Is it me or has there been an explosion of breast tissue across America?
I realize many of my readers live in Peru and Bangkok, but perhaps it’s happening there too. Boobs as far as the eye can see leading the way like flashy, fleshy tour guides.
Just this morning a lady was standing in front of my house, all 42D of her, with her blouse opened to her navel. I looked around for that pole she was about to swing from wondering if a streetlamp might do.
Her husband, well somebody’s husband since he wore a ring, came out of the gourmet shop downstairs like a houseboy shlepping coffee and brioche as if he were making an offering to the gods. And I guess he was, the god of knockers.
I noticed at once they were real, as opposed to bought. Camille always marvels at how I can tell the difference. First of all, boobs purchased and paid for make a bigger presentation…they’re featured as stars of the show, and can you blame their owners? It would be like buying a couple of Caddies and leaving them in the garage. This woman though may have just forgotten to button her blouse and there was no way Hopsing was going to tell her.
What is it with men and boobs? Why do they have the power to captivate and hypnotize? I honestly don’t have a clue since mine tend to be off duty these days. When I was younger I too liked wearing tight sweaters and see through shirts, but now it never occurs to me to crack open the cleavage like a box of Mallomars.
See, if I were a guy I’d rather have the cookies, but that’s just me.
My friend Joanne had gotten implants then returned them, like a couple of chairs that didn’t work in her living room. Her boyfriend at the time urged her to get them, but they were just too big for her body, as if she had melons stuffed in her dress.
And the other thing is how the manufactured kind just don’t move. I can only compare them to egg cups taped across your chest.
Women nowadays love showing their assets. When I was at Farinella sneaking that designer pizza, a young girl came to see the owner who practically dove from behind the counter to greet her.
She was wearing short denim shorts with her rear winking every time she, for whatever reason, bent over to touch her ankles..a halter top so we could see that cute little cobra slithering across her backside that also left her breasts staring at you like a couple of raccoons in the dark. I was so mesmerized I let my pizza get cold. She gave flirting all new meaning for me. I looked down at my St. James sailor shirt two sizes too big and my own baggy shorts and thought, well, if I want someone to jump the counter for me I better pull something out besides a five to pay for this overpriced slice.
I went home and checked my lingerie drawer that made me sneeze when I opened it. Who knew crotchless panties could get so dusty (there was a time), but I found a push-up bra with enough underwire to house a few homing pigeons.
I’m gonna give this baby a whirl, I decided, putting on an old disco shirt that leaves my underbelly exposed, in more ways than one.
I added tight jeans and a pair of black suede Manolos and wobbled out to see if I too could bewitch some poor unsuspecting schmuck into a coma, but the first one who looked my way scared the shit out of me so I ran back home. I guess me and my boobs, as well as my ankles, are a little rusty.
I also think you need a tutorial (and a flask) in order to stroll as if you were searching for a nudist colony.
But I did learn one thing, or two, about myself. I’d rather be the owner of harmless hooters than the proprietor of bazooms that stun and kill.
I know a guy who walked right into traffic eying a pair and now has a limp.
I ask you, is a cheap peek worth looking like Chester on Gunsmoke? I don’t think so.
Like my pal Mazzilli says, anything over a handful is a waste.
Yeah, I don’t believe it either.