I need help.
For too long I've endangered my good name, made an idiot of myself and generally debased my own character on a daily basis.
Because of breasts.
No matter how many breasts I might see or how many I'm lucky enough to touch, the second they're gone, I forget what they looked like, felt like, and I become inexplicably, dark-magically obsessed with them again. It's like I have sensory amnesia. Oh, look at that
woman's wonderful breasts! I wonder what they
Because, really, they aren't impressionist art. They all have the same basic components, yet as far as I'm concerned, each pair is a set of snowflakes, their likeness never before seen and never to be seen again.
Like old family secrets regarding Lebanese bank accounts and tax fraud, breasts have haunted me. In so many of my decisions -- what train car to sit in, which tax agent at Jackson Hewitt to use, whom I date -- breasts have been, ridiculously, the deciding factor.
Every time I step outside my front door, I'm subconsciously indexing all the important things I need to be aware of. Cars, buses, cabs, anything that moves and could break my spine? Check. Where I'm going, how to get there, and what time it is? Check. Is that dog poop on the sidewalk? Yes. But the remaining percentage of my brain? It's focusing on breasts. If it's between catching a train and taking an extra 10 seconds to stare at the top half of some woman digging in her purse for her cell phone, I'm missing the train.
It has to end. I must become Spartacus to Breasts' Rome. Here is my plan.
No More Sunglasses.
I don't stare at woman's breasts, unless I'm wearing sunglasses. You know what? That's not cool. No more. For years I've allowed myself to search out those two sacks of adipose tissue beneath your button-downs, dancing inside your dresses, tight against your T-shirts, cloaked under your coats -- all while hiding behind a pair of aviators. I may be on my way to a court hearing where I'm the defendant, but I'll be eyeballing a woman on the A train, unconsciously crumpling up the summons in my hand.
No longer. Sunglasses remove any roaming charges and make it safe to stare. And thus the looking at the boobs only makes me think about boobs more, which then makes me act on their behalf. No more sunglasses, no more unfettered boob access.
Remember the Titans, You Schmuck!
Oh, don't worry, I can feel the hate emails coming, but before you write in that the best part of me ran down Satan's red leg, know that I'm not advocating objectifying women or saying that breasts are the only things about women I like. (If you've read any of these columns
you know that's not the case.) What I am saying is, within the realm of physical attributes that get men hot and bothered, breasts give me a fever and infuriate me with lust.
But guess what? Boobs are fairly uneventful! Why can't I ever seem to remember this? I mean, I know when it comes to sex, even an inveterate pothead can suddenly become Ben Franklin and invents all sorts of moves, positions and dildo attachments, but seriously, breasts pretty much just hang there (unless they're fake, in which case they sort of hover there). So my constant quest for breasts will now forever be leavened with the understanding that, as marvelous as they are, they don't actually do
anything. Unless you're an infant, in which case they're ... oh, forget it.
All Breasts Are Great, All Breasts Must Leave Me Alone
To women with small breasts who might be reading this and feeling left out, your breasts, too, are magical. Small breasts can be shapely and fun and beautiful. Small breasts contain nipples! The male nipple, by comparison, is a Residence Inn. But a woman's nipple? A cliffside four-star with a private beach and a piano bar! But your small breasts, however wonderful, must now be summarily ignored.
To women with huge breasts who endure back problems and wardrobe issues, thank you for everything, but I'm done. You've been carrying such a burden, and please know that your boobs, however painful they may be to haul or dress, are gifts to everyone around you. If there's anything that can engender more agreement between friends, co-workers and strangers alike than a "that girl has huge boobs" statement, I haven't heard it. You may have trouble finding a shirt you can button without asphyxiating yourself, but you give us all something to marvel over. I will now only go as far south as your chin when it comes to looking at you. Thanks for the memories!
Look, I get that confessing this makes me seem like a little bit of a perv. I'm a boob man, I'm sorry. But I'm an equal cup-size boob man. Still, I simply think about boobs too much, and I approach women whose boobs call to me, whether they're of the melon variety or softball, and it's just not working out.
From here on out, I'm an ass man. [Redacted] Guy is the resident Single Guy writer for Lemondrop. He is no longer invited to our sleepover parties.
You can send him hate mail and love letters here, and follow him on Twitter.