For a gay man, I sure do look at a lot of T&A
Seems I can't take a simple 3 day weekend without mishap. My room is on the 17th floor of the North Tower of Double Tree Universal. Three elevators service the North tower, which would probably be adequate if they traveled at a decent speed. My first day here I waited so long for an elevator I missed the shuttle to the theme park. When the elevator finally arrived it took another 2 minutes to get to the ground floor, and that was with no stops.
Today I was prepared. Rather than ring for the elevator 3 minutes before I was due to meet the shuttle, I pushed the button fifteen minutes before the scheduled departure. Five minutes later it showed up. I got on, pushed the "one" button and began the laborious descent, which was immediately interrupted at the 16th floor.
The doors opened and three black women got on. I don't know if they were headed for a theme park, or the hotel pool, or what. I'm sure there's an official name that describes their fashion style. I simply refer to it as Bootylishus. I smiled politely at Woman #1, who returned the smile; moving down the line, I smiled at Woman #2 who nodded back as if it pained her. When I smiled at Woman #3 she completely misinterpreted it. By the time I got to her, we'd only traveled one and a half floors.
Woman #3 put her hand on her hip and glared at me as if I'd been glomming her for five minutes. "Do I look good to you?" she demanded.
I kept my smile and, trying to be polite, said, "You look just fine." I want to be clear. I said "just fine" the way you'd answer someone who said "how are you" but doesn't really care how you are. I did NOT say, "you look just FIIINNNEEE!!!" After answering her I turned my attention to the elevator doors, but she wasn't finished with me. If she was miffed when she thought I was scoping her out she was positively insulted when it appeared I wasn't interested.
She took her hand off her hip long enough to tap me firmly on the shoulder. "Whatchoo mean 'just fine'?"
My smile was a little forced as I said, "Let's just say you're not my type."
"Not your type? You don't like women of color?"
By now se were down to the 4th floor. I gave up on the smile altogether, drew myself up and said in my haughtiest tone, "I assure you madam, if I was into lop-sided bosoms and asses the size of Nebraska, I'd think you were absolutely fabulous. As it is, you're just an annoying woman on an elevator whose over inflated opinion of herself is supported by neither facts, nor mirrors." I then turned back to Woman #1 who had at least returned my smile. "You, on the other hand, are a treasure; a diamond in a room full of cubic zirconium, a gazelle in a heard of heifers." I would have gone on but the doors had finally opened. I tipped my ball cap to woman #1, nodded curtly at #2, sneered at #3, performed a smart about face and went outside where the shuttle bus was actually still waiting. Only then did it occur to me that they, too, might be boarding the bus.
I was relieved when we parted ways at the pool. The last I heard from them was Woman #3 indignantly asking someone I couldn't see, "What? Do I look good to you?"
Flash forward six hours. I've been walking all day, in the heat, and my dogs are killing me. Blisters on both feet, sore knees—I was walking like Fred Sanford and covered in sweat. I bought a soda and leaned against a lamp post. Apparently I wasn't the only one exhausted. Seated on the curb at my feet was a couple. Both of them were wearing wife beater t-shirts but his was 4 or 5 sizes bigger than hers and had a few stains on the area that covered his ample belly. Right away I liked this guy, as he is one of the few people who make me look skinny by comparison. Not only that, he made me look healthy. He sucked on his Marlboro like it contained the last oxygen in the world. When he wasn't pulling on a cigarette the wheezing and coughing that constituted his breathing were clearly audible to me six feet away. While he puffed and wheezed and hacked, she nibbled dispiritedly on one of the ubiquitous smoked turkey legs that are sold on every corner in Universal.
I'd never seen a woman wearing a wife beater t-shirt before. Knowing how transparent they can be, especially when wet, I suddenly felt protective toward her and hoped she was wearing an adequate bra. Naturally I looked to see. I can't tell you if her bra was adequate or not, or if she wore one at all. I was distracted by her cleavage. I never thought of wife beaters as being especially low cut, but believe me when I say they are. It wasn't the cleavage itself that intrigued me so, it was the disk. I suppose I wouldn't have seen it had we both been standing, but from my vantage point looking down on her from five feet, ten inches, it was hard to miss.
Picture two flesh-colored half dollars. Glue corresponding pieces of Velcro to each one, and then paint the other side of each coin with adhesive. Glue a coin to each of your breasts and when the glue sets, line up the Velcro and shove your boobs together. It took me only a few seconds to figure out the set-up, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out WHY. It's not that female anatomy is a mystery to me—I was a corpsman for 4 years. But female boobs are a mystery to me. Why would you need to glue them together?
