Breast Obsessed

!!!WARNING!!!

The following is intended for nonjudgmental and not easily offended adults ONLY!

“I imagine the soft curve of her breast as it disappears into the soft lace of her undergarment, whispering the secrets of her goddess, beckoning like a lost invitation…”

Boobies are the greatest invention ever. I am obsessed with them, and I don’t know exactly why. Sure, if I wasn’t supposed to look at them, women wouldn’t have them. One theory is that evolution endowed human females with this sexual dimorphism as a sign of her ability to procreate. They feed babies (wow. just wow.). They have been worshipped since humans could express abstract thought, from stone age fertility fetishes, to Greek statuary, to film noir strategic shadows. One thing is for sure, however you think about men’s interest in this most feminine of physical presentation, across history and across cultures, they are that to which men respond.

So I don’t feel my interest is misplaced. Too much. Sometimes.

I notice boobs first. Always. I don’t form an opinion of a woman based on first sight, but it is as if my eyes and my brain are temporarily stunned and drawn into their mammalian gravity well. Small, large, dark, pale, boyish, or voluptuous, I am entranced. Add a whiff of vanilla perfume, or a stray wisp of hair, or freckles, or an Irish accent, and I am yours for that moment. Whatever you want. For three seconds, I am your obedient puppy, willing to write bad checks on your behalf, wondering and believing that the male in me is worthy of just one peek.

Then I snap back to reality, and feel like a stupid prepubescent who has just noticed the girl next door got a bra over winter vacation. I swear I will be intelligent and mature next time. Next time comes, and I’m just as ridiculously enamored as before.

I’ve had dreams about boobs. Sometimes lascivious, sometimes mysterious, sometimes frightening, sometimes comforting. But whenever I have one of those dreams, I know I have tapped into something primeval.

One of my versions of heaven is a high alpine lake, silent and serene, where I spend eternity in a boat lined with boobs. And one of them dispenses beer. Or maybe it’s a football field of boobs, and I just roll and roll and roll.

I am particularly smitten when they are hanging in front of my face, the feel of her fur against my stomach. THAT, my male comrades, is truly worshipping at the Oracle of the Divine Feminine.

I could play with boobs for hours. For hours. Observing the curves, seeing the way they can change shape depending on her position, watching the gradation in color from flesh to areolae to nipple, absorbing the warm woman smell. It’s a fascination that transcends the sexual or physical. For hours, like a starving infant, or a dog with a favorite bone, or someone engrossed with their latest obsession. I can’t explain it. I don’t understand it. I can’t help it.

When, in my life, I have been allowed this privilege, I am ecstatic. For a few moments. Then I realize she is just putting up with my infantile behavior because I enjoy it. Then I feel selfish, ashamed, stupid.

What’s up with that?

Further Proof That China Sucks

From the Associated Press:

Sep 13, 2005 — SHANGHAI, China

Farewell, "Aladdin Gardens." "White House Mini District" you're history.

The southwestern Chinese city of Kunming is forcing developers to change the names of those properties and others deemed too foreign sounding, saying they debase traditional culture, officials said Tuesday.

At least nine developments in Kunming, the capital of Yunnan province, have changed their names since officials began implementing new guidelines last month. "Paris of the East Plaza," "French Gardens," and "Ginza Office Tower," were among others making the change.

"It's not proper to name those communities with so many weird foreign titles (blog author: WTF?)," said an official with the Kunming Urban Planning Bureau, who like many Chinese bureaucrats would only be identified by his surname, Xiao.

* * * * *

I'd pay more attention to this guy(?) if he was wasn't named on planet Xthplcth. And didn't live a town named after an oriental porn film. Anyhoo, this is a great idea. I propose a similar arrangement here in America.

