Email to a friend…
Me: “I am juvenile. But damn, there are a lot of jokes here. “
Friend: “I mean, how are you supposed to NOT make jokes at that? They may as well have named the shades ‘John Holmes’ and ‘Ron Jeremy.’ ‘Yeah, rub it on your face, baby.'”
Me: “HA! Aaand THAT is why we’re friends.”
Followup thought: “Gargantuan Golden SHOWERS.” Hey-o!
Me: “I’m almost 40, I think I have a handle on that.”
Younger Friend: “I always forget you’re almost 40. You’re, like, forever 32 in my brain.”
Me: “And this is why we’ll always be friends.”
(This is probably a sign of my immaturity, but shhh!)
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.