[Un-Authorized]

This week’s English assignment is anecdote. Here’s my rough draft: 

From early adolescence, most heterosexual males develop a fascination with female breasts and I am no exception. Society sends men and boys mixed signals when it comes to boobs. Women don’t usually appear publicly in their bras, but wear swimsuits which are just as revealing or more so. Women wear low-cut tops exposing their cleavage which leaves men in the delicate position of having to look but not stare and, if they do, at least not get caught. Even women like other women’s boobs according to Helen Gurley Brown, the editor of Cosmopolitan magazine, which explains her choosing consistent cleavage covers.

I like magazine boobs and live cleavage, breast and toe alike, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the Girls Gone Wild videos and taking in an occasional pole dance or two. However, nothing comes remotely close to the thank-God-I’m-a-guy appreciation of seeing boobs I was not supposed to see. It’s like finding buried treasure. Once I’ve seen them, they are recorded forever in my mind, like burning a compact disc. If I’m feeling blue I say to myself, “Hey, let’s play the boobs CD” and I feel better instantly.
 
My boob CD starts when I’m gassing up my car in Perrysburg, Ohio, in 1982. A well-endowed young woman at the adjacent pump bends over her big old Pontiac. As she pumps her gas, her sweatshirt falls open and braless, there they are. Like a man dying of thirst, I took a long appreciative drink then turned my head away thinking “I just can’t stand here staring at her boobs.” Then I said, “The hell I can’t” and watched until she finished, none the wiser.

That’s just the preview on my boob cd. The feature presentation happened over a decade ago at my condo on the Maumee river where I had my boat docked out back. My mom, my wife and I were going to go out, but the prevailing winds had blown all the water into Lake Erie. With my boat stuck in the muck, we enjoyed a drink on the boat’s deck and watched as my neighbor, Grace, and her girlfriends attempted to navigate back to their adjacent dock. They had left before the water blew out but were certain to run aground.

Always the helpful neighbor, I grabbed a rope, walked up my dock, across the lawn and down Grace’s dock. As expected, Grace and her girlfriends were stuck. Grace climbed onto the bow of her boat and anticipating my rope throw she raised her arms, making her tube top slip down, exposing her large perfectly maintained former Miss Michigan breasts in the bright summer sun. Not surprisingly, my first throw went wide and she missed it.

As I’m recoiling the rope and savoring my good fortune my wife walks down the dock, takes in my view, and in strict compliance with the Woman Code, shouts “Grace!, Grace!” while making pull-up-your-top motions with her hands. Immediately breaking her concentration on my impending second rope toss, Grace whirls around subsequently flashing her girlfriends which they find hilarious before restoring her girls to the tenuous protection of Spandex.

Grace catches the rope the second time and I haul them in. “This will just be our little secret, won’t it Joe?” she asks. “Of course, Grace. Of course.”

Joe

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