An Open Letter To All The Men Who’ve Politely Informed Me I’m Not Wearing A Bra
First of all, I’d just like to thank you for taking time out your busy schedule to express concern for the fact that I am indeed not wearing a bra. I do appreciate the myriad of ways you broach the tender subject, such as “Sure is cold in here!” or “Bras are soooooo uncomfortable, aren’t they?” and sometimes “I can totally see your nipples.” But, amazingly enough, I am fully aware that I am not wearing a bra as I almost always dress myself in the morning.
These days not wearing a bra seems pretty tame, considering you have celebrities forgetting to put on pants and calling it evening wear and 15-year-olds sending beaver shots that look more like gynecological exams to their class mates. It’s a sick world out there, bra-less women should be about as scandalous Bob Ross paintings or putting mustard on your French fries.
Most people have a stronger reaction to nudity than violence, which makes about as much sense as reaming your kid for smoking a joint but nary batting an eyelash when he pounds beers with abandon. There is literally nothing more natural than nudity. I hate to tell you this, but you are naked right now under your clothes. Terrifying, I know, but totally true.
But the fact remains that many of you are downright put out over my aversion to top floor underthings. I sometimes even use men’s reactions to this particular sartorial choice as barometer when judging prospective paramours. Mention it in the first five minutes of meeting me? Well then, you and I are probably never going to recreate that outrageous breast feeding Time cover. Bring it up on the third date with all the awe and wonder normally associated with mythical creatures? Then you sir may have won my heart, which incidentally sits between my unsheathed boobies. Also, I sometimes refer to my tits as Bigfoot in the throes of passion, but please don’t tell anyone.
While some may believe this is a political move, it’s actually a function of being on the small side breast wise. One of the benefits of being a proud member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee (whose motto is ‘more than a mouthful is just a waste’) is the ability to go bra-less. My girls were born free and free they will stay. If large-titted women can showcase cleavage up to their eyelashes then surely I can let my fun bags flop about of their own accord. Just pretend we are in a French movie.
Also, bras truly are uncomfortable. I don’t much like manhandling my tits into some abomination of cloth and wire just to throw a tattered band t-shirt over the whole contraption. Who the hell am I, Hillary Clinton? Am I hobnobbing with heads of state? Actually, that might be a good ploy for female politicians to garner support. The men would be so transfixed by boobs the woman could get away with most anything.
While your concern for my breasts is truly touching, no, you cannot touch them. You can look at them if you so desire, but please don’t be offended when I make prolonged eye contact with your crotch. As far as talking about them, my breasts are rather skittish and would prefer that you don’t address them directly. Much like a startled deer they may dash away into traffic and get hit by a car.
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My ears listened to what they wanted me to believe.
3. Don’t get mad, get everything.
But I am here to talk about realities, realities that are based on experiences, guy talks (who cares about that?) and late night chats with good female friends of mine.
Many people know of Jack Kerouac’s fiction, but few know of his penchant for recording his dreams.