Blog: How NOT To React To Impressive Cleavage
(originally written 4/16/11)
It was, at the outset, a workday like any other.
It didn’t end that way.
Setup: I am merrily navigating through the quiet streets of Campbell, the narrow, windy roads of Saratoga and Los Gatos, and the suburban utopia that is South San Jose, as I do every Wednesday.
Nothing unusual to report—which is how I like it.
Until I got to the middle portion of my route, on Blossom Hill Road and the surrounding area. (Obviously, I am not going to reveal the exact location of today’s, uh, “event”. We’ll just say I was on Culdesac Way.)
I turned down Culdesac Way to make a delivery to one Mrs. “Betty Gibson”, a UPS truck having made same turn seconds prior.
The UPS truck happened to be going to the very same house I was. As they tend to do, the driver practically soared out his side door towards Betty’s porch. I was about 10 steps behind. He laid the box on the porch, rang her bell, and bounced.
That’s when it happened: As I placed my delivery next to the UPS box and came back up, Betty opened the door (in response to the doorbell). And there they were, her “girls”, at my lowered eye-level. Braless and busting out of her miniscule top like uncooked biscuits out of the can. I mean, they were everywhere. I was staggered.
Those of you who know me best know I’m not even a boob guy. I’m an eyes and legs guy; if she’s got those, she could have a road sign chest and I honestly wouldn’t care in the slightest. In fact, my first love interest from way back needed a bra about as much as Vin Diesel needs a do-rag.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t like boobs.
And I liked these. So much so, that they triggered babbling and mumbling.
Betty: “Oh, hi, thank you!”
Me: “Babble mumble th-the UPS guy rang the bell, n-not me…babble…”
Doing my damnedest to look anywhere but at her—the delivery, my watch; it was embarrassing, and she kind of seemed to know why.
Now, I’m usually very good at remaining professional when faced with an attractive customer; shoot, I had a pretty young woman greet me in her living room fresh out of the shower, still dripping, in nothing but a towel once and didn’t skip a beat. But Betty changed all that. You don't understand. YOU DIDN'T SEE WHAT I SAW! I spent the rest of the day trying to come up with a plausible reason for burying my face in her top:
“My cat died and I’m really sad! (faux crying, hoping for comfort)”
“Is that a spider on your chest? Here, I’ll smash it with my nose.”
“Mrs. Gibson? I don’t mean to sound like a perv, but I’d really like to put my face in your cleavage. It’s for an article I may or may not write.”
None sounded believable. And since long-term it would probably be best to remain employed and out of the sex-offender registry, I let it go—deciding instead to try and follow more UPS trucks around.