for BainsBane: franksolich discusses aesthetics

[franksolich]

note: this is dedicated to BainsBane of Skins’s island, with the hope that she might like it better than my previous offering.  However, before going any further, I need to remind her that a man judges a woman not by looks alone; her character, her values, and her conduct count for a great deal, overshadowing what the eyes see.

franksolich discusses aesthetics.  The neighbor’s wife was here this morning, with her infant 10-month-old daughter.  The neighbor himself had taken the other kids--the 12-year-old twin girls, the 11-year-old eager young lad, and the 4-year-old second son--way down to Grand Island, for one event or another this morning.  I was told what the event was, but didn’t catch it, and let it go.

The neighbor’s wife is 41 years old, about a head shorter than I am.  She was born and raised in suburban Kansas City, and went to college to become a dental hygienist.  She did in fact become one, but then met the neighbor, married him, and moved up here to the roof of Nebraska.

Surprisingly for a city girl, she took to this place like a duck to water, over the years having become an accomplished horsewoman.  Horses bore her husband (“the neighbor”), and as I’m rarely doing anything important, I instead of him go with her when she’s involved with riding.

Despite having borne five infants, she remains a very slender woman.  The only “minus” is her reddish-blonde hair; I dunno why, but I never liked red-heads, and in fact can be fearful of them at times--probably some long-ago forgotten trauma from childhood or something.

When riding a horse across the meadows on a rainy autumn afternoon--myself sitting in the cab of a pick-up truck watching, in case she falls off and gets hurt--she reminds one very much of the young Elizabeth Tudor, Elizabeth I of England, enchanting her spectator awed and speechless.

She’s a very nice, gentle person with a pleasing smile and merry chortle, but that’s not why I favor her as much as I do, which is a lot.  She’s also a person whose face and body-language is easy to read, no small matter for a deaf person.

When I truly need to understand what’s going on, I immediately go to her to get illuminated.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Why is it that some women think men are turned on by big jugs?” I asked her, even before she sat down.

“Oh no,” she said; “it’s that woman on the internet, and you’re going to write about it.”

“Don’t worry,” I replied, knowing what her concern was.  “Just tell me what you know, and if you don’t want me to write about it, tell me, and I’ll leave out those details.

“So…..why is it that some women think men are turned on by big jugs?”

She told me, but didn’t want me to write about it, and so I won’t.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said; “at least to some of we men, jugs way out of proportion to one’s size make a woman not an object of lust, but a circus sideshow freak.

“Aesthetics is in some sort of proper proportion.”

- - - - - - - - - -

“Well, I suppose it might have something to do with one’s orientation and experiences with one’s mother,” she offered, insight with which I heartily agreed.

“I never paid attention to that aspect of my mother,” I told her; “after I was about three months old, or whenever it is an infant’s broken of breast-feeding, such things became of no interest to me.

“But you’ve seen photographs of her--she’s been dead for so long that while I of course think of her all the time, I no longer remember exactly what she looked like--and as those pictures show, she was properly proportioned, everything exactly the right size.  Not too big, not too small, just exactly the right size.”

“Well then,” the neighbor’s wife said, “perhaps if you examined why you’re attracted to a certain sort of woman--”

“[the femme]”--who’s about the same size as the neighbor’s wife--“is exactly, precisely, to the last little detail, perfect in proportion in all things,” I interrupted.

“But don’t go thinking I’m attracted to her simply because she’s aesthetic,” I added.

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor’s wife offered some other illumination, but didn’t want to be quoted, so I’ll leave it alone.

- - - - - - - - - -

“It’s weird,” I said, “that some people are actually turned on by grotesque distortions.

 â€œOkay, let me look at something,” I added, after which I went and found my senior-year high school annual, flipping over to the pages showing my class.

“We had 101 students in my graduating class; it was the largest class, ever and since.

“The peculiar oddity about it was that there were 68 boys and 33 girls; I dunno why it ended up that way, but that’s the way it was.

“My guess is that about a third of the class was originally from one-room country grade-schools, and rural areas, it seems, tend to breed more males than females.

“If one wanted a date, one swiped a girl from one or two classes below, as they seemed better ratio’d in the matter of genders, although it was a pretty hard-and-fast rule that one didn’t date a girl more than two years younger than oneself.

