Porn stars nowadays all have enormous eye-popping breasts, because twin towers are regarded as a universal fantasy fetish. "Bigger is better" is the modern mantra, as boobs are bumped up to cantaloupe dimensions, usually aided by saline or silicone.

The va-va-voom boom in bra size satisfies the erotic requirements of many stroking admirers, but not every man jumps on the buxom bandwagon.

Truth is, there's a silent but significant percentage of moderate males who actually prefer small, uninflated, natural breasts.

Humongous upper shelving revolts, terrifies, and alienates these men, who believe "anything bigger than a mouthful is wasted."

"When I see big boobs, I think about my mother, and that's not sexy!" shudders Mitchell, a carpenter. "My Mom had enormous loose fatty-tissue breasts with misshapen blue-green veins pulsating beneath her transparent skin. Her boobs wobbled drunkenly across her chest, ick! Guys who like big tits must be infantile momma's boys."

David -- a financial magazine editor -- agrees. "Big breasts look like albino underwater bottom-sucking jellyfish sea creatures," he shudders. "They're repulsive."

On the topic of breast implants, David chokes, "That horrible movie -- The People vs. Larry Flynt, when Courtney Love comes out with her surgically enlarged chest -- I was frightened! It was scarier than The Blair Witch Project. I wanted to yell out, 'Woody! Don't go in there!'"

Benjamin, a musician/bike messenger, concurs with the previous assessment. "I sucked a fake tit once, in Honolulu," he recalls, with a wince. "I hated it because ... it wasn't pliant, it wasn't quite human. It didn't obey the usual laws of physics; instead, it fought back, like a squeaky tumor. It also left the oily taste of plastic in my mouth."

When asked if he wanted to rub his penis between the big breasts, Benjamin snarled, "No! I don't get any enjoyment out of that 'titty-fuck' thing -- it's like squishing around in a loose vagina."

Many men complain that they feel sexually challenged when they're faced with an imposing pair of big bazooms. Walter -- a corporate attorney -- admits, "Maybe I'm gay or something, but ... I just feel unsure of myself around big breasts, like I'm inadequate. I know what I'm supposed to do with them, but I feel dwarfed, overwhelmed -- they're so messy!"

Conrad -- an organic-produce supplier -- agrees with the sensitivity of the previous dilemma. "Big breasts are invasive; they're viscerally in your face, always demanding attention. They're jangling, obnoxious, unnatural -- like MTV. When I embrace a large-breasted woman, I feel suffocated; very stressed-out and full of anxiety."

Voluptuousness also reminds boob-a-phobes of impending mortality, and the accompanying over-ripeness of flesh. Lester -- a spoken word poet -- lyrically illuminates the contrasting impressions cast by la petite and la gross: "Small breasts speak of purity and firmness, the awakening of adolescence -- the faint bloom of dawn's potential and the first wave of excitement," he insists, as he nipples a quince.

"But big breasts -- they symbolize decay and fetid rot, the suffering of old age's withering decrepitude. Big breasts remind me of the morning after carnality, when one realizes that chastity has been sullied. Big breasts are decadent, gluttonous -- observing them, I feel indigestion, as though I have already eaten too much."

Psychological barriers (necrophobia, Mommy's mammaries, sexual expectations) are evident in a plethora of neurotics, but these numbers are far out-totaled by healthy he-men who just don't like looking at giant jugs.

Itsy-bitsy-bosomed women who believe that all dudes desire D-cups should hesitate twice, or thrice, before getting enhanced. Why pay to get peaches perched on your chest, if Mr. Right wants only a strawberry? Why go broke with a backache, lugging around heavy packs under your pectorals, if The Perfect Guy is going to think they're grotesque?

Reality is: no matter how dinky your breasts are, there's somebody out there who will find them the perfect size for his euphoric eyes, lucky lips, and fond, thankful fingers.

Hank Hyena is a columnist for SfGate.com and SfMetropolitan.com, and a frequent contributor to Salon.