You know how you can tell when someone is staring at you? Usually when they bust you by looking you in the eye, I quickly avert my gaze and pretend I was just resting your eyes on them as I was innocently scanning the room. Not this time. When Boob Girl squinted up at me and asked in a nasty tone if I was enjoying the show I said, "What you call entertainment I call education. The things I never knew before! Thanks to you I feel I've earned a Bachelor's Degree in Breastology. With your permission I'd like to pursue my Masters." I pointed to her chest and went on, "What the hell is that thing?"
She looked down to see what I was pointing at just as the hours-long battle between her sweat and the glue took a decided turn in favor of the sweat. As we both looked, the disk on her left breast ever so slowly separated, spider-web like tendrils of glue trying desperately to hold on. One by one they threads of glue snapped and finally the breast, free of the chains that bound it, slipped off in search of the Underground Railroad.
It wasn't so much that her breasts lowered—although they did, a good 3 or 4 inches. No, it wasn't the vertical movement that was so disconcerting, it was the horizontal motion. It was if a tiny Moses was standing on her shoulder, raising his staff, while God parted the Red Sea. At least I knew now what the glue disk was for. Where once proud, perky, playboy cleavaged breasts burst from the wife beater in all their glory, now a pair of saggy, forlorn boob refugees couldn't even decide whether to stay on the front of her chest or on the sides. I swear there was now room between her two breasts to park a third one. She tried to mash them back together again, but the glue had given up the ghost. I felt she was fully entitled to be angry at the clerk who sold her the defective glue, but since he wasn't around, she decided to be angry at me instead. She poked her companion and when she got his attention she gestured over her shoulder and said, "Edgar! This guy is staring at my titties!"
Wheezy, 400 pound Edgar was no threat to me. By the time he climbed up from the curb to a standing position and caught his breath, I'd be a block away at least, blistered feet or no blistered feet. Still, Rule number 1 for Wife Beater wearing rednecks named Edgar is putting on a good show, regardless of whether you have any intention of following through. Thus Edgar looked up at me thru his mirrored sunglasses and said, "Hey Buddy." Then he had to take a break while he coughed up some phlegm. He tried again. "Hey Buddy, are yew lookin' at my fiancé's tits?"
"Of course I am!" I declared. "Have you seen these things? They're like Circus Tits! I've never seen anything like them! Moving here, moving there—I expect them to start juggling dinner plates any minute now!
Edgar was really steamed now, which only made him wheeze harder. "You inbred sumbitch!" he said, trying to get off the curb. "I'm gone whup yer ass!"
He was REALLY wheezing bad now, and coughing harder than ever, but even though I heard the rattle in his chest, he wasn't getting anything out. "Dude, calm down! You're gonna have a heart attack!" I said.
I don't know if they planned it or not. My attention was so focused on Edgar, who I had accurately predicted would take several minutes of calisthenics before he would be in a position to cause bodily harm that I forgot all about Boob Girl. Edgar was still flopping around like a walrus but she only needed 5 seconds to get upright, as I discovered when I heard from behind me, "Circus Tits?! CIRCUS TITS?!?" With one hand she jerked off my Universal ball cap and with the other she smacked me upside the head with the smoked turkey leg. Not once. Many times.
They smoke those things until the meat is falling off the bone. Every time the turkey leg made contact with my face, or my head, or neck, or hand (as I vainly tried to fend off the blows), bits of meat flew off the leg. Most of it landed on the ground, but some, thanks to a combination of turkey grease and Bob sweat, stuck to my head, my cheek, my beard, my neck, but mostly on my glasses. She didn't stop swinging until only bone was left and with every swing she shouted "Circus Tits?"
It was clearly time to go, but with my glasses covered in grease and turkey bits, I couldn't see crap. Even I could see, I still wouldn't have attempted running, not with my blistered feet and achy knees. I hobbled and groped my way down the street while Boob Girl followed, throwing the leg bone at my back, and then retrieving it to throw again. While she was stooping over to pick up the bone the third time I glanced behind me. Through the one square inch of grease-free space on my glasses I saw her bent over. Her snaky left breast literally climbed over the right one until the nipple was poking out through the neck of the wife-beater. It didn't merely flop out it CLIMBED out.
"Circus Tits!" I screamed defiantly and hopped on the people mover that carried people to the park exit. Behind her Edgar was calling "Maybeline! Maybeline! Fergit it! We gotta go back and get the rental scooter!" It's a damn shame Maybeline had to get between me and Edgar. He and I could've been great pals. Rental scooters—what a great idea!
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