A Global Love
by Theo Oldham
You know she's talking, and damnit, you want to listen. You catch the contours of her inflection, sounding in agreement and satisfaction when it seems like you should. Occasionally you catch a few strings of words, and you compile them to try to get the gist of what she's saying, while most of your brain is fixed on one task: don't look at her boobs.
As you think your side-thoughts about side-boobs, you wonder how you must look to her, staring fiercely yet blankly, unflinchingly at her eyes. As sun plays summer, she does what she always does, showing less, cooling more, pastel tank tops teasing you all season long. For many, many guys (and girls), there's |
little as eye-catching and first-impression helping as sweetly hanging breasts. A perfect
|
pair of meaty teardrops, a delight to touch and see.
We've all had conversations with girls who say “what, they're just lumps of fat.” First of all, spare me your self-conscious rationalizing, stripping a cultivated joy and painting over it with reductionist hues. I like boobs, and I like liking boobs. If you don't like them, you have one less thing to like. Good for you. For whatever reason, I like them, and I'm not the only one. You have a gift, with which you can wield incredible power over me, us.
Alright. I had to get that out. “They're just lumps of fat.” Just lumps of fat!? There has to be more to it. Why would they be so universally appreciated if they really were just lumps of fat?
|
