I think it might be a little known fact that a large number of gay men are actually fascinated by female breasts.
I don’t think it comes from a place of sexual desire or from a longing to sport a pair, but they are definitely objects of intense curiosity. Speaking for myself, I often look at them with the same utilitarian thought process that I would apply to empty shelving space. After all, with the right push-up bra there is relatively little difference between busty cleavage and a gently sloping fire place mantle. When I imagine what you could do with that kind of surface area, my mind conjures images of framed graduation pictures, the obligatory ceramic cherub, or perhaps a small wicker basket of potpourri. The possibilities are truly endless.
Mental meanderings aside, I feel somewhat resentful when women wear tight T-shirts with words or phrases emblazoned upon them. Every time I have made an effort to read the text in question, I inevitably get a dirty look from the female loaded with the disdain so often reserved for perverts. Once, a young woman actually said to me, “Hey! Stop staring at my chest!”
To this I replied, “I am merely reading what your shirt has to say. Your breasts appear to be fervent supporters of Barack Obama. I hope they are registered to vote.”