I used to walk to work. It was a lovely way to start the day. My ass and my fit-bit were quite happy with me. The only drawback was on sweltering days—it was well, less than ideal. Especially for my business casual wardrobe: a sensible semi-sheer lavender blouse, tucked into a black pencil skirt with chub rub shorts underneath. It was 98 degrees with 90 percent humidity, which in NY made it feel like 120 degrees. Upon arriving at work, I had what my friends call swoobs, short for sweaty boobs. But a more accurate description would be a boob swimming pool. I’m wearing a bra, and a river runs through it.
I get to work and high-tail it to the ladies’ room. No need for my colleagues to see the Rorschach tests on the front and back of my shirt. My corporate finance office is not environmentally conscious. In place of blow dryers, we have good old industrial strength sandpaper towels. I lock myself in a bathroom stall and shove one sheet under each breast to mop up the titty monsoon. I wash my hands and go about my day—spreadsheets, sexting, podcasts. Angela is being her usual self, complaining about how busy she is while spending all her time gossiping. John is particularly lovely today, micromanaging every task he gives. He needs to get laid one of these days. At least I have a hot date later.
I meet up with Jeremy at a new speakeasy. Jeremy is that perfect mix of intelligent, funny and confident, yet with enough reserve to keep you wondering. He’s just shy of being too attractive. Casually handsome in perfectly worn-in jeans and blazer with a t-shirt. He’s charming me, making me forget the tedium of the workday. He’s talking about things that turn me on, like volunteering with at-risk youth and using metal straws. He says some quippy line about the obnoxious woman at the end of the bar. I giggle as I sip back my third French 75. His hand grazes my leg. I catch a reflection of the two of us in the mirror behind the bar and think “we are the perfect couple.” This is our third date, and I’m ready to dance the horizontal tango, finally. I’ve always wanted to say that.
We go back to my place. And the second the key is in the door, it’s immediately it’s on—stumbling and kissing and groping from the bottom of the stairs all the way to the 5th floor. We’re knocking into walls; my bike falls off the wall. I will surely have scratches from the exposed brick, but it’s worth it. We finally make it to the bedroom. He throws me on the bed and starts going to town like he’s the lion and I’m a carcass.
He’s kissing and biting my neck, working his way down. I’m laying there, basking in the ravaging as he pulls my shirt over my head. He’s grabbing my breasts like a baby ready for mealtime. Just as he starts to take off my bra, he stops abruptly. I open my eyes, confused by the sudden silence. He is slowly pulling out the two large industrial paper towels that have been under my boobs for fourteen hours. I think to myself, “Wow, I’ve blown it.” I look straight into his eyes like a wounded puppy. He starts giggling, just a bit at first, then gradually into a full belly laugh.
After what feels like several excruciating minutes, he finally catches his breath. And then he says, “Brilliant, it’s like a tampon for ya titties!” Amazed and relieved, I start laughing too. We laugh so hard, our cheeks and stomachs hurt for days. That’s when I knew I found my soulmate.
Featured image: “Relax and Luxus” by Maurycy Gomulicki. Sopot, Poland, 2012. Repost from @breastfeedingart.