Struck by the
aptness of the
metaphor, I click this title to find
Bad Loser's surprising
verdict. (The writeup has gone; it was a complaint on bad metaphor, with this one as an example.)
In a bunch, balloons seem to move as if they have a life of their own, independent of what they are attached to. Bulging breasts seem to move in much the same way, no doubt exaggerated in the observer's imagination.
Also typical of balloons is the friction that gives them a 'dry' appearance, and makes them move along each other with difficulty, often with squeaking noises. This is not at all something one would associate with breasts; the adjective oiled does a good job of wording that difference.
The real reason this metaphor strikes a chord in me, I suspect, lies deeper; it goes back to the times when I could barely see, let alone recognise the world by its visual appearance, the times when I relied primarily on touch, on my hands and mouth, to make contact with the world. It was at this stage of life when my mother's breasts were the most comforting thing I knew. To this I ascribe the fact that women's breasts appeal primarily to my hands, rather than my eyes. A breast is beautiful to watch, but my first urge is to touch it and hold it, and everything attached to it.
A balloon, too, appeals to my hands rather than my eyes. A sad - to the point of traumatizing - substitute, with its squeaky dry surface and its tendency to explode upon touch.
OK, you can lock me into the asylum now.