dirty tit? clean it up.

the night before last I went out on the town with my ladyfriend catharine, and we met up with peter and his sister in greenpoint, summer rain be damned. copious amounts had already been imbibed, and it's sufficient to say that by the end of the night my liver was "well done". on the walk/stumble home accompanied by my strapping date, I somehow managed to do a flying karate leap faceplant onto the freeway under the BQE to avoid getting hit by a semi with a giant lead pipe on the back. (white girl can jump, but apparently the problem lies in the "landing" aspect.) I was in immense amounts of pain but trying to brush it off to scrimp together what was left of my pride, and I thought it best to change the subject with the international language of love when we got back to my apartment.

my come-hither strip tease was brought to a screeching halt when I removed my brassiere and peter started cracking up uncontrollably. at first I was incensed. why was he laughing at my boobs? my sexy strip tease had been meant to illicit a slightly more libidinous reaction. then he reached over and peeled a sticky, sweaty piece of orbit gum off of my left breast.

"oh." I said. "I've been looking for that."

milking it for free

this is a slightly belated response to my dear friend Thomas’s blog, “A Respectful Breast-Man”.

some say the universal language is love. some might argue that it is, indeed french. au contraire. the truth of the matter is that only breasts are of ubiquitous appeal.

thomas published a musing on his website about whether it was possible to respectfully (for all intensive purposes) ogle a nice pair of dirty pillows, and found himself bearing the brunt of the rage of 700 feminists. and to this, girls, I ask you, what's the big deal?

this is a photo of lindsay and I on valentine's day, completely unstaged. had a good guffaw upon uploading later.

I am not of modest mammary proportions. I wear a 36DD, and once spend a summer vacationing in 36E with the aid of having a nuvaring up in my proverbial "piece". my then-boyfriend certainly enjoyed that I ranneth over, but I found that E cup breasts were problematic in almost every sense, seeing as you have to go to specialty stores to buy lacy slings with which to strap them in, no article of clothing that goes on the top half of your body fits quite right, and people (mostly straight males) physically can't not look at them. it's a knee jerk eye impulse. large boobs are akin to kryptonite, and the world is their superman. I catch girls staring at my chest, straight and queer alike. honestly, most of the time, I don't mind.

while it's fair to argue that they are mine and no one else's to objectify or appreciate, it's also true that they're going to be located directly under my chin for the rest of my life and there's not a burlap sack on the planet that could conceal their sheer stupendousness. let's not beat around the breast: I have an amazing rack. I don't mind every once in a while if a friend (regardless of gender) every once in a while bestows an extended gaze upon my bosoms, or compliments my decolletage. my bodega guy gives them a nod of recognition from time to time. these instances do not bother me.

what does on occasion bother me is when someone is staring at them in a manner that befits rubbernecking a freeway pileup. the casual, respectful breast man glance isn't offensive to me. fixedly gawking makes me uncomfortable and at times I'll just come out and tell the visual assailant to get their eyes where I can see them. it comes with the territory of possessing such herculean wopbopaloobops.

thomas is not a "douche-bag", he is a breast man. take it from a pair of magnificent knockers who have known and adored him for upwards of 6 years. this man is not a crook for stealing tastefully timed glances:



ladies, handle yo tits. the plight of the gawked at boobs is age old. best just to embrace it, and melt into it's comforting, cushioned splendor.