It was just another random afternoon on the beach during Spring Break. I wandered aimlessly from bikini to bikini, wondering how I would close out a day of leering and dodging restraining orders. Slowly, the sky grew overcast and the temperature dropped, so naturally, it was time to whip out the hose and soak some hooters.
I’m sorry. That was cheap, childish phrasing. I should be ashamed of myself.
I don’t know why we, as a society, must undermine the power and majesty of the female breast through the use of ridiculous euphemism.
Is it not enough that our noble sisters and their secondary sex characteristics must endure the daily affrontery of straps and underwires and whatever the hell an IPEX is?
Do these marvels of natural engineering truly need a bra to elicit wonder?
Even worse, I can’t help but suspect that our tawdry trivializations may, in some fashion, lead to bigger –possibly even enormous– issues in the future.
All I can do is look at the smiling face below, that of the misguided contest’s “winner”, and shake my head in disconsolate shame. For I, a self-centered, awful little man, have failed her and everyone like her. In seeking to celebrate, I have mocked. With my lascivious gaze and careless words, I have tarnished her gentle form.
Oh, hey, wait… nipple slip!
I’m going to hell, aren’t I?
Yep, pretty much.
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