A Fetish For Men: By Gloria G. Brame
Men filled in the time while I waited for a love miracle to occur.
Besides, every new man was a universe of unanswered questions
and unknown potentials. Any one of them might be The
One. You couldn’t know until you talked to them whether they
were the one who had the key to the gate that let you onto the
path to a happy new life. So, when I met someone who seemed
to penetrate to my inner reality, someone sexy, someone different
from the others, how could I not fling myself with abandon
into the relationship in hopes that I could be on the road to
discovering a new home, a new family, a new life?
By the summer of 1972, when I was turning seventeen, though,
I was starting to think that there were just too many men in the
world ever to commit to any one of them. It wasn’t because I
couldn’t limit myself, it’s just that there was such a profusion, it
was impossible to sort them out or take them seriously, even
when they acted serious.
Never mind the catcalls and whistles, the muscle cars that
rolled up to ask if I wanted a lift, and forget the generic lustbots
who suddenly materialized like there was a magnet in my ass.
They were the wallpaper of urban life. Every Brooklyn girl knew
how to deflect them with a swift but murderous side-glare.
The bigger problem was that the number of men hitting on me
was growing incrementally while my appetite for them was unchanged.
I didn’t know how to deal with the new ratio. It wasn’t my looks:
I vanished in any crowd of ethnic girls. All my girlfriends
were prettier than me. I wasn’t sexy like the snobby girls
who wore tight sweaters and lipsticks that matched their
moods. I was a grungy hippie.
It was my tits. I just knew it. They were a curse on my life. So
many of my girlfriends had perky tits, tits that didn’t require
massive brassieres with three hooks in the back and shoulder
straps that left deep welts. My natural D-cups were, to me, unnatural
monstrosities, insulting vestiges of the primal past. The
only good purpose they had ever served was tit fucking boys
so I could watch them shoot off right under my chin.
But no matter how much I tried to play them down with army
shirts and chino pants, my tits drew men in like moths to a
Mosquito-Deleto. It was like they invisibly leaked an intoxicating
“fuck me” fume.
This mysterious animal magnetism led to situations where your
only choice was to run or to suffer and doubt your own identity.