I’d like to take a moment and give props every grown-ass man who’s ever checked out my rack without grinning like a 10-year-old boy seeing boobies for the first time.
I didn’t even know it was possible, but apparently some of y’all are just that impressed, even just by cleavage. They’re boobs. Lots of us have ’em. (Hell, go to an amusement park or a beach — lots of YOU have ’em!) I know you like them, but goddamn with the gawping. I’m not your mom, they’re not a food source.
I don’t mind if you look, guys. I actually love that you look. But I can’t let you fuck me if my brain just decided that you’re 10. I have, like, six boundaries, and that’s a big one.
If you need to ogle, I’m fine with it, but for heaven’s sake, be cool about it! Or, more importantly, we’re adults, and we’ve had sex. You want to see them? You should know what it takes by now to get me topless. (Fun fact: it ain’t much.)
P.S. If I’m calling you juvenile? You can take that shit to the bank. I still laugh like Beavis every time anyone says “balls.” I know from immaturity.