My cleavage has received all the compliments I never have.
Pretty. Beautiful. Perfect. Ideal.
Their shape, size, component ratio, sensitivity and overall appearance have garnered them praises of a luxury car.
When given the drunken opportunity to look at, touch, and otherwise enjoy them, people, generally male, treat me like a princess. In utter awe of these orbs adorning my chest, I am a goddess. However, in the sober light of day, nipples tucked away behind clothing, I am not the girl one asks out.
If I lean over just enough during the course of a night, I have no problem picking a gentleman up, in any manner of speaking. But that's not the kind of thing one builds a relationship on.
A house needs a solid foundation to stand on, or else, it will fall, like a kid on roller blades. And while my boobs are delightfully firm, they are not strong enough to support a relationship.
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