“My date for proms and parties and somesuch was a girl a year younger than myself, a petite brown-haired brown-eyed pale-skinned aquiline-nosed femme with long, slender fingers.

“I used to have a ’system’ for rating the aesthetics of women, and she was a 9.203 on a scale from 1 to 10.

“Don’t make too much of that, though,” I reminded the neighbor’s wife, flipping through the pages of the annual.  “The Sandhills tend to breed good-looking women, and rarely did I rate a woman below 8.517.

“What kept her from being ranked higher was that in height, she barely came up to halfway up my upper arm; she wasn’t real short, but she was short.

“She always went out with me because her cousin was my best friend.  She later married a big cattleman out there, and prospered and flourished.  He was twenty-seven years older than her, and left her a rich widow before she was even forty.

“I suppose she could’ve done better than having to settle for either of us, if she’d just been taller.

“But look,” I said, pointing to the full-page photographs of the library club, the cheerleaders, the home economics club, the yearbook staff, the National Honor Society, &c., &c., &c., “see how all these girls, my age, a year younger, two years younger, were well-proportioned, everything on them exactly the right size, nothing too big, nothing too little.

“We had one fat girl in my class--after which one had to dip down into the eighth grade to find a second fat girl--but even though elephantine (and masculine-looking), everything on her was the right size for her heft, nothing too big, nothing too little, nothing out of whack.

“See?--even her jugs were exactly right for her weight.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The neighbor’s wife, who’s a decade younger than me, took the annual and flipped through it, commenting, “People were really small back then--and this wasn’t that long ago.”

“Right,” I said; “I grew up during the end of an era; food stamps, fast food, and promiscuously-prescribed pharmaceuticals had been around for a while, but hadn’t yet gotten a stranglehold on daily life and popular culture, fattening people up.”

I showed her an old National Geographic book, published in the mid-1970s and with lots and lots of color photographs, which featured the Ozarks of southern Missouri; Springfield, Joplin, &c., &c., &c.

“Look at these people, how they looked in the early and mid-1970s--how many fat people do you see?”

I went through the photographs, and pointed my finger.  “See?  There’s one single solitary sole old woman who’s fat.  A white woman.  There’s no black people who were fat back then.  These pictures show a large number of people…..and only one fat person.

“I’ve never been down to Joplin--it’s too far south for me--but I suspect nowadays, there’s more than one fat person in Joplin.  There’s probably scads of them, their bodies bloated and distorted because of all of the drugs they take.”

She looked, and agreed with me.

“Teenagers these days are more bloated than we ever were,” I continued; “I was one of the larger kids in my class, a little under 6’3” and with a 32” waistline.  I felt fat; there were lots of boys in my class, usually from out in the country, who wore jeans with big labels advertising 28” waistlines, and a girl less than two feet in circumference wasn’t all that rare.

“One time, my mother commented how easy it was to buy clothes for my younger brother and me, as compared with for the older brothers and sisters, who’d been born and raised in New York, and who were shorter and chunkier than her two youngest Nebraska-born-and-bred sons.

“What’d prompted the comment was that she’d had to get 30-30 pants for my younger brother, having previously gotten 28-28s and 26-26s--leg-length and waist.  And I’d worn 32-32s since the eighth grade, and was to continue wearing 32-32s for decades to come.

“Talk about the right proportions, everything being exactly the right size.”

[franksolich]

[Later; late afternoon, same day]  The neighbor’s older brother was here, and I thought I’d ask him a particular question, but was unsure how to “frame” it.

The neighbor’s older brother, who lives on the other side of the county, is exactly my same age, but he’s got a lot more accomplishments under his belt than I do.  And I know that he secretly thinks of me as a damned fool who’s going to come to a bad end sooner or later.

I’ve known him for only about twelve years; my association with his younger brother, the neighbor, goes back much further than that, when the neighbor was an 18-year-old freshman at the University of Nebraska, and franksolich was the 30-year-old manager of a privately-owned student union on that campus.

The owner of the establishment, a big insurance man and at the time the top Democrat party official in Nebraska, was David Hunter, whose story’s been told here before.  He was a rather unstable, temperamental, violent man.

I was manager of the student union four years, which was four times longer than my four predecessors all put together (that is, each one lasted an average of about three months).  I stuck around for so long because I was bound and determined to show David Hunter how to win friends and influence people.

If nothing else, I’m persistent.

