Boob-a-loob

Today @ Work

Old Guy: Say I was wondering...

Me: Yeah?

Old looks at my chest for a moment

Old Guy (remembering to look back up): I work over at Papa John's across the street...

Eyes drop back down, train of thought is lost.

Me: Yeah? (begging with my voice for eye contact)

Old Guy: If we get in any wrong orders would you like me to bring over the free pizza?

Eyes drop again.

Me: No.
(pause)
I don't eat pizza.


I'll admit that some cleavage is impossible to look way from, say Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita; however I don't dress my breasts to that epic level. Ever. Mostly because not a day has gone by since I reached the fourth letter of the alphabet (and on and on) that I haven''t tried to will them away or fantasized about applying a cheese slicer to the girth. As a result of those impulses I tend to be drawn to the sort of undergarments that promise to shave a cup and a half off by muzzling your dirty pillows in a tourniquet of reinforced steel and lace. I'm sure (I know) I've gotten the boob check before, but today was the most blatant fetishization I've experienced since a thirteen-year-old got all hot and bothered when I painted his face dressed as Moaning Myrtle a few years back. Something about me in glasses does it to them every time.

Note: The above story is a lot funnier when I use my hand as a puppet and make the pauses for breast viewing uncomfortably long.
Note: Because they were.