A Euphemism Too Far

This poem was recently rejected by a journal on a number of grounds, one of them being that it was 'gratuitous'. A comment I've never had  before about my poetry. Kind of proud, 'cause I worked hard on that list of euphemisms ...

On the question of breasts

Pressing at lumps, I let Google tell me that because

I’ve never breast fed, my chances of cancer could increase.

The woman at the front desk eyes me with suspicion:

How old are you? I agree – not mature enough.

A mammogram is for breasts: not tits or norgs,

puppies or boobs, cans, racks, fun bags, honkers or jugs.

It’s unfair that breasts have anything except

biological connotations, because it makes squishing them

between two plates of glass much weirder, like it might

be a fetish and how do mine compare?

After, I lie down in a room and a young guy

with efficient cold hands examines my recalcitrant bosoms.

I want to ask what he thinks:

Is it just our species? I mean, do bulls find udders a turn on?

But I never find the right moment.