But alas other events interrupted, and the day before he was discovered having kited seven million dollars in bad checks to impress the woman he loved, David Hunter went out into the country and stuffed a loaded revolver into his mouth.

Perhaps I could’ve taught him how to get along with people, but we’ll never know.

The neighbor had been in there, photocopying some class notes, at the same time David Hunter was jumping up-and-down, getting red-white-and-blue in the face, yelling and screaming and cursing at me about something someone else had done to him.  After which he picked up a portable photocopying machine and threw it through a plate-glass window.

The neighbor (who of course wasn’t the neighbor yet, still being a green teenager), who for a moment thought for sure I was going to be pummeled next, was impressed by my reaction.

I’d nonchalantly yawned.

- - - - - - - - - -

Bravely forging ahead, hoping to not look like a fool, I bluntly asked the neighbor’s older brother, “Do you care much for women with supersized jugs?”

He looked at me as if I were Bozo from Outer Space.

“Well, there’s some women who think that men are turned on by big jugs,” I explained; “I’m not, and I’d like to run into someone who is, to find out why he is.”

“You know my wife,” he said.

Yeah.  There’s no doubt the neighbor’s older brother’s in love with his wife.

And in the upper-shelf department, she’s exactly the right size, not too big, not too little.

“If you want to find the guy, you might ask Swede,” the neighbor’s older brother advised.

Oh.

I’d never thought of Swede’s wife, the owner of the bar in town; she’s got a rather enormous pair, big enough that one could set a portable television on it.

Swede is the cook of Norwegian derivation whose specialty is Italianate cuisine, and he can get rather temperamental; he feels insulted that while everybody else wants his best, I always only ever order a hamburger, well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease.

He takes it really personally.

I said as soon as I figured out how to ask him, I’d ask Swede.

[anti-spelunker]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6mOQh3evqsI#t=73

You can enable captioning.

[longview]

I honestly don't know a fellow who goes for large breasts.  And, working with men much of the time, for hours plodding away horseback or greasing machinery and changing belts, we talk.  We try to make sense of the opposite sex.  We generally fail.   


It might be a regional thing.  Those would get in the way in our world.  Oh!  I do know two women who've had reductions.  Must be related to our lifestyle.

[franksolich]

[Later; early evening, same day]   The femme contacted me circa 5:00 p.m., suggesting she drive here from the big city, and that the two of us go to town to dine at the bar.

I’d been out, and told her no; we’ve been pounded out here all day long by 50-60 mph winds, and it wasn‘t letting up.  The grounds around the house here are littered with roof-shingles, and there’s some trees down.

Also, the femme drives a high-riding motor vehicle, and wouldn’t stay on the road.

<<<oftentimes teased for preferring low-riding cars on the highways of Nebraska.  But while sports utility vehicles (SUVs), vans, pick-up trucks, and even great big huge semi-trucks with tons of goods in their trailers, get swept off the roads, the winds don’t shove me even over to the next lane.

She asked me what I was going to do, and I said that, well, as long as I was already here, I was going to go to town myself, for supper--although I didn’t tell her I was also going ask Swede why he’s attracted to women with elephantine jugs.

- - - - - - - - - -

I had to be careful with this; although I tower above Swede, he’s got more weight on him, and was a boxer in the Army forty years ago.  If I dared upset him too much, the local rescue squad would have to pick me up with a spatula, and deliver me to the funeral home on a cookie sheet.

It’s really awkward being franksolich in this respect; I suppose I radiate an “aura” of muscle and strength, but that’s just a perception, not a reality.  In reality, even Atman, the biggest sissy-boy on Skins’s island, because he’s got at least a good fifty pounds on me, could pound me into a red spot in the ground.

I’m surprised it’s never happened, and of course gratified too.

I decided I would butter up Swede first, and then ask the question.

- - - - - - - - - -

When I went into the bar, Swede was the only other person there, the high winds discouraging custom this night.

Grimacing upon seeing me, he signed “the usual?” and was turning around to tend the grill when I went up to the window and said no, I wanted to order from the menu.

His eyes grew as big as saucers, his jaw noticeably dropping.

“Well, I just wanted to try something different,” I said.

