Fine… I was looking at your tits. Actually I looked at them four times. The first time was when you were over by the file cabinets and day planners. Then you got in line next to me. And I have looked at them three more times over the last 1 minute and 47 seconds. The longest look lasting 7 seconds. I’m sorry. But your sundress is hypnotic. It weakens me… it’s a beautiful sundress. I’m sure you know this. And I’m sure its comfortable too, so I wouldn’t dare try to insinuate that you bought it to show them off… but you aren’t wearing a bra. And you don’t have to? Apparently? I’m wondering. You’re breasts inspire me to wonder. The combination of sundresses with no bras is where masturbation comes from. It’s the sexier older sister of white pants and thongs. So, be happy I’m just looking. No, no, that came out wrong. I’m not really contemptuous and needy enough to tell you to feel lucky that I’m looking at your tits, but I will say that you can’t expect my sense of courtesy and responsibility to be so accommodating that they might overrun my deep desire to watch and wonder about earth’s greatest temptation. They’re fucking amazing.

The other day a guy gave me a quarter for the meter. One time a nice Mexican couple gave me a ride home. I can enjoy even the drunkest of subway musicians. I enjoy people every chance I get. Not without giving back, but I mean there are so many people in the world, and living around all of them- I try to enjoy people’s attributes… whether it’s learning or looking or laughing or, appreciating their beautiful breasts. Hopefully, you can take back from me, and the exchange will be mutual, and energy passed on. We can get what we need from each other while providing something useful, and this symbiotic interaction will reward us for having been in each others presence. But I don’t have tits. I have eyes. And I understand this inequity, so, for
%90 of the last 1 minute and 47 seconds (96.3 seconds) I have not looked at your tits. I spent Ninety percent of the time trying to spare you the discomfort of discovering, upon looking in my direction (to look at the printer display over my shoulder or maybe, make eye contact- whatever), that your body and I were happy without you. Judging from your glare, there was discomfort to be spared. But ninety percent of the time that I’ve had an opportunity to look at your tits, I have treated said opportunity as a chance to not objectify you. That is dedication. I am dedicated and will remain dedicated. A 9:1 non-objectification/breast enjoyment ratio is quite remarkable when even the most average breasts are involved. However, when we are dealing with taught, sleek, elegant, seemingly responsive, testaments to the human form, such as the perfectly balanced cannon-bombs that you wield over my head like the sword of Damocles, it is a tribute to respect and appreciation.

I am not asking for your appreciation, I just want you to understand, that while yes, I was looking at your tits, I was treating the process with the utmost respect. I was looking at them with the knowledge that, this exchange may not be sanctioned by both governing bodies; That perhaps my eyes would be guilty of making you feel uncomfortable. I fought to avoid that. Not only that, but while I took brief opportunities to actually look, when I actually did, which just to recap was 10 measly percent of the time that I even had them in my periphery (%14 of the time I looked at the floor.), I admired them for what they were… A part of you. They wouldn’t be beautiful without you. They wouldn’t mean what they do to me if they didn’t come to me from under the best fitting sundress I’ve ever seen, and turn so gracefully into your collar bone, which so meticulously becomes your beautiful neck, face, head, and long, black, beautiful Brazilian hair. Or are you Ecuadorian? Oh, you are… I knew it was one of the two… So, do you live- what?… stop talking to y-… I-… Fine… Fine… I was looking at your tits. And that was for me. Now I’ll look at the floor in shame. Also for me.

31/07/2006
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