Just Call Me Nip

Email exchange with my bud S&M earlier today:

S&M:
Elaine,

FYI on your tattoo shot on facebook, there is SO nipple.
Hope your coworkers enjoy!

Cheese: Who's Elaine? (seriously miffed that he mixed me up with someone else...clearly!)

S&M: Elaine Bennis from Seinfeld.
The nipple x-mas card mailing episode.

Cheese: Oh God! Hahaha! That’s hilarious.
I was like “did you forget my name?”

S&M: I love the fact that you are upset I may have your name wrong, but totally no problem that everyone is seeing your nipple.

Good point!

Just Another Night on the A Train

Riding the A train downtown, on the way to tennis class, I found myself standing next to a well-dressed, good looking businessman. We made eye contact, and he told me that I had beautiful eyes.

"They are the exact same color as my daughter's eyes," he said.

I smiled, thanked him, and started to turn away. Yet he continued to yammer on about my eyes, his daughter, his daughter's eyes. He yammered until he abruptly stopped himself mid-sentence.

"Oh my. I must go" he suddenly stammered and stumbled off the train, without so much as a goodbye.

I looked down and saw my coat half open, boobs straining against my usual cleavage bearing attire.

I'm guessing that he eventually creeped even himself out by comparing my eyes to his innocent daughter's, all the while never taking his eyes away from my chest.

Oh. Ew.

And All This TIme I Thought I Was a Chick

I always have to wonder what it is about me that screams "I'm a guy" when I walk into a Starbucks or other such establishments.

On more than one ocassion {why can't I spell this word? I have spelled it 3 different ways now, all of them look wrong}, I have been called "Sir" as I approached the counter to place my order. There is really nothing worse than bouncing into a place, excited for that tall, skim, iced decaf mocha, finally getting up to the server after waiting on that line that would drive anyone to insanity, and having the girl behind the counter smile and say "what can I get for you, Sir?"

What is it about me that screams guy? Is it my long, flowing golden locks? My ample cleavage? My high-pitched, feminine voice?

Do they think I'm this dude?



I dunno. I think Beehive might not be so thrilled upon finding out that he's been boning Michael Bolton all this time.

Baby Fever

So, two good friends of mine had a kid over the weekend.

Well, the wife had the kid. The husband, he just stood around and smiled a lot.

It wasn't a surprise, this kid, I mean, I knew she was on her way. It's just weird to realize that nothing in the world can prepare you for the fact that these two people made a little person and then let the little person come out to play.

I was never that fond of little people.

Not that I hate babies or anything, but I just never really got along with them. They sort of just sit there and stare, and make smelly poops, and cry, and sort of disrupt all sense of life as you know it.

Over the last several years, just from the fact that friends my age are starting to have kids, paired with the fact that my boyfriend has a niece and five nephews {all who I adore}, I have gotten used to the idea that babies are a fact of life, and by golly, I might even like to have one someday.

I digress.

So I got the call today that these friends had this kid. And I was very happy for them. And figured that, when they got home from the hospital, and got settled in their home, like, in a week or two, I'd go over and visit and welcome the little monster to their family, along with a bunch of our other friends.

Except that, these people love me SO much, that they insisted that I stop by the hospital. Tonight.

I panicked. I hate hospitals. And the kid, she was only a day old. What was I going to say to her? She barely speaks English, for God's sake!

But I knew that the right thing to do was to pay a visit to the litttle newbie, and that I did.

I got to the hospital, and the first thing that struck me--after I got over the fact that the new mommy, freshly c-sectioned, was walking around, and even answered the door when I got there--was that the baby was so incredibly tiny, sitting in her daddy's arms. She didn't even look like an alien, like I imagined she would, but was cute as a button.

Once I stopped worrying that I was going to trip and fall and squish the little tyke, I started to relax. Another friend showed up, and it almost began to feel like a party.

Except for the fact that, I guess once a woman has a baby, her body is not her own anymore. You know--suddenly your boobs are not just for sexy time, they actually have a function. And it's ok to pull them out at a moment's notice, cuz the kid needs to eat.

So you're trying to just have a normal conversation and not pay attention to the fact that your friend is sitting there, with a tiny mouth attached to her tit. And you try to continue the normal conversation, and to not think it's inappropriate that your friend wants to talk about her nipple chafing, or her uteral contractions that she is still having. I mean, she's sitting there, literally half naked, chatting away like nothing...I don't know if I'm going to get used to this.

Me, when the time comes, am preserving these fun bags of mine. Yes indeed, I'm going the bottle route.

Yea, I'm Talking About My Boobs Again

Yesterday I happened to be wearing a very low cut top, and a very flattering bra.

Ok, whatever, I have good boobs.

I already know I have good boobs, but the deal was sealed when, bouncing down the street yesterday on the way back from the rapist, a guy on a bicycle was so enthralled with my breastage, that he crashed his bike into a building.


I shit you not.

Three Little Words That Mean So Much

Last week I spent 3-days out of the office at a photo shoot for work. Never a bad thing, to be sure. I get to be out of the office for most of the week, eat catered food to my hearts content, and hang out with cool people all day and feel like my job actually isn't that bad after all.

The shots involved 25 girls/women aged 26-4O. They were chosen for their "real people" look, as we wanted it to appear that we pulled them right off the street.