Hmmmm, he replied.  “You’ve been coming in here three, four, times a week the past thirteen years, and always the same thing--always the same thing--a damned burnt hamburger.  Always.  Sometimes I’ve been tempted to insert a piece of charcoal instead of a hamburger into the bun, to see if you’d notice the difference, but my concern for your well-being deters me.”

“No, I wouldn’t notice the difference,” I assured him; “I just like things well-done, cooked all the way through.

“But tonight’s different.  I want to try some Italianate cuisine.”

Swede suddenly beamed. 

I was right; all he needed was some buttering up, after which I could pop the question.

- - - - - - - - - -

Since there were no other customers, Swede took the liberty of sitting down at my table, offering me a critique of each item on the menu.

There was much back-and-forth, myself being careful to order those things about which he seemed the most enthusiastic.

I ordered prosciutto e melone, verdure in pinzimonio, sugo al pomodoro, colomba pasquale, crescentina, pane casareccio, pizza ai quattro formaggi, tagliatelle, agnolotti, rigatoni al forno con salsa aurora, trofie al sugo di noci, risotto di seppie alla veneziana, cotoletta alla petroniana, and monte veronese.

“No dessert?” he asked.

No, I said; I usually don’t like dessert, but I also wanted a hamburger, well done, pressed down hard on the grill so as to squeeze out every drop of grease.

He looked at me, oddly.

“It wouldn’t seem right,” I said, “to come here and not order that.  As you said, I’ve been coming here three, four, times a week for thirteen years, and I don’t want to break that streak, more than 2,000 uninterrupted consecutive orders for a good hamburger.”

Swede went back into the kitchen, where he smiled, whistled, and sang opera as he enthusiastically prepared the chow.  He seemed so happy, so very very happy.

But I felt lower than a dog; it would be rude for me to ask such a man why he liked women with big jugs.

- - - - - - - - - -

I went back up to the window, and told him that I wanted the whole order “to go.”

“I’m right now losing my roof, and I’d just as soon be home when it goes, so as to deal with it.”

Of course he was well aware of the weather, and while disappointed, understood.

I watched as he cheerfully tied colorful little ribbons around each box.  He seemed so happy he was on the verge of crying tears of joy.

There was no way, no way at all, I should ask such a happy man what’s considered a sensitive question.

- - - - - - - - - -

When arriving back here, I retrieved the wrapped-up hamburger for myself, giving the rest of the goods to the cats.

[franksolich]

Whoa.

Wait.

What?

She's gone?

 

[BlueStateSaint]

Whoa.

Wait.

What?

She's gone?

 

She'll be back . . . Count on it, Frank.

[franksolich]

She'll be back . . . Count on it, Frank.

Well, I surely hope so.

She didn't like the first story, and she didn't like this one either, but the third time's a charm.

She's very hard to please.  Most primitives get all agog and excited when they're the subject of a single franksolich story, even if it's poorly written.  To be recognized by franksolich, to a primitive, is the same thing as being "discovered" in Hollywood.

<<<makes stars.

I think her biggest problem is that she doesn't have a sense of humor; like a prim, stodgy, bitter Puritan of old, she wants to be taken seriously.  That's no way to get through this vale of tears.

[vesta111]

Well, I surely hope so.

She didn't like the first story, and she didn't like this one either, but the third time's a charm.

She's very hard to please.  Most primitives get all agog and excited when they're the subject of a single franksolich story, even if it's poorly written.  To be recognized by franksolich, to a primitive, is the same thing as being "discovered" in Hollywood.

<<<makes stars.

I think her biggest problem is that she doesn't have a sense of humor; like a prim, stodgy, bitter Puritan of old, she wants to be taken seriously.  That's no way to get through this vale of tears.

Frank, I have seen this from the other side.


Strange but I have talked to my less endowed friends and go an eyeful or ear full of comments.

Comes down to the source of life, baby's would die without mothers milk since time began.

Today the majority of children are given either a chemical compound if mother cannot or refuse to breast feed for many reasons.   It does not matter the size of the breast from cantaloupe size to that of a wallnut  normally in most cases both the big and the small will Lactate. In the case of a dry birth, wet nurses were brought in.

Farmers would substitute goat milk  for mothers milk, Cow milk is not advised for the new born.


Still those bumpy bits woman have are not just nutrition for the new life but the bonding with the child, usually the baby is fed every 4 hours and that involves contact with the mother skin to skin, The sounds of the mothers heart beat that they have either heard or felt for the  last 8-9 months.  The breast fed baby for the first few months gets all kinds of nutrition and their warmth and come to associate Mommy's boobs as a source of comfort.

