I was in a supermarket one day, clearly lost. From the corner of my eye, a supermarket attendant approached me. I turned to speak with her and my eyes were immediately arrested by her ample cleavage.
My damn eyes. I couldn’t stop them. Defying my brain’s orders to behave themselves, they swivelled downwards and stared at the girl’s breasts for a full five seconds. When I was able to get control of them and wrench them back up, I hoped she hadn’t noticed. It was too late. Flustered, she pretended to take a phone call, and disappeared.
I often wonder if I’m the only female who admires women’s boobs as avidly as any man. I notice when they’re big or small or funny looking. And when they’re perfect? When they’re cupped in the right bra, and the cleavage looks like a vase you can place a rose in?
A couple of months ago, I was in a (dubious) bar and restaurant, out on a date. A couple of prostitutes sat a row away from us. One of them started dancing in an obvious bid to get my date’s attention. She certainly got mine.
Mama, but she had nice boobs. They were like…like…like mutated peaches. Back and forth she passed in front of us, jiggling jiggling dem boobs. My eyes followed devotedly. It was only when she was behind my date and I was craning my neck to continue staring that I noticed him looking at me, a somewhat frightened look in his eyes.
Needless to say, we haven’t had a second date.
I suppose I could attribute my fascination with breasts to my lack of them. I remember when I was ten years old, and they started to bud. Oh, the plans I made for my training bra! When fifteen years had passed by and they were still buds, I formed a new plan of attack. I started to wear padded bras.
“Eh, Lindsey!” my male friends said (nanti women knew they were fake). “Nga you’re gaining weight!”
This false weight gain begun to get tiring after a while. You see, when you’re flat chested and you wear a padded bra, you can feel the space floating around in there. You walk around all day feeling like a special sort of liar.