These "real" people were all a size 2 or smaller. There were always 4 or 5 of them in the studio at any given time, and we had to stare at them for hours on end.

Even my super skinny co-workers felt inadequate after three days of that!!

I found myself in a conversation with the mother of one of the 19 year olds, who accompanied her to the shoot. I asked her if her daughter did a lot of print, to which she replied, "She's too chubby for print. We're trying to get into acting now."

Chubby?

"Yes, we got her down to 115 lbs, but the agencies keep telling us it's not enough. She couldn't lose that last 5 pounds. Such a shame."

I snuck a peek at her beautiful daughter, who was probably 5'7" or so, and "too chubby" at 115 pounds, and I wanted to punch her mother's lights out. Mind you, her mother was obese, by the way...

After 3-days of this, my self esteem has taken a beating {not to mention, I'm now on a much needed diet}. However, in a co-worker's office yesterday, I was trying to describe to him the scene. "Flat chested women with the bodies of a 12 year old boy," is how I think I described it.

"I have three words for you," he said. "Men. Like. Boobs."

As he stared directly at my not-so-flat chest.

Can I get that tattooed on my ass?

The Liberation of the Cheese

Up until my late twenties, I lived a pretty sheltered life. I was perfectly content to do things as I always did, very vanilla and bland. Doggy style was “kinky”, and going to a strip club was just over the top for my puritanical mind.

As I entered my thirties, I experienced a sort of sexual awakening. I realized I’d been missing out on all sorts of shit, and damn if I was going to waste any more time. I wanted to do crazy naked stuff, and lots of it.

The first time I entered a strip club was probably when I was about 30 or so. It was my idea—I thought it would be really hot to be sitting there with my date, watching tit and ass flash by, close enough to touch. I imagined that it would the ultimate foreplay to foreplay, and was extremely turned on by the idea.

In reality, I admittedly freaked out when I was actually seated amidst all those breasts.
For some insane reason, I felt really violated by the mountains of boob that surrounded me. Instead of being turned on, it made me a little sick to my stomach, and if I remember correctly, I ran out of the joint in tears.

So much for the big turn-on.

Luckily, with years of practice, I have hardened myself to the idea of naked women in my face, and have enjoyed many a lap dance and burlesque show with fervor.

In fact, during one drunken trip to the Pussycat Lounge after someone’s birthday party, it was interesting to watch one of my friends have the same reaction that I had once had, a mix of horror and embarrassment, as another friend shoved some dollar bills into the thong of a dancer who had seen better days.

One night several years ago, I was on a first date. Seated at a bar in Chelsea, he mentioned that he noticed that there was a Scores around the corner from the the bar.
Although he was just making small talk, I made a mental note of this, and after my fifth or so vodka tonic, I slurred, “Letsh go see some boobies.”

He looked at me, not sure if I was kidding or not. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“Fuck yea. Bring on the tit” I bellowed.

We grabbed our shit and hightailed it around the corner, standing on line in the freezing cold to be admitted into the highclass joint known as Scores West.

We walked into this mini-mall of a strip club, and looked around. It definitely did not have the cozy trappings of the Pussycat Lounge, and you definitely got the feeling that you were at a chain…sort of like the Applebees of the exotic dancing industry.

After paying about $20 for a cocktail, we settled in next to the stage and waited for the magic to happen.

Bored women with vapid expressions shimmied and shook on stage, tits barely moving due to all the silicone weighing them down. I tried to get into it. I looked at my date. He seemed amused, but not all that titillated.

“you need a lap dance,” I decided. I called a woman with dead eyes over to our table and handed her $30. “Go to town” I smiled.

I think that if I had been slapping my date around with a dead, rotting salmon, it would have been hotter than this woman. My 93 yr old grandmother could have done a better job.

After 5 minutes or so of this painful display, she was dismissed. I am pretty sure that my date never even popped wood. At least, not from her ;)

We got a good laugh out of it, and he eventually got a lap dance of sorts, so the night wasn’t a total waste.

I’ve decided that from here on in, I am going to be more selective with my booby watching. It is limited to locker room stalking, and divey burlesque venues. No more corporate boob for me!

I'm just not that kind of girl.

I Appreciate the Finer Things

After a 3 mile run at the gym during lunch, I headed back to the locker room for a much needed shower.

While undressing my sweaty self, I surveyed the room. Women of all shapes and sizes were strewn around the lockers, in various stages of undress. No one of note.

And then my eyes settled on a woman sitting on the bench next to me. This girl had a really pretty body, and I was definitely impressed.
My eyes lingered a little too long, when I realized that she noticed my gaze, locked eyes with me, and smiled.

Caught yet again!

Of course I was horrified and looked away, quickly. But I snuck a few peeks here and there when she wasn’t paying attention.

I have started to become mesmerized by good boobs in my old age. I’m like a 12 yr old boy…or any male, for that matter. I really appreciate a good rack, and am open to admiring them. Maybe it’s because I sprouted a set of my own, FINALLY, a nice, perky pair, by the time I’d turned 30.

And then I see women in the locker room, and I’m always amazed at how far low so many of the tits I see hang down. I totally forget that most women get a lot of lift from their bras, and that in actual fact, their boobs hang down to their waists.

So when I see a good set, I’m fixated.

But don’t get me wrong. Cock is still my dessert of choice. Boobs are just a side interest. ;)