Nip/Tuck your nads between you're legs, because this one could get a little bouncy (that's right, I take the risk of you experiencing a high velocity genital impact into account while writing this blog).
Generation Y is the first to come of age having been exposed to sex driven marketing from the day we were purged from our mothers, gagging on our own amniotic fluids. In the last month, the fruit born from family dinners revolving around cosmetic surgery television has ripened and come into my life. I write today as one of the few in my social circle, nay my age group, who has been privy to experience artificially augmented breasts in a non-adult entertainment capacity.
So - is there a big difference? Absolutely.
In short, fake tits are noticeably firmer and less malleable. They sit upright in perfect form at all times, thus to shackle them in a brazier is more of a modesty concern than a measure of practicality.
Does this detract from their appeal? In my opinion I found them to be money well spent, at least in terms of raw physical attraction. They are flesh, a warm, living part of a woman, and I rather fancy women as a whole. As a male, however, I have a bias opinion, as I have not come across a breast via personal encounter that I didn't enjoy in one way or another. The real question is how did they stimulate my brain?
Since being force fed playboys and internet pornography since oh, age 10, I have come to associate certain traits as being sexually ideal in a woman. I have been attracted to, had sex with, and had serious relationships with plenty of women who did not meet these ideals, and in no way did I find those experiences less rewarding because they lacked DD's or waxed bikini lines. But to be with a woman who is the image of my adolescent fantasy, straight out of Maxim, is an odd feeling indeed. I've grown up associating women like these with my computer screen and fucking my own fist. Never have I considered them as breathing individuals I could reach out and touch, and what's more, would touch me back. After years of coveting these objects of my libido, I was able to enjoy one, and in the process I shattered an illusion.
I think it goes without saying these women have been put on the societal alter and worshipped as false goddesses. Did possession of these fabled tits have me shaking in my boots with my own insecurities? Absolutely. However, in hindsight I've found this reaction was completely unwarranted, and doubt I will have it again.
Women who have these extensively market-tested traits are no more sexually dynamic than natural women, and possibly even less so. One of the sexiest thing a man can find in a woman is that look of self accomplishment - that "I've convinced you that you're dying to fuck me" smirk. This process of convincing could have lasted weeks or even months (dare I say years?), and the release after all that anticipation is as genuine as a child's on Christmas morning. 10's who have surgically acquired their features already know you're dying to fuck them. They slapped those tits on so they could have control of at least one variable in a world of uncertainty. They suffer from a need of sexual assurance, an inability to cope with their own shortcomings and wrote themselves a silicone prescription. That type of deep seeded insecurity doesn't exactly result in a boon of mental arousal.
I personally find it more attractive when a girl is high on that feeling of self worth, taking it like a shot of cocaine straight up the nose and bucking beneath you until she peaks. After that arduous, hormone laden journey when she's finally reached her apex, you can watch her eyes glaze over in a deep, however fleeting sense of peace and self worth. Does it make sense that I find it less appealing when woman has to mainline polymer validation like a jittering addict? Sexual fulfillment, like any good drug, is best enjoyed recreationally, not medicinally. Needing to know you are walking masturbatory inspiration in your quest for emotional equilibrium is not a turn on. Artificial sexuality, in my limited experience, seems to come off as glaringly artificial, no matter how damn good her surgeon was.
(for the record, that man deserves artistic recognition, for surely he is a renaissance master of breast sculpture)
Fake Breasts - A Review
Sex and Drugs.
Every morning I take 200mg of Zoloft, followed by anywhere from 0.25mg to 2mg of Xanax spread throughout the day. Let me tell you about how this affects my dick.
In the medical community, they call it "delayed ejaculation", which is a very dry term used to describe a sexual situation involving utter exhaustion and being covered in vaginal fluids. Sound like business as usual? Add being so re-goddamn-diculously pent up and pissed you want to grab the nearest pointed object, whether it be a tweezer or your cunt-of-a-girlfriend's vibrator, and pry out your fucking eyeballs.
In the tongue of the brown people, it's referred to as being unable to acquire one's "nut". Let me explain. I can drill a girl bareback for up to two hours, pounding her with my 6.4 inch rod until her pussy is raw and the sheets are drenched. I'll fuck her until she wails and flails more times than Streisand (pictured left) has performed farewell concerts, but I won't get off. Mind you, these are good looking women, several of which are pumas in the sack. In spite of this, a solid 34% of my sexual interludes end without release. No goof gravy. None. Please don't badger me by asking for photographic evidence to vouch for the attractiveness of these women. I'm not going to give it to you. You don't need it. You're as queer as a sack of hammers.
I don't know if I've made this clear yet, but the situation is a tad inconvenient, and a literal pain in the balls.
Fun fact #47: Delayed ejaculation is one of the most common side effects of taking SSRI antidepressants. You may or may not have known that Fun Fact #47 has spawned one of the greater ironies of the 21st Century, the reality that we live in a world where modern anti-depressants (happy pills) are prescribed to treat premature ejaculation (the condition of being too happy). I've never suffered from being too happy, sexual or otherwise. I take antidepressants to relieve my unprovoked panic attacks, and they do their job. Sometimes I imagine pharmaceutical reps and physicians cackling and gagging between mouthfuls of lobster and Walker Blue. I picture myself bussing tables, collecting 
champagne flutes caked with lipstick as I piece together their conversation. I try to look busy as I strain to absorb the semi-intelligible chortling of the smarmy red bastards. At some point, amidst the candor and the bull, I stumble upon the great, twisted half-truth: It would have been cheaper to whack off my demons, and better for my prostate too.
