Up until I hit the age of 14, my mom slid me a warm, microwaved glass of titty milk on the regular to make me a strong boy. We kept it as our healthy little secret. I sipped on it in the morning before school, in the afternoon after school, and in the evening before my mom tucked my shirt in and put me to bed, always lapping up the sticky remainder on my lips. By the time I hit puberty, titty milk ran through my veins and became a lifestyle, spreading the power of its fortifying cream and calcium to each corner of my growing boy body. I drink titty milk. I piss titty milk. I live titty milk. And there is nothing wrong or embarassing about it.