Could it be that men that were bottle fed from birth have a need for the comfort they never received by being on the bottle ?    Who knows how the brain works, how live experiences from the very start can effect the personality of anyone.

Ask any woman who has carried a child and all can remember when a sharp noise caused the baby in her womb would jump or start kicking.

Messing with nature can cause some interesting results.   

[franksolich]

I dunno, vesta dear, but I have the "baby books" of all the children my parents had.

And since they'd both been trained as registered nurses, they kept detailed records.

Among the comments in my "baby book" is that I was as regular as Hell, no unexpected surprises; on extended visits far from home, they always knew exactly how many spare diapers to bring along, no more and no less.

<<<still as regular as Hell.

[franksolich]

Okay vesta, dear, I went and pulled out my "baby book;" it's got reams of material in it.

"breast AND formula feeding until one month old"--I dunno if that was good or bad (someone underlined "AND").

"S.M.A. formula feeding until six months old"--I have no idea what "S.M.A." is.

"first fed with a spoon at four weeks--cereal; six weeks--banana and applesauce."

"first fed self at 15 months."

(I'm omitting the dates here, so stalking primitives can't track me down from vital statistics.)

"smiled when spoken to at 2.5 months."

"weight at birth: 8 pounds, 2 ounces."

"weight at one week later: 7 pounds, 3 ounces."
"weight at three weeks: 9 pounds."
"weight at four weeks: 9 pounds, 12 ounces."
"weight at two months: 12 pounds, 8 ounces."
"weight at two months + two weeks: 13 pounds, 5 ounces."

"first sat up by himself at eight months."
"first stood without support at fourteen months."
"first walked steadily at fifteen months."

"acquired complete bowel control at eight months."
"acquired complete bladder control at thirteen months."

"first word ('yikes!') at three years, two months."

I dunno if any this is "normal" or not, but that's what it says, among a whole lot of other things; "negative" on the usual and standard childhood diseases until the age of seven.

[vesta111]

Okay vesta, dear, I went and pulled out my "baby book;" it's got reams of material in it.

"breast AND formula feeding until one month old"--I dunno if that was good or bad (someone underlined "AND").

"S.M.A. formula feeding until six months old"--I have no idea what "S.M.A." is.

"first fed with a spoon at four weeks--cereal; six weeks--banana and applesauce."

"first fed self at 15 months."

(I'm omitting the dates here, so stalking primitives can't track me down from vital statistics.)

"smiled when spoken to at 2.5 months."

"weight at birth: 8 pounds, 2 ounces."

"weight at one week later: 7 pounds, 3 ounces."
"weight at three weeks: 9 pounds."
"weight at four weeks: 9 pounds, 12 ounces."
"weight at two months: 12 pounds, 8 ounces."
"weight at two months + two weeks: 13 pounds, 5 ounces."

"first sat up by himself at eight months."
"first stood without support at fourteen months."
"first walked steadily at fifteen months."

"acquired complete bowel control at eight months."
"acquired complete bladder control at thirteen months."

"first word ('yikes!') at three years, two months."

I dunno if any this is "normal" or not, but that's what it says, among a whole lot of other things; "negative" on the usual and standard childhood diseases until the age of seven.

Frank, realize I had no brothers or sisters.  By the time I was 17 and was married found I was Pregnant.   I had been married for a year after graduating at 16 from high school and really had no idea what was happening , I had to go to a book store to explain what was going on. Husband at the time had no idea why woman had periods.
 
The Doctor who delivered my Husband asked me if I wanted to end the pregnancy, the idea was too odd for me and I refused.

So here I was a child with little idea of what was going on in my body or the body of the child..       I would ask my Mom from day to day about this and she could not or would  tell me much, She had some how lost the memories of my birth.  All she would tell me was she remembered the Moon coming up in a window when I was born.

Years later I found the telegram to my DAD out at sea telling him I had been born---- I loved this thing It had the rings of coffee cups on it so he must have shown it to the  crew . Proud Daddy.

I would imagine in todays world with abortion ready at hand for the youngsters, I would not be here writing.

As a matter of fact I wonder about the 4 kids I had before abortion was excepted, once allowed, would I have been talked in aborting a child ?

