There’s no arguing that boobs are awesome. No matter where you are:
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
Not so in
People told me that women sunbathe topless in
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.