Boobs. Everywhere I look, boobs. I mean, I know these women have more body parts than that most wonderful of appendages, but all I see is boobs. They are almost caricatures. Boobs with eyes, small spheres for hands and cartoonishly bulbous feet sticking out the bottom. Boobs of varying personalities. Official boobs: small, perky, immovable, standing guard like soldiers at a Gulag prison camp. Hedonistic boobs: expansive, outward facing, nipples like lazy eyes, sprawled out – a slow-flowing and slowly-cooling lava. Fake boobs: like mannequins, physically perfect but devoid of real personality – too perfect, and you’re afraid that touching them will cause them to disintegrate in your hands. Droopy the dog boobs: melancholy and resigned to their flabby existence, swinging lazily like tire swings on a hot August day. And nipples – who knew there were so many different kinds of nipples! Tiny pimple-like nipples you need to squint to even see. And on the other end of the spectrum are the eggs-frying-on-a carburetor nipples that dwarf the actual boobs on which they reside.
This feels like one of those late-night TV commercials, where women moving in slow motion gingerly splash cold water on their hardening nipples while words like “thousands of local and horny singles are waiting for you call” flash across the screen. Wait, why is that woman in the water moving in slow motion? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe all this boobage has awakened in me a superior awareness, the ability to slow time, and the eyesight of an eagle. I could be a super hero. I would just need loads of topless women around me at all times – a sacrifice I would certainly be willing to make, and a small price to pay for a superb crime-fighter such as myself. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t make Pamela Anderson run in slow motion, every juicy ounce bouncing in the sunlight.
I wonder if my eyes are as big as they feel right now. Am I staring? Who cares – this is probably half of all the titties I will see in my lifetime. I’m okay with that. There are only a few paths life can take me down that would regularly put me in the presence of exposed breasts. The obvious one is porn – and I’m certainly not nearly comfortable enough with my own awkward genitalia to bare it to the world. The mirror is hard enough; I wonder how anyone could find the male form attractive – flaps of skin protruding in strange places. I guess I could always become like one of those older kids who offer free breast exams (or so their t-shirts claim). Or I could become an anthropologist, get a job with National Geographic, and travel to the darkest depths of Africa to study the uninhibited Pygmy women whose breast swing freely as they shuffle their feet in an orgiastic plea to the rain gods. I wonder if I would ever become desensitized to the sight of boobs. I can think of no greater tragedy. Wait, I’m probably becoming desensitized right now! I’m sitting here pondering a life in anthropology instead of marveling at the beauty of these ample naturally-swaying orbs around me. Better close my eyes for a bit.
Hmm, it seems that the boobs have burned themselves into my retinas – like an old CRT monitor with no screensaver. Might as well open my eyes. Oh there they are again.
My pants feel tight.