FORMER: Chinese Checkers
IS NOW: This is Boring

FORMER: Made in China
IS NOW: Cheap Crap

FORMER: Chinese New Year
IS NOW: We-onry-one-can-firework-regarry-ha-ha! Day

FORMER: Feng shui
IS NOW: Isor ayab (Idiotic Shit Only Retards And Yuppie Astologers Believe)

FORMER: Mogolian BBQ
IS NOW: Dungfire Yak on a Stick

FORMER: Panda Express
IS NOW: Glue Factory

FORMER: Mann’s (formerly Graumann’s) Chinese Theatre
IS NOW: Place of Big American Hands, Feet, and Other Things

FORMER: Chinese Embassy
IS NOW: House of Mirrors

FORMER: Chinatown
IS NOW: Ugly Red Furniture Land

FORMER: Chinese Laundry
IS NOW: Jones Family Confidential Shredding

FORMER: Five Stah Rotus Brossom Rucky Tigah Dlagon Buffet
IS NOW: Petsmart

Rule Number Seven

This is a work of fiction. Copyright © 2005 Rumba Creative. All Rights Reserved.
No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated,
or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

Rule Number Seven

“Are you still playing that stupid game?”

“It’s not a stupid game. It’s very hard.”

“It looks pretty stupid when a grown man plays with dolls.”

“They’re not dolls. They’re action figures.”

Her smirk was evidence of her disbelief. He continued to move his finger across the playing field. She stood over his shoulder. It was impossible to play strategy when she was looking, scrutinizing his every move, and forming an opinion without knowing the rules.

“So, are you winning?”

“Kronos isn’t feeling well. I think his son may take his place, but he’s a long way from being a threat. So I’m doing pretty well in the eastern Mediterranean and Egypt.”

“That’s not what Isis says.”

“Forget Isis. She’s not playing. Osiris is making a play, but I am going beat him. He thinks it’s all about cities and power. I’m playing strategy.”

“So what? Baal says Allah is playing strategy, too. Good strategy.”

“Allah just got in the game. He hasn’t even made up his rule book yet, and he wants to ally himself with me. Can you leave me alone now?” He turned his back to her, hoping she couldn’t see the game matrix. No matter what he accomplished, it wasn’t ever enough. Honey, do this. We never talk. You don’t take me anywhere. Where did she think this cushy palace came from? So now he tried to relax and play his game, but she had to try and kill it. Sometimes ignoring her worked. Sometimes it didn’t. This was shaping up to be a didn’t.

“Listen to me, mister. I’ve had it. I was talking to Drvaspa..”

Oh, damn. There it was.

“I can’t even play cards with the girls any more. It’s humiliating!”

“Aw, honey. We’ve been through this. Inari was just a passing phase. A moment of weakness. I know better now. How many times can I say I’m sorry?”

“Inari! What about Ishtar? Was she a passing phase? Or Kuan Yin? Was she a moment of weakness? Or Parvati? Do I have to mention Parvati? That sexy bendable little tramp? It’s all fine for you to play your dumb little game. But I can’t get together with the girls without the snickering and the whispers behind my back. And I can see behind me!”

The game was ruined now. It was obvious well placed flatteries, frivolous gifts, and huge favor repayments were in his very near future. He could control almost anything. Almost. Just not her.

“Please don’t bring up Parvati. Shiva is already winning because of south Asia, I don’t need him angry with me.” He said it with disapproval, but knew he was already doomed. “All right. What do you want from me? It’s my turn and my piece is waiting.”

She stood, hands on hips, with that look. The look that only a woman could give. The look that made everything male in the universe shrivel and cower. He felt his omnipotence slither away to hide in some place even he couldn’t find. Good thing he wasn’t playing the game against her. Looking up from beneath his lowered brow, he saw the pursed lips of judgment.

“This is what I want. This is what you will do. You didn’t even mention me in the first chapter of your rule book, for chrisakes. So I will make a rule for your game now. You will write into it your everlasting shame and dedication. You will promise in your game that you will never repeat your humiliation of me with other women. If you don’t, I shall surely wipe you, your friends, and your stupid game from the heavens. Understand?”

