint cans, bug spray (some of which contained chlordane, a banned chemical for more than 20 years), and other nondescript cans and containers that we no longer had use for. They took everything out of our car. There were many dumpsters all over the place, and lots of people on line ahead of and behind us. What are they going to do with it, I wonder. I don't know, but I wouldn't be adverse if they could send it all to bin Laden with a note not to open until Christmas--and preferably with a big book of lit matches in both hands when he does.

Brad's on his way home from Binghamton as we speak. I've missed him. It's weird, I barely see him anymore, but I still miss those brief encounters. Tomorrow is his 23rd birthday. How is that possible? I remember the day of his birth as if it happened yesterday.

Tuesday, Brad will be interviewed by the Superintendent staff at Bellmore Merrick. They probably will offer him the leave replacement position. That's a temp job, one which, if the budget doesn't pass next month, will evaporate entirely, leaving Brad with no job at all. And the way I understand it, if he signs on the dotted line to accept that job, he is no longer allowed to interview for other teaching jobs anywhere. So, he accepts a shaky position at Bellmore-Merrick (when, by all rights, he SHOULD have been given the full time teacher's position there instead of the jerk who was) and is screwed out of interviewing for potentially full time jobs elsewhere. Does any of that sound fair to you? He should turn it down cold, given how poorly they treated him. But I doubt he will.

Perhaps I'm all wrong about this. I want to be, so badly. Perhaps there IS another full-time, to-be tenured teaching job available at Bellmore-Merrick, and THAT is what Brad will be offered. I doubt it. But who knows? I want to be wrong. I want to find out that there IS justice in this world for my so-very-deserving son whose gift for this birthday should be a solid job offer as a teacher.

Love, Robin

This week has brought us gorgeous weather. I've taken my half hour power walks every day and enjoyed the hell out of it.

However, that weather is NOT expected to follow us into the weekend. It's going to rain both Saturday and Sunday.

That pisses me off soooooooo much! Five days of work, five days of me sitting in a windowless office only able to fully enjoy the splendid sunshine and sweet breezes for a short while before having to return my ass to my seat before my computer.

Where is the justice?

Lounging, I guess, in the same place that enabled my son to be passed over for the teaching job he should have gotten in favor of a kid who cheated his way through his college courses and got the job because of who he knows and because he's a better (meaning more dishonest) schmoozer than my son.

Aw, shit.

Ever since I revealed that I used to write porn, a lot of folks have asked me to add it to my stories here. I really don't want to. I want this to be a story about me, the real truth, and my life has been sex-free for quite a while now. Do I miss it? I don't know. I look at my naked body in a mirror and think, "I wouldn't want to have sex with me." I gaze at my husband's nude, big-bellied body and think, "I don't want to have sex with him." The thought of us having sex together nauseates me. So it seems for the best that we're celibate these days. There's plenty of affection, and I enjoy that. We smooch and hold hands, and I still consider him the best partner I could have chosen. If Harrison Ford wanted to bang me, would I say no? I'm not sure. I'm trying to lose weight, and if I succeed in looking a lot slimmer than I do now, I might let him have a crack at me, if he insisted. On the other hand, what are the chances THAT would happen, given his penchant for the Ally McBeal type gals? Nil at all, right? So it's all moot, whatever that means.

Moot is such a silly word.

I have a very dirty story posted on the internet. It's a long novel divided into chapters, titled ROBINA. It will make the most sense to present and former fans of DARK SHADOWS, a TV horror soap opera that aired from 1966-1971 and featured a hottie vampire named Barnabas Collins. Even if you aren't a fan of the show, you should still enjoy the story on its own merits. It's loaded with sex--missionary, oral, anal, yada yada yada, because Robina, the story's heroine, is a hooker who happens to usher the virginal (human) Barnabas Collins into manhood. This is a bodice ripper novel in every sense of the word.

I'll be posting the site where you can read ROBINA later today or tomorrow. A warning--this is super X-rated, with a buttload of violence, and you had better be over 21 if you're going to read it. If you're not, your computer monitor is going to melt into a large, unrecognizable lump of plastic. Try explaining that to Mom and Dad!

Here is the location of ROBINA's JOURNAL:

http://www.msu.edu/~chesterb/robina.htm

Remember what I warned you, though--no underage readers!

Love, Robin