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The Wandering WebWhore is my personal blog. I'm a 30-something indie pornographer whose journal covers a variety of topics: mundane daily life, work-related reflection, sex stuff, current events, and more. MY SITE FEED 
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Sunday, November 13, 2005
The Milkman
THE MILKMAN My sister and her husband made a spontaneous visit to our house Thursday night, so Tucker, Bradle and I made a trip downtown to the brewery to eat while my sister crashed on our couch with a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I decided to throw on a bunch of layers so I'd stay warm: with the high ceilings in the pub it gets cold and I wanted to stay cozy while I ate. I knew I wouldn't be taking off both my hoodie and coat, so I went braless in order to stay comfortably underwire-free. You might assume I'd be more brazen about showing off my bouncers in public, but seriously, I don't feel comfortable being in public braless wearing only a t-shirt. None of us were prepared for the dj and dancing that began midway through our meal, but there's no way I can pass up an opportunity to dance so we headed to the dance area where we saw one very drunk Summer, the town's resident lesbian alcoholic (the one I made out with in a bathroom many moons ago - hmmm, why can't I find the link to that entry in my blog?). Fortunately she didn't recognize me and she got eighty-sixed soon thereafter. After a few songs I grew very warm in my hooded sweatshirt and realized I either had to stop dancing or (gasp) strip down to my Very Tight (and stinky) T-Shirt. The one that says "Trix are for Kids". I tried to dance side-to-side rather than up-and-down to eliminate bouncing. When I did feel inspired to bust a jiggle-inducing move I turned my chest towards the wall or an unpopulated corner of the room. I reminded myself that I couldn't possibly be doing anything as obscene on the dance floor as Summer, who while not sexually vulgar, displayed a frightening array of dance "steps" (lurches, leaps, bounds, and toe-mashers). It was a friendly casual scene and I tried not to be too self-conscious of my breasts. I especially enjoyed watching a fifty-ish fellow dancing like an overgrown toddler, standing in one place, bending up and down at the knees, swinging his arms back and forth and grinning with glee. At one point I had to talk to Bradle who was sitting at a table with the bar-owner and some strangers (including the happy toddler-man). As I approached the table, my boobs shuddered, twitched, circulated and bounced under my shirt in a way that toddler-man could not help but notice. When I arrived at the table my bosom was only an erect penis-length away from his eyeballs, which almost POPPED out of his head. As though hypnotized, toddler man's eyes remained LOCKED on my jugs as he raised up his hands slightly and began making pinchy teat-pulling gestures with his fingers like a hungry infant who's been taught American Sign Language for the word "milk". All I could do was make fun of his silly behavior in front of everybody, but it was rather a Pyrrhic victory since doing so required acknowledging my breasts and drawing everyone's attention to them while sending the idiotic message that "my breasts are really great but don't stare at the them too long or I will make fun of you." It's the kind of situation where you just assume the girl is an attention whore and loves having all eyes upon her assets. And that is why I wear a bra in public. Even though most bras don't do a whole lot to restrain my boobs, at least the strap-lines give the appearance that I have some sense of modesty and decency. That I'm *trying* to reign them in. I'll bet you didn't know I was that uptight and conventional, did you? But seriously, it's not that fun to have men making MILKING motions at you when you're just trying to go about your business. At the same time, I'm not the kind of person to try to do a REALLY good job at hiding them. I am not going to wear armour or thick bulky sweaters to completely shroud my curves. I am short as it is so I don't like the idea of dressing like a dumpy little bag lady. Like most women, I suppose I have a complex varied set of responses to being looked at . . . and not being looked at. I like it when people admire them openly, but not if they leer or PINCH my phantom twins from a short distance. I like it when women enjoy looking at them, but not when they look at them in a way that indicates disgust and that they hate my fucking guts. Women can do that, you know: communicate to you that you are a disgusting tramp simply by sneering at your bustline and refusing to make eye contact with you. It's very unsettling. At the same time, I don't always want to be invisible; it's nice to be able to show off my knockers a little bit and get a little appreciation. It's like having a deformity that people can't help but stare at, and while their attention is focused on your strange mutation you have the upper hand for a moment -- you can see everything that is going on in their heads while they're staring at your grotesque proportions and when they finally raise their eyes to yours they realize they've been CAUGHT. It can be a powerful and fun feeling, I can't deny that. Tonight Tucker and I went to the grocery store. I "let" him carry the shopping basket while I mulled around looking at produce. I selected a bunch of green onions and walked back to him to drop them in the basket, my eyes flitting from taters to cukes to lemons. I sidled up to Tucker's warm body and placed my onions into the basket he was holding at the level of his crotch. I started to tell him how glad (and surprised) I was to see that he'd brought our canvas grocery bag when a voice from above said, "excuse me?!?" I looked up into the face of a complete fucking stranger! He told me he'd be happy to carry my onions, but he wasn't going to pay for them. Of course I burst out laughing at the realization that I'd just nonchalantly thrust my own groceries into this stranger's basket. Tucker was watching this whole thing, snickering to himself and wondering what the hell I was doing. This is the problem with attention deficit disorder. Most of the time I am wandering around completely overloaded with stimuli, hoping I will just bump into something that will remind me what the fuck I am supposed to be concentrating on. There is so much to see in the grocery store, I was looking at all of it and just steered myself towards some random guy who happened to be the same height as Tucker. It's a good thing we do most of our shopping late at night when there aren't a lot of people around to confuse me. I've got shit on my MIND!! You know? The last time we went out for sushi I accidentally poured soy sauce into my Pepsi instead of my wasabi dipping dish. I start to do things, but as soon as I begin them I am already thinking about something else so I just hope for the best, and trust muscle memory to take over for my mind but it doesn't always work out so well. God, that Pepsi tasted nasty!! You know, I'll bet the guy at the store would have happily bought my green onions if I'd been wearing my t-shirt from the other night. 
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2 Comments:
Both stories are pretty fucking funny! I can't imagine going somewhere without a bra.. someone would get hurt.
The guy in the grocery store now has a good story to tell his friends over cocktail hour today..hehe.
Whoa, what a fucking imbecile at the pub. MILKING GESTURES???? Is he not all there, perhaps? Good on you for ridiculing him.
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