With that, she stalked out. She did have a great wiggle in her walkaway. How could he stay mad? With a sigh, he returned to his game. He knew what he had to do. He would write in the rule she demanded. Just to spite her, though, he would put it after all the stuff that made him important. After all the rules to worship him, and keep his name holy.

With a sweep of his finger, he erased the rock, and inserted: “VII. Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery.”

Not Enough Bull Elephants

(This is not a scientific paper. Specific details may be remembered wrongly by the author. The metaphor remains mostly factual; the premise remains the same.)

Elephants are matriarchal. While the genus has been erased from much of the world, evolution has bestowed its benefits on two species, the African and the Asian. This is a story of the African.

Elephants are excellent mothers. The lead female of the herd learned from her mother, and her mother’s mother, absorbing lessons and passing them down to those who succeed her. Where is water? Where is the best feeding ground at this time of year? Which males are friend, and which are to be avoided? Above all, know your sisters, aunts, cousins, and know the strength is the herd.

Males are different. After a certain age, they are expelled from the herd. They are not good parents. They are unpredictable. They are a random element which the herd cannot afford.

But the herd needs them all the same. Like all mammals, without the male, the species ceases to exist. It is a delicate balance the eons have rewarded. Female/male. Territory/resource. Strong/weak. Gamble/offspring.

Somewhere in Africa, it doesn’t matter exactly where, elephants were in trouble. The ivory trade, or macho big game “hunters,” or environmental devastation had wiped out the big bulls. None were left but the core of elephantine culture, the female herds. When the young males showed signs of aggression and maturity, they were kicked out. As it should be.

But something weird happened. The young males were thugs. They went into musth, the natural state of heightened testosterone and territoriality, at a much younger age. They harassed the herds. They took control of the watering holes, chasing everyone away, including their mothers and sisters. They pushed trees over in their anger, removing valuable and necessary food sources. They pummeled youngsters, tried to rape females. The herds were suffering. And so were the males. The politics, traditions, culture, accepted ways of behavior, or the elephant equivalents, were being destroyed.

In desperation, the humans, who had so screwed everything up, grasped at any possible solution. Recognizing there were no adult males, humans decided to introduce them. Two large, mature bulls were transported and let free into this miasma of pachyderm misery.

That’s when a miracle happened. The young males stopped their musth. The patriarchs confronted the younger thugs, chastised them, pushed them, let them know that the elder owned this place, this water hole, these trees, these females. Prove yourself, they seemed to say, and you might inherit all that you desire. It was tough love, and the younger males responded. Gone was the harassment of herds, the coveting of resources. The big bulls taught the younger how to behave.

The elephant population regained some of its past glory. Matriarchs followed the ancient trails without fear. Babies were born and grew without violence. Males continued their sparring and aggression, but now it was expressed in healthy ways.

I live in the United States.

And there aren’t enough Bull Elephants.

The Nine, September 2005

…..Suggested Union Slogans That Cut Through The Crap (in honor of Labor Day).

9. You have an IQ of 68. You don’t know a credit from a contract. You have unresolved anger issues. Join a Union and tell the CEO what to do!

8. Tired of being an unacknowledged bitcher complainer? Join a Union!

7. Unions – slacking on the job for over 70 years!

6. U.N.I.O.N.! Unifying No-talents, Imbeciles, Opressors, and Ne'er-do-wells!

5. Why work? Join a Union!

4. Women! Join a Union! And hold a double sided Stop/Slow sign!

3. High school dropout? You too can earn $50 an hour!

2. Honor Labor! By observing a ten hour moment of silence every working day!

1. Tired of propaganda and politics that take advantage of the working man? Join a Union!

(Side Note: To paraphrase a comment I read years ago: "Many cars sport pro-union bumper stickers. I will support the unions' right to exist when I can plaster an anti-union bumper sticker without getting my ass kicked or my car keyed in the parking lot." 'Nuff said.)