tits and mistakes

Warning: This post may contain explicit language (it does) and may be offensive (it is).

I've found in my life that tits and mistakes pretty much go hand in hand, or hand in glove, or hand on tits, or face covered in tits, or shove the spear up my virginal asshole. ouch.  I could write about tits for days because I have never cheated on my fiancee.  I came very close when we first started dating, before we were technically boyfriend and girlfriend. But before the girl came over, I called her and said no!  I knew it would ruin my integrity (underlined three, not one, times).  That's all I cared about, because a relationship must have integrity (underlined three, not one, times).  It must go to the depths of Moby Dick's Ocean.  A relationship must have a solid foundation, and my fondling some large-breasted young woman in that ambiguous time before we had explicitly, with words, committed to one another, would not have contributed to the type of mature relationship I wanted and continue to want with the woman I love.  I've done this kindof thing in the past: used the ambiguous pre-formal-committment-time to splinter off and shack up with a sex pot.  For those who know me, this should come as no surprise.  I learned, however.  I learned that what I wanted for myself was this integrity.  I wanted a relationship built on integrity and other pillars like love and support.  And I can say with integrity that it is, our relationship is beautiful, so much better than any huge-breasted unfamiliar woman working hard to unbuckle my belt.

But back to tits and mistakes!  And alcohol, lot's of alcohol!  Big tits are great.  So are small tits.  It often doesn't matter.  Bigger tits are great, too.  I will provide an example: it was my 29th birthday.  I had been dating a girl, we'll call her Sara, for about 7 months.  Cute little Indian girl, ex-tennis player, really thick hips, perfectly proportioned breasts on the smaller to medium side.  I had already pulled the shagging another girl during the ambiguous beginnings and had been "caught".  I faithfully argued that I had not committed any crime; the mutual, carnal, fantastic sex had occurred with a woman during a time when things between Sara and I had not been formally clarified.  I was innocent, if a little sleazy, possibly.  But not really.  I'm a good guy.  Sara was furious and pouted a great deal, but eventually came around. 

Four or five months later, it's October 22, 2006, and I'm at a bar drinking Guinness, PBR, Stella and Jack Daniels in the lower east side, 13th Street and Avenue A.  The place was called the Drop Off Service, which sounds worse than it was.  It was actually just a preppy bar.  A bunch of Sara's Columbia friends were there, not for my birthday, for some other reason.  But among these other friends was one of Sara's close friends.  Sara didn't really have close friends, as it turned out she was far too psycho (I must tell you that right now, as I write, I am listening to a nice little ditty called Snow Day by Matt Pond.  It's a song that Starbucks purchased for an advertisement, which was televised, commonly called a commercial.  The song is about a snow day, no school, no work, happy fun fun fun!), but she did have this friend whose name I can't recall, so I'll call her Laura because that was her name.  Just kidding!  In any case, I had a grand time that evening at the Drop Off Service.  Many of my new york friends stopped by for a drink, my sister and her boyfriend were in town to celebrate, I was riding that perfect intoxicated wave, waltzing around the bar singing Smiths songs in one minute and fiercely attacking some Guns n Roses Slash air guitar in the next.  I was the life of the party. (I'll let you in on a little secret: I may or may not have been the life of the party.)  Eventually, things got to the point when it was time to go.  People were pulling me out of the bar and into a cab filled with Sara, my sister and her boyfriend and other friends and acquaintances.  But no!  I was not finished.  My brilliant mind thought this was the perfect time to chat up Sara's good friend Laura.  Laura's tits will not win awards, but they were above average in size, and by God! that night I was ready to become THE HULK for a chance at suckling on them, stripping off that horrible shirt, horrible only because it stood in the way of my mouth and whatever other undergarments, they all needed to be torn to shreds, so my mouth could taste the nipple.  OH GOD HER NIPPLES! HOW I WANTED TO BRUSH MY FACE ACROSS HER NIPPLES!  And so I moseyed up to the bar where she and a friend were still sitting, drinking.  I don't remember what I said, but I do remember that nuance and subtlety may have broken down a bit and I think I made it clear that I had intentions of doing some wonderful things in the restroom.  I'm not sure how my mind was processing the fact that, Sara, my girlfriend of 7 months, and many other loved ones were waiting for me in a taxi, just outside.  The timing wasn't perfect.  I was really drunk, but I remember Laura looking a bit turned off when my message may have become clear.  I'm still not sure exactly what I communicated, but she didn't overreact, thankfully.  She only moved away and began talking again to her friend.  It's really strange today not knowing what I said and not knowing how Laura felt about the whole situation.  If I did make my intentions clear, Laura never said anything to Sara.  Because if she had, Sara would have done some crazy shit, which she ended up doing later anyways when I broke up with her on legitimate grounds, mainly on the grounds that she was crazy.  I'm happy the whole thing didn't blow up fecally in my face although I probably deserved it.

The shitty thing about me is that I'm pretty sure, given some better circumstances, I could have closed the deal with Laura. I won't bore you with details, but during my single days, I was pretty fantastic.  Aside from being a natural at the art and social science of seduction, I also understood magic.  Magic is such a critical part of seduction, so often misplaced or left at home or trampled on in favor of "What's up girl, damn you look good!"

I should be more disappointed in my behavior that night with Laura, Sara waiting in the taxi.  But my disappointment stems mostly from the fact that I couldn't pull it off.  But only slightly disappointed.  As I said, I'm a natural.    

(Listening to the remaining Matt Pond songs on his album have not impressed.  Snow Day, however, remains a winner.)

with so much love and bursting adoration,
Anthony

This Charming Man

I would go out tonight but I haven't got a stitch to wear.

Snow Day!

We can want more.