Kill The Goat

A million years ago I read somewhere that a perfect breast should fit into a champagne glass.

 

 

 

Oof, I thought. No way. I mean, not even on my best day, not even if I'm sucking in.

I made my peace with it a long while ago. Some cups runneth over.

But then I came across a champagne coupe and thought - ah.

 

I'm still not cramming myself into that thing, it might just sit upon me like a little yarmulke for my tits, but I can at least get over the Madonna-like proportions of the last one, and I can stop smirking every time I pour myself some bubbles.

I've always enjoyed the elegance and sense of occasion inherent in the flutes, but the coupe just seems to wink at me and lately I'm winking back.