Miami Mondays: Boobs!

There’s no arguing that boobs are awesome. No matter where you are: New York, Miami, Shanghai, the Moon (where they’re even more awesome thanks to zero gravity). Even if I was trapped in an elevator that was on the verge of breaking free and plummeting the riders to their untimely deaths, I would still position myself next to the woman with the largest chest just in case the impact brushed me up against her.

With apologies to all 5,000,000 women and 10,000,001 breasts (at least one of them has to have three, right?) the problem with New York boobs is that they’re so . . . concealed. Yes, there is something tantalizing about dressing them up all nice in fancy tank tops and impossibly fitted oxfords, but this nation was built on freedom. And the women’s lib movement fought hard so that hot girls could go shirtless, just like men. Still though, they are repressed. As a lover of equal rights, I find that depressing.

Not so in Miami. Like a drug addict’s paycheck, Miami is advanced. Here, they’ve completely blown up conventional social mores. I’m taking conventional like from the beginning of time. Like if Eve lived in Miami, she would have covered up her chest with fig leaves, except when she wanted a nice even tan, when she would throw then off and go sunning in the Garden of Eden.

People told me that women sunbathe topless in Miami, but people also told me that if you try hard enough you can be anything you want. And seeing as how I’m still not George Clooney, I’m not so inclined to trust them. But the first time Brooke and I spent a day at the beach was a revelation. (Literally, figuratively, the whole bit.) We settled down on our towels and before I even scanned the scene I could sense that something was different. Then, while taking off my shirt, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the women directly to my right was topless. And not laying on her stomach topless, but sitting up looking at the water topless. The last time I sat this close to a topless woman while taking off my shirt, we had sex. In fact, EVERY time I’ve taken off my shirt this close to a topless woman we’ve had sex (except those handful of times in college when I dated boring girls). I had to fight every instinct in my body not to crawl over to the woman and ask her if she’d brought the condoms or if she just wanted to roll the dice and worry about it later.

Granted, I’ve grown more accustomed to it since that first time. Now I pride myself as the guy who won’t really stare at you if you’re topless, although of course I’ll give a passing glance because I think it’s rude not to. If I put my junk out on display, I’d be more insulted by those who didn’t look than those who covered their eyes and fled while dialing 911. Brooke and I will even comment on the topless women together, especially the ones with the breasts that are so obviously fake that when they lay on their back they stand upright like melons balanced on a fruit platter.

We’ll also engage in philosophical discussions, like, What would you do if you laid out topless on the beach next to some guy, and the next day went on a job interview where he was the boss? (Brooke’s answer: “I’d get the job.”) Or, Is it immoral to lay down topless next to a relatively unattractive couple knowing full well that the man will now pay zero attention to his clothed, relatively unattractive wife? (Brooke’s answer: “Not my problem they’re awesome.”)

But just as I was getting used to going to the beach and seeing things I’d previously had to coerce out with stiff cocktails and fancy dinners, I was thrown for another loop.

The other day I brought my laptop over to a friend’s apartment complex so I could do some work poolside. So there I am minding my own business, sitting quietly at a shaded table, when all of a sudden a woman comes out and sits down on a nearby lounge chair. I do the typical guy thing: glance, notice, remember how your girlfriend cooks waffles just the way you like them and how this whore probably can’t even boil water, and go back to work. But then she proceeds to take off her shirt. And then her bikini top.

Hold on a second.

All this time I thought the beach was some magical place where bare chests came alive, like the pot o’ tits at the end of the bosom rainbow. The idea that it can happen off the beach tore a hole in the fabric of my reality. I became dizzy. Do you understand what this means? A life where boobs could pop up anywhere, any time? Driving on the highway? At the grocery store? In line for security at Miami International? I’m not ready for a topless culture! I have work to get done, and it’s one thing to get knocked over by a wave while squinting at some girl on the beach during an intense round of “Real, Fake, or Ugly?”, but entirely another when I’m dutifully trying to perform my livelihood! I imagined boobs – large ones, big as a Mimi Cooper, floating everywhere, jostling me about as I tried to navigate my way through Target, until finally I give up and, years from now, am left destitute, homeless, alone, wandering the streets muttering, “The boobs . . . can’t concentrate . . . they’re everywhere . . .”

I packed up my computer and went home. There, Brooke was waiting for me, fully clothed. I gave a sigh of relief, opened up my computer, and spent the rest of the afternoon staring at the small glint of cleavage peeking out from the crest of her fancy tank top. The world was right once again.