While I painted my breasts into flowers, I thought about how I felt about them. I have always loved my breasts. When I was Maiden, I wanted them to be large, with cleavage, just like those adorning the silver-screen love-Goddesses of the fifties. Passing into the stage of Mother, they grew voluptuously. I loved to touch them, and to have other people touch them, not always an erotic act but softly sensual. They felt wonderful, like great soft pillows against which babies and animals loved to fall asleep. I breast fed my children with joy. My husband adores them, again, not always erotically but because they just feel so nice.
Since now my breasts are pendulous, I can lift and turn them. I was doing just that while painting them. One of the young women said that she wished she could manipulate her breasts like that. I told her to breast feed two children for two years and gain fifty pounds, and she would be able to do so.
Another woman had brought her six-year-old son with her along with one of his friends. While her son was not particularly surprised by our activities, his friend (who was from a more conventional home) could not believe his eyes. In her best nursery school teacher voice, she told him that it was part of our religion to honor our breasts. She then asked if he had ever seen breasts before. He replied, “Only my mother's.” I said, “I bet mine are bigger." (Just a little target practice -- everyone was so serious.) Finally, the kids got into the activities too, and we were all painting our faces and chests. We looked wonderfully wild.