Let’s talk about tits, baby. Let’s talk about mamm-a-ries. Let’s talk about all the good curves and the bad curves that make men drop to their knees. Let’s talk about tits…

Not politely. Not respectfully. Not like some Ivy League think piece hiding under the dirty blanket of “body positivity.” No. We’re doing it with our hands down our pants and our brains wide open.

Here’s the observation: the higher up the tax bracket, the smaller the preferred cup size. Rich guys like sleek, high-end boutique boobs. The kind that come with a Pilates membership and a $300 bra. Poor guys? They like big, fat, swinging funbags. They like breasts that enter the room before the woman does. Breasts that defy physics. Breasts with their own gravitational field.

This ain’t just a matter of taste—it’s survival psychology. It’s primal. And, as usual, the human libido is just the unconscious mind trying to do a little prehistoric math.

THE SAVANNAH THEORY OF TIT PREFERENCE

Once upon a time—before TikTok and protein shakes—men were just hairy little apes trying not to die. Food was scarce. Resources were scarcer. And evolution gave our horny ancestors a cheat code: look for signs of fertility. Signs that a woman could survive a famine, carry a baby, and feed the damn thing without keeling over.

Big breasts? That’s a flashing neon sign that says: I’VE GOT FAT STORES AND I’M READY TO BREED.

Fast-forward 300,000 years, and the primal wiring’s still in there, rattling around like a busted speaker. The broke bastard working at the gas station doesn’t want small, artistic, Manhattan-gallery breasts. He wants a pair of goddamn airbags. Subconsciously, he’s still living in a cave, worried about winter and saber-tooth tigers. His lizard brain is screaming: bigger tits mean more milk, more meat, more mama.

It’s not shallow. It’s ancient.

RICH MEN LIVE IN A DIFFERENT WORLD

Now let’s look at the rich boys. Hedge funders. Trust-fund creeps. Guys who wear loafers with no socks and use the word “bespoke” unironically. These men don’t worry about survival. They worry about appearances. Status. Subtlety. They’ve got oat milk in the fridge, not a cupboard full of ramen.

When a man’s needs are met—and then some—he stops looking for signs of survival and starts looking for signs of status.

Small boobs, in that world, are luxury. They suggest discipline. A yoga bod. A woman who’s got time to worry about posture and macros. In the upper crust, everything’s about control. And small breasts? They fit neatly into that control fantasy.

It’s not that rich guys hate big tits. It’s that their version of sexy is about exclusivity. If big boobs are loud and generous and democratic, then small ones are expensive, minimalist, and curated. Like the difference between a Vegas buffet and a tasting menu at a Michelin-star joint. Both are food. But one’s covered in cheese and the other’s been “infused with elderflower foam.”

You get the picture.

PORN KNOWS THE TRUTH

You wanna know how you really tell the class divide? Porn search data.

Poorer areas—rural, lower-income, working-class zip codes—they search for “big tits,” “huge jugs,” “milf with massive rack.” It’s not even subtle. It’s a tsunami of search terms dripping with tit sweat.

But in wealthier areas? You get “petite,” “natural,” “small boobs,” “tiny tits.” You get videos filmed on iPhones in pastel bedrooms with lo-fi hip-hop beats and emotionally distant moaning.

It’s like the rich want sex to look like a therapy session. The poor want it to look like an oil change at a monster truck rally.

This isn’t about good or bad. This is anthropology. It’s tit science. It’s Maslow’s Hierarchy of Horniness.

FANTASIES FOLLOW NEEDS

Let’s call it like it is: attraction is fantasy, and fantasy fills a hole. (Sometimes literally, if you’re lucky.)

Poor men live with scarcity. So they fantasize about abundance. Big food, big cars, big asses, big tits. Their dreams are about having more. More comfort. More cushion. More obvious, overflowing symbols of fertility and femininity.

Rich men? They already have too much. So their fantasy flips. They crave control, restraint, clean lines. Their erotic dream is neat, subtle, and curated. Their porn is minimalist. Their women are minimalist. Hell, even their guilt is minimalist—”eco-conscious” blowjobs in Teslas.

STRIPPERS KNOW

Ask any stripper in America. She’ll tell you. The high rollers want the flat-chested girl who looks like a French art student. The working-class dudes want the one with double-Ds and a tramp stamp. The rich guy tips in crypto. The poor guy pays in sweaty crumpled fives.

Who’s right? Everybody. Tits are art. And taste is class-based.

THE HIPPIE TWIST

There’s another wrinkle to this: the “natural” aesthetic. A rich guy will go out of his way to say, “I like natural women.” What he really means is: I like women who can afford to look effortlessly beautiful.

Because here’s the scam: “natural” is expensive. Smooth skin, healthy hair, small breasts that sit just right without a bra—that’s not “God-given.” That’s money. That’s clean food, personal trainers, derm appointments, Pilates, and stress-free living. Try being “natural” on a night shift and WIC.

Big tits are honest. They say: I’m here. I’m loud. I’m hard to ignore. Small tits whisper: I’m exclusive. I’m refined. I’m for those who know. It’s fashion week vs. county fair. Neither’s wrong. But they sure don’t walk in the same circles.

IN CONCLUSION: TITS TELL THE TRUTH

If you want to know a man’s economic status, you don’t need to look at his shoes or his car. Just ask him what kind of tits he likes.

If he says “big, heavy, milk-maid knockers,” odds are he’s clocking in somewhere. If he says “small and perky, like a French model,” he probably owns a vineyard or a start-up that’s losing millions on purpose.

But don’t mistake preference for prejudice. Tits, in all sizes, are divine. They’re the twin temples of pleasure, the soft wisdom of the ages. But the way we see them—what we fantasize about when the lights go out and the browser’s in incognito mode—that tells you everything about what we lack.

In the end, we don’t just fuck what we want—we fuck what we need. And sometimes, that need is a pair of big, bouncing survival pillows. Other times, it’s two elegant whispers of wealth.

And me? I’ll take ‘em all. Yeah, I’m partial to skinny broads and itty bitties, but that’s not to say I don’t like the big’uns, too. I’m a uniter, not a divider. A lover, not a fighter. I’m Phil Italiano, baby. I believe in equality… and tits. Equal titty for all.

—P.