Listening to: Silence, strangely enough.
Daddy G and I were having one of our chats in bed before falling asleep recently, and got to talking about boobs. And please, no harassment about calling them boobs. If I want to talk about breasts, I’ll go find my gyno, mmkay? Anyhow, this is one of the few times when I have Daddy G’s undivided attention, so the conversations are usually pretty entertaining.
Daddy G is an unapologetic (yet very much closeted, thanks to being Indian) boob guy. He has been for as long as I’ve known him, which is going on 12 years now. For some reason, we got to talking about how men have a tendency to look at other women and compare and fantasize. Specifically at boobs, because that’s what Daddy G is most interested in.
This has never bothered me a bit. I have a rule that as long as it’s just looking and not touching, you’re home free. He observed that it seemed to be strictly a guy thing and wondered what women have to compare and fantasize about. He even ventured that women don’t do that, because after all, what outward body part do we have to do that with?
I looked at him amused for a minute and then said that yes, I think women do that quite a bit more often than he thinks. “But with what?” was his stuttered, curious reply. I admitted that being ladies, we probably don’t size up every.single.last. man we see on the street. Or sometimes we do, because when you gotta have it, you look at everyone. This brought uncomfortable laugh from him because women being overtly sexual? Makes the man damn uncomfortable. I went on to say that we do occasionally wonder what a guy is packing in those jeans. After all, no two packages are wrapped quite the same. I then countered that I didn’t see what was so fascinating about boobs. They’re not all that different aside from obvious size differences.
Daddy G looked amazed that I didn’t get this and then launched into no fewer than 15 different variations in boobs that boob guys pay attention to. I can’t even remember them all because I was rolling on the ground laughing.
Mother nature saw fit to curse me with big boobs after I had my kids.In case you didn't notice, I’m pretty unimpressed with the whole thing. The funny thing is, Daddy G doesn't get all that crazy about mine unless we’re outside and my shirt is either too tight, too low cut, or see through, and not in a good way. In a quietly hissed “Why did you wear that shirt outside? All the guys on the street are staring!” way. Boob guy indeed.
What do you think ladies? Am I the only one who wonders occasionally what a guy is packing in those slacks? Gentlemen, are there really that many variations on boobs, asses, and legs? Weigh in.