Where Does The Boob Tree Grow?

A female pal of mine told me that she once got a message from a guy that said, “You look like you hit every branch when you fell out of the boob tree.”
I feel like I should be horrified for my friend, getting hideously bad pick-up messages like this.  Instead, I’m now deep in sci-fi writer mode, trying to figure out what kind of environment could cause the Boob Tree to flourish.  What sort of genetic malfeasance could create a tree filled with breasts?  Would the boobs on the Boob Tree dispense pollen or milk, or some mixture of the both of them?  Would the pollinators be horny men, running like idiots with mouths dribbling milk-pollen, eagerly suckling from branch to branch?
Wouldn’t they need a vagina tree ultimately?
And so here I am, trying to determine not just what ecosystem would cause the Boob Tree to flourish, but what sort of culture would emerge from the fabled Boob Trees of Florence, where their cheese is widely hailed but deeply suspect and no child goes hungry.  A place where getting fresh lumber is a deeply messy task filled with splattering.  A place where autumn is downright dangerous, as the now-useless boobs drop off the trees like coconuts, braining the innocent and requiring the poor groundskeepers of Florence to shovel up the large piles of decaying mammary tissue and feed them to the pigs.
As a writer, people ask me where I get my ideas.  I ask how how I get them to stop coming.