A Fun Titty Touching Story

The woman staring at me is sexy in a way where she knows she’s sexy.

Like, well, of course that vintage little boy’s plaid shirt you’re wearing isn’t going to stretch all the way across your boobs. I stand against a wall at this bar looking, by comparison, like a toddler dressed by her mother in tights and a skirt because the sexiest I get is when I am licking the hummus off my fingers in front of my boyfriend as we eat the Mediterranean dip with carrots by the tubful ($7.99, Whole Foods) and by that I mean, I am not sexy at all.

Sexy plaid walks over to me. “I noticed your hair from across the room,” she says to me. “Is this all you?” She picks up a strand of my long hair and pulls on it the way prostitute Julia Roberts pulled on Richard Gere’s tie in Pretty Woman before that whole gerbil rumor.

“Yeah,” I say in a far less sexy way. I get that question a lot. Just last year, I walked into a wig store to get a wig cap so I could fit my hair under my Princess Leia costume and the tiny woman managing the store looked right in my bangs and said, “This wig looks good.”

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Dressing up like Princess Leia is pretty par for the course for me, to borrow a golf term I don’t really understand. When Dave, a friend of mine who happens to be older than I am by about fifteen years, asked me to dress up as the Heir to the Alderaanian throne for his girlfriend’s son’s birthday party, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. Plus it meant I got to see Dave, who is awesome.

“Where do you want me to meet you?” I ask Dave.

“The Vig,” he says, naming a popular uptown restaurant in Arizona.

“Cool,” I say, genuinely excited to help my friend out and make someone happy, “How old is the little guy turning?”

“Twenty-one,” Dave answers nonchalantly.

The sexy stranger picks up some strands of my hair and twists it around her fingers. “It’s all me,” I say, then I point to my boobs, “These are not all me though.”

The woman drops my hair and looks at me funny. I’ve had some wine and I just finished doing an improv show with friends so I’m riding that performance high and feeling pretty good about myself and, to be honest, a little bit tipsy. “I just mean they’re padded.” I poke my breast to show her how far I can indent the padding of the bra. I take back the thing about the hummus; indenting my boobs is my sexiest trick.

“Mine aren’t all me either,” the woman says. Now I’m staring at her cleavage without any shame. That’s the fun thing about women; we can stare at boobs and not feel bad about it. I had no shame letting my eyeballs really dig in there.

“Really?” I ask incredulously. “They look natural.”

“Thanks,” she says. “You want to see them?”

“Hold on,” my boyfriend’s father interrupts me as I tell this story at a family dinner. “What now?”

“Yeah,” I say under the influence of white wine sulfites.

I was only telling the story because three bottles of red wine shared amongst four people (and half a bottle of white reserved specifically for me), it seemed like a good idea. Mostly because my boyfriend James was also shouting, “Tell the story! Tell the story!” If you egg me on, I’ll do just about anything once. Including tell a story about a stranger’s boobs the first time I have dinner with my boyfriend’s parents.

“So this beautiful woman just wants you to look at her big breasts?” My boyfriend’s father looks at me from the corner of his eye.

“Finish the story!” James demands me.

The sexy stranger in small plaid let me to the bathroom hallway. “I mean…” She shimmies a little and looks at herself in the mirror on the wall. I watch her watch herself and I am mesmerized in a way that only males over twelve years of age and girls with A cups could be.

“Yeah, they’re great,” I say and then she starts unbuttoning her shirt and her bra and suddenly I am staring at two breasts that look like uncut jícama. “This one is harder than this one,” she says. “Feel.”

I reach out and grab for them, comparing them like two melons at the market to see which one was riper. “You’re right,” I say, “That one is firmer.”

She buttons up again and we walk out of the bathroom. I tell her I feel a little bad for not showing her my boobs, then reiterate there isn’t really that much to see anyway.

“Oh, you’re adorable,” she winks, “I dated girls like you before I was straight.”

“Oh my God!” James’ dad puts his head in his hands and mumbles something about Penthouse Confessionals.

James looks on approvingly and his dad turns to him after a moment, “I like your girlfriend.”

And that’s the story of how I won my boyfriend’s dad over. TC mark

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