Is This What Boobs Feel Like?

Based on the title, you might be thinking this is going to be some risky slam on the insecurities our culture has with basic human sexuality.

It’s not. 

Instead, this is going to be where I tell you how I got to second base over a steak burrito. 

For full effect, download “Brick House” by The Commodores and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Boobs are interesting creatures. And yes, I did just call them creatures for lack of a better word simply due to the fact that those beautiful lumps of fat create more controversy, more emotional rushes, and more uncomfortable addictions than cheap wine and “Duck Dynasty” combined. Let’s just face the facts. Boobs rule the world.

On behalf of the male gender, boobs are also the third leading cause of embarrassing moments of total dishonor, only behind getting caught lip-syncing to Justin Beiber at a stoplight, and coming to the sad realization that some of us are required to wear a t-shirt while swimming.

The following instance proves how boobs made me be a fine example of complete shame. 

This past week a trio of fine young chaps wrapped up an engaging lunch visit to Durango’s where we talked of memories past, discussed our personal lives, and reveled in the company of one another. I know that last sentence makes me sound like an honorable cast member from Downton Abbey, but I’m just trying to save any shrivel of dignity that I can as I pour open my guts to you in 700 words or less.

As the meal came to a close we began to head out the door back to our daily routines, when out of nowhere another close acquaintance called out a humorous remark my way causing my attention to be shifted from the door I was about to push open over to his laughing bearded face across the room.

“Yeah, next time you’re in town lets catch up.” I tossed his way as I reached again for the exit, my attention still trying to lip-read the words he was mumbling back at me. Still concentrating on his face I pushed the glass door open, suddenly causing a slight confusion to derail my conversation when I realized that this giant door no longer felt like a 2-inch plate of glass, but instead felt like a B-sized lump of fat with a slightly lace texture.

“That’s my boob.” the glass door said.

I turned my head to see a small mid-40’s woman in scrubs standing in the doorway, with my hand cupping her right breast like an overinflated water balloon.   

“Thanks for the goosage!” she said.

“I…I…uh…I…uh…I just…”

“It’s fine honey, I haven’t had action like that in months.”

I stood in the doorway like a petrified criminal as she walked past me. I was dumbfounded, I was stunned. I was a stupefied zit in puberty coming to grips that I had just felt up a woman in a Mexican restaurant and didn’t even ask for her phone number. I had gotten to second base faster than Barney Stinson, and I did not have the testosterone to appreciate it. Instead, I tucked my tail between my legs and scurried out the door like a poodle after a vasectomy.

Part of me wondered if these same awkward feelings exist on the night of a honeymoon. The other part of me wondered if I needed to be booked as a sex offender by the Washington County Police Department. Either way, it was one of the most embarrassing, most uncomfortable, most anti-manly moments of my young adult life.

Thank you boobs, for once again bringing me to my knees in complete and total humiliation.