It was a casual, intimate gathering. The host, Ashley, was one of my oldest friends. When I arrived and looked around, I could tell that something was off, but I wasn’t sure what. Had there been a fight? Had someone ordered a bunch of weed, but it hadn’t arrived yet? Maybe Carla had barfed already? Suddenly, I realized what was making me feel so uneasy: Every male guest at the party had touched my boobs.
All of them.
I stood there, dumbfounded, taking in the scene of testosterone-filled tit-touchers before me. Some of them were ex-boyfriends. Some were current flames. Some were friends I’d known so long that we had drunkenly hooked up at least once. Some touched just my left boob. Others touched my right. Most touched both. But the fact remained that at least one hand of every man in attendance had made physical contact with at least one of my funbags.
As I snacked on the hummus and veggie chips that Jesse had brought, I couldn’t help but think about how he used to use too much teeth when sucking at my lady lumps. While we cooed over photos of Colin’s toddler, I remembered how he used to squeeze my yabos so hard I could practically feel my milk ducts shrinking. And that’s when I realized a lot of these guys touched my boobs wrong.
What had conspired in the universe to bring together all of these men who had “known” my rack? I fantasized about confronting them all and giving them notes on their poor form; that they should have played with my nipples gently, but firmly. But I held my tongue. And, while Matt introduced us to his new girlfriend Emma, I imagined the time that he motorboated my bazongas, but neither of us really enjoyed it. Better luck to you, Emma.
We were all there to celebrate Devin’s birthday. I had known him for eight years before we decided to give a friends-with-benefits relationship a whirl, but he would only play with my boobs when I went out of my way to ask him to. His new fiancée has A-cups. Makes sense. My jugs are not for everyone; not even everyone at this party. Oh well.
To be clear, I’m not including casual grazing or accidental contact in this list. The context of each occurrence was deliberately sexual. I made the conscious choice to give access to my perfect bosom to each of these wildly different men. And now here they were, eating my deviled eggs. It’s crazy how the world works sometimes.
Were any of the other women at this soiree in the same boat? Did every last one of these men feel up any of their knocko-wockos? Maybe some did, but probably not all.
I was the secret boob queen of the party, and honestly? It felt just okay.