Dream Big, Dream Tits

by

Mangst Breadslaw

Tell me, how large does a pair of breasts have to be to be offensive? There’s no industry standard, but something tells me there’s a reverse correlation between a woman’s cup size and how mad she is about depictions of them.

For a while, a sweet harmonious while, we had it boys. We had action games starring hot girls with tiny waists and giant bouncing tits. You could pit two of them against each other in a fighting game and the various spheroids of flesh would get so agitated the screen would start to look like a violently shaken lava lamp.

But then they appeared, out of the mist like demons, to shame us, to destroy our happiness. People that never touched a controller in their lives invaded, shrieking about how we were promoting unrealistic body standards for the impressionable girls of the world. They were all going to kill themselves once they saw the treasured chests they could never achieve! (Never mind that this is a passive admission that anyone so influenced is desperate for the attention and approval of boys and men, and if they were just the confident, strong, independent types they claimed to be it wouldn’t affect them at all.)

When they came they brought with them several arguments, all of which don’t matter for the exact same reason. They said sets of armor that looked like metal bikinis made no sense. They said women with udders that size would have constant back pain and inhibited movement. They said no actual breasts moved like water balloons.

And to all of those I say of course. What idiots they think we must be, to assume that our goal at any point in this process was realism, was reasonable expectations. Video games are the realm of fantasy. You immerse yourself in them in order to achieve the heights of your imagination without it interfering in the real world.

I don’t know about you, but since I’m a functioning red-blooded straight man in possession of an imagination, when I see boobs I picture them bigger. Why? Because I’m driven to. Call it carnal, call it lust, call it whatever you want. I want boobs, and since I want them I want more of them, which is most easily achieved by making them larger.

I’m also stimulated by seeing them move, so in a game I would like them to move more than they normally would. There’s no back pain because back pain is not sexy. The armor doesn’t cover them because that would defeat most of the other measures I’ve taken in order to reveal them.

There is no shame in sexual fantasy, or in letting it intermingle liberally with fantasies of fame, love, power, and identity. To tell me I shouldn’t play a game as this false woman is to attack me as harmful, when I have harmed no one. In fact, my modified mistress with the stacked rack and the broadsword has been running around in her steel skivvies saving people from the corruption in her lands.

So why are we mired in an epidemic of emptying jugs and thickening waists in our games? It can’t be for money. Look at the data. Women aren’t even buying the games with sufficient action to initiate the stress tests of the jiggle physics. Instead they’re mindlessly emptying their wallets dime by dime on micro-transactions in mobile match-three games with pastel aesthetics and plush score numbers. They’re looking for anime sugar daddies in visual novel dating sims.

Intimidation is the reason. They are upset that we built and had what we wanted, so they instigated various media mobs to shout at and belittle us until we stopped, until we agreed with them that it was better for us to be less happy.

Here’s the thing. It’s all because a handful of women decided to take it so god damn personally. Never mind that there was already a pretty hard ceiling built into breast size in action games. After all, if they get much bigger than watermelons in say, a third person combat game, it means they will be taking up too much of the screen and preventing us from seeing the environment and enemies.

If it was first person we wouldn’t want them much bigger than two mole hills brushing up against the HUD. And of course, there are technically some women in the world who are that gifted in the mammary sense. (Don’t ask me why our desired character models don’t then count as empowering representation, given that they’re portrayed as fearless warriors.)

So the problem of breasts inflating beyond all semblance to the real deal is a fiction, as they stop slightly above the anatomical average in order to not act as fleshy blinders. Even in the abstract they would cease to grow around the time the rest of the body was too small to discern by comparison. Nobody needs to worry about the logistics of desperate attention-seekers attempting to implant silicon celestial bodies.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Should the male eye trend anywhere else, as it currently is with the ass, the same principles apply. The worst thing we’re likely to create in terms of absurdity is a woman shaped like a peanut who finds clothing to be an irritation. Gasp. Let loose the dogs of sexual repression. End the chronic back pain of cinched bundles of polygons everywhere.

So why are they taking it so fucking personally? Nothing stops them from fighting fire with fire. I have absolutely no problem with whatever it is that these women who collectively have a single pair of Christmas ornaments decorating their sternums find sexually arousing. I imagine, assuming they’re attracted to men at all and not large emotionally available dogs or wads of money, that it would be one of two fantasies carrying the broadsword in their adventure game.

