You know where the "male writer writing a female perspective as very sexual as a male would see it" drives me crazy? Breasts. I have -- you will forgive me for saying this myself instead of politely waiting for someone else to notice -- nice tits. But most of the time I spend examining them closely is either in the context of monthly checks against breast cancer (ooh baby baby) or else making sure nothing is attempting to make an escape when I'm wearing a cleavagey shirt. Lately there's been a side order of "oh crap, did I fall hard enough against the armorie to bruise that" sort of thing. I do not spend a lot of quality time with my breasts because I spend all my time with my breasts. They showed up when I was 9. We've gotten pretty used to each other.