Thank heavens I never needed to omit a child from my life, I was just to hard headed  to go with the flow.   

I have 4 kids that give me joy, wasn't easy raising them but  I did some how and they are the highlights of my life.

How can we trust a woman who aborts one life with raising the children she  does not abort.  If a woman can kill one child, will she kill the children she decides to have ?

[BlueStateSaint]

Well, I surely hope so.

She didn't like the first story, and she didn't like this one either, but the third time's a charm.

She's very hard to please.  Most primitives get all agog and excited when they're the subject of a single franksolich story, even if it's poorly written.  To be recognized by franksolich, to a primitive, is the same thing as being "discovered" in Hollywood.

<<<makes stars.

I think her biggest problem is that she doesn't have a sense of humor; like a prim, stodgy, bitter Puritan of old, she wants to be taken seriously.  That's no way to get through this vale of tears.

Lefties, by and large, all demand this.

[DumbAss Tanker]

I honestly don't know a fellow who goes for large breasts.  And, working with men much of the time, for hours plodding away horseback or greasing machinery and changing belts, we talk.  We try to make sense of the opposite sex.  We generally fail.   


It might be a regional thing.  Those would get in the way in our world.  Oh!  I do know two women who've had reductions.  Must be related to our lifestyle.

Regional, I don't know.  There is just a certain percentage of guys who think enormous tits are attractive.  Same with excessive make-up, bright red lipstick, freakishly high heels, etc.  I like just plain clean and normal-looking, myself...a smile and a pleasant disposition go a million times farther than a paint job or accessories, and the latter can never make up for a lack of the former.

[NHSparky]

Fat hangers or smaller firmer perky breasts?

Yeah, I'll go with choice number two.

[franksolich]

Fat hangers or smaller firmer perky breasts?

Yeah, I'll go with choice number two.

Well, I suppose that's why she got upset here.

For decades probably she's nurtured this notion that men, generally all men, are turned on by big ones, and being men, all we want to do is hop around in the sack with women who have them.

(I think this perception was actually created by television, the ancient "Benny Hill" show and somesuch, and dirty magazines, Playboy, Penthouse, &c., &c., &c.)

And while she was here, it finally dawned on her that no, we usually don't.

She can't accuse us of "objectifying" her.....she can't be a "victim," and it discombobulates her.

[Wineslob]

Big boobs, small boobs.............................yes.

[vesta111]

Well, I suppose that's why she got upset here.

For decades probably she's nurtured this notion that men, generally all men, are turned on by big ones, and being men, all we want to do is hop around in the sack with women who have them.

(I think this perception was actually created by television, the ancient "Benny Hill" show and somesuch, and dirty magazines, Playboy, Penthouse, &c., &c., &c.)

And while she was here, it finally dawned on her that no, we usually don't.

She can't accuse us of "objectifying" her.....she can't be a "victim," and it discombobulates her.

Actually Frank we may have this all backward.   It may just be that it is the woman themselves that started all this big  or small boobies controversy.

Culture comes into this all through history, traditions, race, and place in the world one is born into. 

Back to the boobies and woman.   In the way, way distant past woman were desirable to men if they were Plump wide hips and big boobs, good breading stock. 

 A tall thin woman with flat hips and small boobs was a problem as the men of the time wanted a wife that was hardy enough to give them lots of children and feed them in times of stress.  Some cultures breast fed their children up in age of 4 in times of poverty.

As all children were breast fed either by the mother or a WET Nurse the Boobs situation was a woman's thing.

Somehow this all shifted in history to the changing times when men did not want 8 kids and started looking at woman that would only live long enough to give them a couple.

There is so much to the history of boobs, its only function is to feed their children, that's it, not to do anything else.


Russia in the great starvation times it was documented that a few men were found that could lactate to feed a new born, It was also said that people were eating their young so desperate for food.

I do not know if this was all propaganda dreamed up against Communism but there it is for what its worth.

Could this all be a marketing ploy of some kind originality started by females to draw in the males ?

One of those great mystery's of life Frank,  best to not ask, we will never know the answer.


 

[GOBUCKS]

Regional, I don't know.  There is just a certain percentage of guys who think enormous tits are attractive.  Same with excessive make-up, bright red lipstick, freakishly high heels, etc. 

That's true. Alex's love life depends on Rule 34.