The first is a musclebound bearded wall of a thing, at least three feet taller than they are, with perfect gum commercial teeth and a jaw so chiseled it could be used as a can opener. He is unrealistic in every way, including that he only has eyes for the tiniest breasts; anything larger than a chocolate chip he simply cannot abide. He does everything for her and her alone, this pimply, hairy, asymmetrical her, including saving her queendom from whatever threat is marauding around her lands.

The other is a pale twig with big stuffed animal eyes. His counterpart’s crotch bulge is replaced by a panel so shiny and smooth it can capture enough solar energy to power a convention center. He doesn’t even have the capacity to be attracted to another woman, and his talents trend more servile and domestic, fetching things off shelves and folding her delicates.

These fantasies do not offend me. Sure, I think they’re stupid, and indicative of the kind of person who has them, but that opinion remains where it belongs and I never call it anything else. I don’t call their fantasies harassment, or misandry, or an injustice. It is obvious to those with brains that it’s all in good fun.

Where are these games for women so desperate to take over and rehabilitate our genres? Why am I not seeing a guy in short shorts with a Burmese python balled up in them on any of the posters in the window of the electronics store? If they are truly as ubiquitous as they say they are they must have mountains of money to spend on such games that studios are desperate to get their hands on, yet they’re not pandering to them in that way. Instead they’re just tiptoeing around and chipping away at the things men want.

That’s because these women don’t actually want to play these sorts of games at all. They’re just insecure. It is a fury entirely derived from the fact that, whatever they look like individually, their physical form is not the center of public sexual attention. Fat women want fatter characters so that thinner ones occupy less of our imagination. The same goes for flat women, and women who aren’t blonde, and women who aren’t white. Your mind shouldn’t be your own. It should be enthralled to their altar of vanity.

Seeking to shrink your tits is just the first step to them eventually shrinking your rights. Silly as I made that sentence sound, it is not a joke. Their ultimate goal is censorship, plastering a black bar over everything that has ever generated happiness independent of their influence.

When they looked at the code we wrote, the games we designed and played without their input, they saw only a statement that we didn’t need them. It was a space conceived of, shaped by, and inhabited by men to give them what they want, harmlessly, and as fully as possible. And they’re wrecking it because they weren’t invited and don’t have the capacity or desire to dream as big as we do.

If any of them read this they will assume that I hate all women, even though I only hate women like them. Like most of you loyal slawterhouses, I have loved and will continue to love females, not just the form they take.

As I finish editing this gift to the feminists (be they whichever wave the movement is on now or the shallower birdbath feminists I suspect), I first want to tell you about a woman I have loved and how she affected me.

Believe it or not, her bra size doesn’t matter to me, because I don’t treat her the same way I treat my fantasies. She is very real: a fixed point in my mind and heart rather than something that might inflate or otherwise exaggerate when I’m not looking.

I consider her powerful in the figurative sense, but not the sense that she can bend various sex-starved men to her will. No, she doesn’t make time for such things. She finds what she wants and she goes for it, full tilt, with absolutely no regard for what anyone else thinks. She’s less likely to complain about a supermodel on the battlefield and more likely to seize her as a cudgel and utterly destroy you at your own game.

There isn’t a single critic of mine who I remember by name. They pass like leaves in the wind, even if they are covered in irritating toxic hairs. I remember the name of the woman I love, and I think it before I think the names of any characters in any of the games I play, no matter their proportions. Those creatures are empty, daydreams. She is full, and she is a goal.

So remember friends, don’t let the shrieks get too far down your ear canals. It’s really all they can do, and you’re in charge of whether or not they hurt you. If you think bigger is better then max out those character creation sliders and flaunt what you’ve got up and down that multiplayer lobby.

If you don’t let them shout you down the studios will eventually return to the old ways. They’ll give us back our T and a side of A as well. Our fantasies will giggle and bounce this way and that, all according to our whims, because that’s what they’re supposed to. They’re our toys, and we don’t share. They can get their own.

Dream big my friends. Dream tits.

*published two years ago

*views: 3,655,284