All the Rage #12

Okay. Um...gosh, this is tough...I'm never sure how to say this. It's always such an awkward moment. And the fact that I am dating someone right now--a fact I reveal simply as a fact, not one of those "I need to prove that I get women even though I'm an internet geek" admissions--makes it even more difficult. But I have to say it. I can't resist these feelings anymore. So Nelly, my love, please forgive me for this transgression. I thought my heart belonged only to you, but from now on, you might just have to share it.

I am in love with Jennifer Love Hewitt's breasts.

Big deal, you're thinking. So he's a guy, and he likes big hooters. What guy doesn't? All males have a sexual fixation on dual genital orbs, you might say. Straight guys like boobs, and gay men like testicles. It's not that irregular, right?

SO wrong. These aren't just any breasts. In my twenty-two years on this pitiful orb we call Earth, I don't know if I've ever seen a more perfectly formed, shaped, and weighted set of tits. That's certainly a tall statement. There are many kinds of boobs: big boobs, pert boobs, mosquito bite boobs. And for every different type of melon, there's a devoted contingent of males who love to suckle and squeeze that specific brand.

But with Jennifer Luuuuuuv, we're talking about absolutely pristine breasts. All men love them equally. They can do no wrong. Stick them in a tight sweater, get them wet and let them peek through a white shirt, or bend them over and show the world the kind of cleavage that has driven men to scale Mount Everest. They're divine, a gift from God. They should be placed in the Smithsonian. They should be photographed and uploaded onto that satellite that orbits the globe and has all those welcome messages from different nations for aliens. Because if aliens ever got a look at Jennifer Luuuuuv's knockers, they'd bow to their knees (or their physical equivalent) and worship her as the goddess that she is.

I'm not sure how this deep obsession began to grow within me. I hate Party of Five. I've never seen either of her I Know... films. I do know that I was watching MTV last night, and a video for this abysmal new song of hers, "How Do I Deal," came on. Her breasts aren't even a prominent feature of the video. They focus more on Jennifer Luuuuuv's cute lil' face, a fine enough sight, but certainly not the kind of detail that can force me to forget my own name in a torrent of vulgar lust. All I really remember is this shot where she's wearing just a slightly tight white T-shirt, and a bra that strains against the fabric of the shirt. Suddenly, she starts leaping around wildly in time with the music, and those tits--those oh-so-lickable tits--start bouncing along with her, hypnotizing me with all the power of a master magician.

Immediately, I lost all control. Pools of drool began to collect on my chest. I trembled with orgasmic delight. It's possible that I even voided my bowels. The moment itself is but a hazy memory. All I can see in my mind when I think back are those two ubergazongas, gloriously teasing me through that flimsy white shirt. In that moment, I could have reached through the television and back through time to when that video was filmed, and torn off that goddamn accursed shirt with the sheer power of my overwhelming desire for those boobies. Holy fuck, I say.

Now they're always on my mind. It's pretty much all I can think about. What are the nipples like, I wonder? What would it feel like to put one of those nipples between my teeth and squeeze down just hard enough to elicit a tiny gasp of pleasure from Jennifer Luuuuuv? Can the fact that those breasts exist on Jennifer Luuuuuv constitute a miracle and count toward the vixen's impending canonization by the Vatican? What if I had to choose between having eyesight and touch for the rest of my life, or surrendering it all for one look and feel of those two massive Wonders of the World?

Unbelievable. Breathtaking. Beyond beautiful. Those are words that I'd use to describe Jennifer Luuuuuv's titties. And the oddest part is that I don't really want the rest of her. I'm not a chauvanist; I can focus on more than a woman's body. I cried during Meet Joe Black. I'm sure she's a very nice person, though a bit vapid. And even in typical guy terms, I shouldn't be so obsessed on just one part. Physically, she's a very nice package. She has a nice midriff area, a really cute tummy. Her ass is just fine. Her face is adorable.

But you know what? I wouldn't surrender my first-born child for fifteen minutes alone in a well-lit room with any of them--not her butt, not her legs, not even her winning smile. No, only Jennifer Luuuuv's hooters have inspired these intense flights of glorious fancy within me.

I end this column with a plea. Jennifer Luuuuuv, she with the tits that might live forever, the only two orbs in the universe more powerful than the sun and moon and God Himself, will you PLEASE take off your top in your next movie? I want to see them so bad that I can barely articulate it. They're so enrapturing that it took me four hours to write the last three sentences. Each time I try to pen these words, I lose my train of thought, and I am dizzied up in a frenzy of arousal.

I will pay you every dime I have and be your personal slave for the rest of your life if you'll just let me see your tits. I don't mean to suggest that you--or any woman, for that matter--are only as good as your breasts. But you have to understand your civic obligation--nay, your sacred duty as a female--to display those glories of nature to the world at large. It may result in peace on earth, as the predominantly male leaders of the world's nations realize that no conflicts are that important after the sight of two perfect mochambos. No matter what the exact results of this revelation will be, it will certainly change the world. It's a mighty responsibility, Jennifer Luuuv, and it's yours to undertake.

I love my family. I love my friends. I especially love my girlfriend. And now, I will always love Jennifer Love Hewitt's boobs. If you have any bone of mercy and compassion in your hot little body, Jennifer Luuuuv, you will slip off your shirt and bra in your next motion picture. If you do, I and millions of horny male fans will never forget it. Until then, I will live with my fantasies behind a closed bathroom door, somehow content to merely imagine what the unimaginable might be like. I feel as though I can finally empathize with the great religious philosophers: so tantalizingly close to the divine, yet so desperately far away.